The air in the underground chamber was thick with the suffocating scent of burning pitch and ancient dust. It was a room entirely devoid of sunlight and warmth, hidden far beneath the surface of the world. Cold. Secluded.
Six shrouded figures stood in a perfect, motionless circle. The flickering light from the torches bolted to the walls cast long shadows across the fabric of their cloaks, completely obscuring their faces in an abyss of darkness.
In the center of their gathering sat a massive slab of obsidian acting as an altar. Carved deeply into the polished black stone was the emblem of the Order of the Sunless, a sun with a single ray pointing downward, the ray coming down into an unblinking eye.
For a long time, the only sound was the harsh crackle of the torches. The figure standing at the head of the altar finally broke the silence.
"The Powerhart awakens," he spoke. His voice was a deep, baritone that seemed to vibrate directly through the stone floor. His voice carried the absolute authority of a man who was used to being obeyed.
To his right, a second figure shifted slightly. When she spoke, her words slid through the damp air with a sibilant, predatory hiss, sounding remarkably like a serpent. "And the holder has taken out the mayor and doctor of Havenport."
She let the weight of that statement hang in the chamber. The destruction at Havenport was one thing, but the removal of key figures in the city signaled a chaotic, dangerous escalation. A loss to the Order.
"Princess Vaelora also lost," a third figure chimed in from the opposite side of the altar. Her voice was a dry, old rasp, like one who had worked a coal mine their whole lives. It carried no judgment, only calculated observation.
The first figure, the deep-voiced leader, clasped his gloved hands together beneath his heavy cloak. "She's becoming too unpredictable." He said, looking amongst his peers.
His tone was dangerous. The Order did not tolerate loose ends, and a volatile royal who failed to secure her objectives was rapidly becoming a liability rather than an asset.
Before the leader could pass down a fatal judgment, a fourth figure leaned forward into the torchlight. He was smaller than the others, his posture lacking the rigid discipline of the elders. His voice resonated with an arrogant tenor of youth.
"Yes," the young man countered smoothly, "But we need her to take out Briar when the time is right." The young man traced a gloved finger lightly over the rim of the obsidian altar. "Her royal blood gives her access we do not possess. Unpredictable or not, her proximity to the King is our only clear path to the throne. Once Briar falls, she will have outlived her usefulness. Until then, we let the Princess play her part."
A fifth figure, noticeable by the significantly wider, heavier cut of his silhouette beneath the dark robes, shifted his weight. "She is going to take care of her loose ends in Havenport," the chunkier man stated, his voice a thick rumble that echoed off the floor and walls.
"She better," the serpent-voiced woman snapped back instantly, the sharp venom in her tone slicing through the damp, stagnant air. "If she is discovered, our entire operation falls apart before it even truly begins."
The young man let out a cold, dismissive hum. "If she is discovered, she will fall. We sever the connection, and the crown takes the blame. That's all there is to that."
"Don't be so sure," the sixth and final figure spoke from the far edge of the circle. He possessed a deep voice much like the leader's, but he delivered his words with a strange, unnerving cadence. He almost sang his sentences, giving his warnings a twisted, theatrical feeling. "She is a crafty person, our dear Princess. The kind of rat who knows exactly how to bite her way out of a trap."
The leader raised a single, gloved hand, the subtle gesture instantly demanding absolute silence. The bickering ceased immediately.
"We have confirmed the identity of the holder's companion," the leader stated, his baritone voice effectively shifting the weight of the room away from the Princess. "Meko Hahn." He paused, letting the name settle over the obsidian altar. "We have informants currently figuring out exactly why he was accompanying him."
The heavier-set man let out a sudden, booming laugh. The sound was abrasive. "Well," the chunky man chuckled, his broad shoulders shaking beneath his cloak. "That seems pointless, does it not? Especially if the young man is dead," the heavier figure continued, his abrasive laughter echoing off the walls. "It is rather difficult to interrogate a corpse."
The leader did not so much as shift his weight. He let the man's amusement echo before crushing it. "If we figure out who the Hahn boy was, and why he was accompanying him, we might be able to piece together the holder's true motives and destination," the leader responded, his deep baritone cutting cleanly through the chuckles. "We know the boy carrying the Powerhart is a young Mercer, so it is clearly not Sophron. And Sophron is apparently still alive."
The chunky man's laughter died instantly in his throat. He shifted uncomfortably beneath his heavy, dark robes. The sudden absence of his amusement left a tense energy in the room. Sophron Mercer wasn't just a name, it was a threat to their existence. Someone far too strong to take his power from.
