System, please just shut up

"...We'll be splitting assignments across the three main districts, while the other factions cover other areas. Liora will handle the tech and feedback stations. Eliam, you'll get a list of expected foreign dignitaries."

"Of course," Eliam muttered, eyes not leaving his scroll.

"Risa," Aria continued, "you'll be stationed in the southern square with two full squads. They want presence—make it visible."

"Tch. Suits me." Risa didn't even lift her head.

"Miren, prep evaluation drills for our first and second-years. They'll be running checkpoint support and crowd guidance under supervision."

"Already started."

Then Aria's eyes shifted slightly, her voice taking on a firmer edge.

"The rest of you—prepare for tiered assignments. Missions will be posted by tomorrow. I don't want confusion. I don't want freelancing."

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle.

"Moonwake is a celebration, yes. But it's also a magical event with unpredictable side effects. This year's alignment is predicted to be unusually strong—a triple-phase shadow convergence. You know what that means." Her voice dropped slightly, gaining a gravitas that hushed the entire chamber, every cadet leaning forward, captivated.

"We are not just attendees," Aria said, her voice a low, steel-edged command that reverberated with absolute authority. "We are shields. Move like it."

Then, with a sharp flick of her hand, the holographic map vanished into a puff of glittering mist, leaving the air clear but heavy. "Questions?"

No one spoke.

The silence was absolute.

Aria smiled, a thin, satisfied curve of her lips that held no warmth, only triumph. "Good."

And with that, the meeting finally concluded.

Everyone slowly rose from their seats, the collective rustle of uniforms and soft murmurs filling the void left by Aria's departure, and began dispersing.

Kael looked down at his watch again, which showed 6:00 PM, the day having vanished faster than he expected.

He turned to Theo, who had been seated beside him, clearly uninterested in whatever strategic details had just been discussed, a picture of tranquil indifference.

"So where are you headed to now?" Kael asked, stretching a little, feeling the familiar aches of a productive day.

Theo shrugged, a picture of nonchalant grace, his hands still casually in his pockets. "I don't know, but I'm sure something will pop up... You?"

Kael gave him a tired little smile, already envisioning his destination. "To my bed. And hopefully, a long, undisturbed nap."

******

The sound of dripping water echoed endlessly through the cold, stone corridors, low and steady, like a metronome marking time for something vile.

Beneath the very heart of Ardent Spire, far below the silver-clad streets where people laughed and lights flickered with vibrant activity, something ancient and terrible stirred in the deep.

The sewers were massive—a labyrinth of forgotten tunnels built by long-dead architects, their original purpose now twisted into something else entirely.

A torch hissed to life, its sudden flare briefly illuminating the damp, slick walls, revealing glistening slime and ancient, corroded pipes. Then another. Dozens more followed, lining the circular chamber in a flickering halo of pale orange, casting grotesque shadows that stretched and danced like hungry, malformed spirits.

The air was thick with the stench of stagnant water, decay, and something coppery and acrid—the unmistakable tang of fresh blood.

At the center of the room, three city guards knelt—their arms bound cruelly behind their backs, heads slumped forward in utter defeat.

Blood trailed from split lips and bruised jaws, stark crimson against their pale, grime-streaked skin.

One of them twitched, a faint tremor of life, then lifted his head slowly, eyes glazed with fear, unfocused and wide. "Please… we don't know anything," he croaked, his voice raw with pain, barely a whisper.

A figure stepped from the deepest shadows, moving with an unnerving, almost silent glide.

He wore a plain robe of ragged gray, stained with soot and old, dried blood, blending seamlessly with the gloom. But what made the air shift—the very torchlight dim and waver as if pulled by an unseen force—was the mask.

Smooth.

Carved from pale bone, it gleamed faintly. It was shaped with unsettling precision like a rat's face—elongated, with narrow slits for eyes that seemed to drink the light, and menacing gold-painted fangs curving from the mouth.

It was a grotesque, living caricature of the mundane, chilling in its simple horror.

He placed a hand gently, almost tenderly, on the guard's head, a shocking gesture given the circumstances. "Of course you don't," he said, his voice soft, almost soothing, yet utterly devoid of warmth, a chilling lullaby.

Then he continued, his tone hardening just slightly, "But your soul has been corrupted by the veil of evil that lives among us, and for that, you must be cleansed."

Then he tilted his head back, his masked face turning towards the unseen ceiling, and began to sing.

A low hum, ancient and unsettlingly off-key, filled the chamber, carried by a dozen other voices that joined in from the surrounding darkness—a chorus of unsettling, dissonant devotion.

🎵 O nameless one, who crawls beneath the silence… Who chews at the roots of the world… We drink your wisdom, in blood and ash… We offer you the lie of order, broken… 🎵

The chained guards shivered violently as the song warped the air, like the very sound was corrosive, eating at their sanity, tearing at the fabric of their minds.

The masked man stepped back, raising a black-bladed dagger with two fingers, its edge gleaming dully in the torchlight, an unholy hunger in its reflection.

What followed was a chorus of intense and horrifying screams that ripped through the vast, cold sewers, each one a raw testament to agony, a symphony of torment that echoed off the ancient stone, seemingly endless.

One of the cultists, his own rat mask slightly askew, leaned close, whispering happily to a younger acolyte: "He will see the Choir tonight. The Becoming comes."

Another voice, rougher, snarled from deeper in the shadows, devoid of the leader's calm. "Enough. The blood rites are complete. Strip the bodies. Burn the flesh. Leave the bones at the fountain entrance."

The leader turned slowly, his rat mask a blank, terrifying stare, an expressionless void of menace.

"No," he said, his voice calm again, yet laced with absolute coldness, an almost surgical precision to his words. "Leave this one intact."

He crouched before the last guard, who trembled uncontrollably, eyes wide with terror, fresh tears cutting clean paths through the grime on his face. "Let them find him," the leader whispered, his voice a chilling promise that crawled under the skin, "eyes hollowed out, mouth sewn shut. Let the city know the Choir is listening. Let them understand what happens when one resists the truth."

He stood, the gesture unhurried, lifting a curved branding iron from the coals that glowed ominously nearby.

The metal flared with an angry, pulsing red, radiating immense heat.

A second later, the guard's screams ripped through the tunnel like shattered glass, echoing into the vast emptiness, a final, despairing cry.

And high above, outside the chilling depths of the sewers, the moon began its silent, watchful rise.