The Umbra Hall had changed.
Tonight, its cold stone walls echoed with footsteps, murmurs, and old blood beneath the floorboards.
They had gathered all members of the Order—
from the bloodied veterans to the pale-faced newcomers.
Reymond entered among them, eyes scanning the great chamber.
There were nearly a hundred seated in curved rows—
men and women of all shapes, all ages, but all marked by the same thing:
Survival.
At the very front sat twenty, cloaked in darker garb, their weapons worn, their gazes sharp.
Veterans.
Beyond them stood the Council, cloaked in symbols, still and silent.
And at their center—
the woman who brought Reymond in.
Her presence quieted the room with ease.
"Today," she began, her voice soft yet slicing,
"we welcome our new members."
Her gaze swept the crowd.
"Ten new souls join our ranks."
"Stand, children of the dark."
Reymond rose, and with him, nine others.
Six boys. Four girls.
Each with a different face, but the same fire.
Applause followed—soft, uncertain, reverent.
"You may sit," the woman said, gently.
Then the air shifted.
Colder.
Tighter.
"Now," she continued, "one of our oldest blades will show you something.
A truth we all learned far too late."
A man stepped forward from the shadows.
Askalid Damon.
Tall.
Draped in black.
His hair graying at the edges.
A silver cross hung from his neck—tarnished and chipped.
But his eyes…
His eyes were like frozen obsidian.
"New blood," Askalid said, voice flat, sharp.
"Let me teach you something the hard way."
Two masked aides wheeled in a metal cage,
its bars wrapped in runes,
covered with a black cloth that twitched.
Reymond leaned forward.
"Today, I give you a gift," Askalid continued,
"and a warning."
He pulled the cloth free.
Inside the cage—
a little girl.
Tears ran down her cheeks.
Her face was muddy, cut, trembling.
"Please… please help me… I'm not a monster… Please…"
She clutched the bars with tiny hands.
Her voice broke.
"I'm scared… It hurts… I want my mom…"
Several new members looked away.
One girl began to cry.
Another boy clenched his jaw and turned his head.
But Reymond—
He watched.
Unblinking.
Askalid didn't flinch.
He stepped forward with a long black sword.
"This is not a child," he said.
"This is a mask."
The creature sobbed harder.
"No… no, please…"
"They wear innocence to survive," he continued.
"When weak, they shrink.
When trapped in cages forged from the same metal as your blades, they can't feed… can't grow… can't lie forever."
And then—
he struck.
The blade plunged through the bars.
The girl's scream tore through the air.
High. Piercing.
But then it shifted.
The voice warped—splintering, echoing,
becoming a chorus of children crying all at once,
and then not children at all.
The flesh contorted.
Face stretched, melted, split.
Mouths within mouths.
Eyes that blinked in the wrong directions.
One moment it was a toddler,
the next—a weeping boy.
Then a wailing infant.
Then nothing recognizably human at all.
The air turned sour.
The recruits gasped.
Some retched.
Reymond stood still.
He'd seen worse.
Askalid held the sword steady.
"The blade weakens them," he said.
"But cannot kill them."
He covered the cage again as the thing inside whimpered and shrunk.
The screams faded.
"Only sunlight ends them," Askalid finished.
"Many of us died learning that.
Too many."
He turned and walked back to his seat in silence.
The room was still.
The woman at the front spoke again.
"Thank you, Mr. Askalid."
A slow, solemn applause followed.
Then her tone changed—cold, final.
"You may now take your leave."
"Veterans, remain. The council has matters to discuss."
Chairs scraped.
Footsteps echoed.
As Reymond walked toward the exit,
he didn't look back at the cage.
He didn't need to.
He knew what the truth looked like behind a crying face.
And it had never looked like the one that took his brother.