"So?" the larger man grunted defensively, trying to wave off the sudden chill in the air. "He is nowhere to be found. Informants the world over have turned over every stone, checked every port, and they haven't seen a single trace of him in five years. He's a ghost."
"I say we just take care of the Mercer bloodline," the serpent-voiced woman barked, her patience completely snapping. She took a step closer towards the obsidian altar, the torchlight catching the violent, erratic movement of her cloak. Her venomous tone dripped with absolute bitterness. "Wipe them out. Burn whatever is left of that family to ash and wipe out that entire lineage of King Makers before another one of them rises up to become a problem."
"And have all of Erenia after us?" the sixth member chimed in, stepping out from the shadowy perimeter of the circle. His deep singing voice made the grave warning sound almost like a twisted lullaby. He tilted his shrouded head toward the serpent woman, the darkness beneath his hood seemingly brimming with amusement. "You do realize the matriarch of that little cottage is Jerter Everheart, right?"
The surname dropped onto the obsidian altar like a heavy iron anvil, instantly stifling the serpent woman's bloodlust.
The sing-songy man chuckled, a rich, melodic sound that lacked any real warmth. "She may be estranged, and her family may absolutely despise the Mercers, but she is still the mother of the new generation. You assassinate an Everheart, even one who doesn't follow their rules, and you won't just have the local guard sniffing around. You will draw the unyielding wrath of the crown, the royal army, and every loyalist in the kingdom straight to our doorstep."
The chunky one leaned forward, resting his gloved hands flat on the edge of the obsidian slab. "A tactical blunder of that magnitude would expose us completely. So, no. We do not touch the mother."
The serpent woman stiffened, her posture rigid with barely contained fury. She hated being corrected, especially when the logic was so frustratingly airtight. She let out an irritated hiss, grinding her teeth in the dark, but she didn't dare argue the point. To strike an Everheart was to invite war before they were ready.
The leader remained perfectly still, allowing the members to make their points before bringing the meeting back under his absolute control.
"He is correct," the leader's baritone resonated, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. "Jerter Everheart is off-limits. The crown cannot be given a personal reason to scour the countryside until our pieces are fully in place." He slowly looked around the circle, his unseen gaze settling on each of the shrouded figures. "Our focus remains solely on the immediate threats. We find the holder, we secure the Powerhart, and we monitor the Princess until it is time for Briar to fall. Nothing else."
The leader let the tense silence stretch for a long moment, ensuring the absolute restriction regarding the Everheart matriarch was fully understood by the circle. Once he was satisfied, the serpent voiced woman had yielded and the circle remained quiet, he straightened his posture. His massive silhouette dominated the flickering torchlight, casting a commanding shadow across the obsidian altar.
He cleared his throat, a deep, rumbling sound that commanded absolute attention from the remaining five members. "And once we have the Powerhart," the leader continued, his baritone voice dropping, "there will be nothing to stop us from seizing Erenia."
The words hung in the subterranean air, heavier than the thousands of tons of stone above their heads. It was the ultimate endgame. The singular, driving purpose behind all of their secrecy, their assassinations, and their lurking in the shadows. With King Briar dead by the Princess's hand, and the apocalyptic, ancient energy of the Powerhart under their direct control, the throne would be theirs for the taking. The royal army would be powerless against them.
A low murmur rippled through the circle. Even the serpent voiced woman bowed her head in silent reverence to the grand design. Her petty bloodlust was momentarily stalled by the promise of absolute power. The chunky man let out a satisfied grunt, and the young man shifted his weight, undoubtedly wearing a deeply arrogant smirk beneath his hood.
"The board is set," the leader declared, raising both of his gloved hands over the carved emblem of the eclipse. The flickering shadows in the room seemed to stretch and lean toward him, bending to his will. "Our informants will continue to track Mercer's movements. We let the boy carry our prize until he is entirely isolated and vulnerable. And then, we take it."
He lowered his hands, his unseen gaze sweeping the circle one final time.
"Dismissed. Return to the surface and play your parts perfectly. The age of the Sunless is approaching."
One by one, the shrouded figures stepped back from the altar. They didn't speak another word, the dark fabric of their cloaks swirled as they turned in unison. Like phantoms, they slipped seamlessly back into the dark tunnels that spider webbed beneath the world.
Within moments, the chamber was entirely empty. The torches continued to crackle and spit, illuminating only the dark emblem carved into the cold stone, leaving behind the suffocating promise of a kingdom about to fall. With the Powerhart on the board and the King's crown just within grasp, the circle of secrecy split off into their own corners of the world.