The chamber of the Celestial Watch was a cathedral to order. Stained glass murals of constellations bled twilight colours across the polished obsidian floor. Silver lanterns swayed gently from high arches, their light bending strangely as if compelled by some unseen presence. The Watch had ruled in secret for centuries, and their meeting hall reflected the weight of that legacy—more monastery than military, more shrine than council room.
The great round table sat at the heart of the room, engraved with the twelve symbols of the Commanders. Each sigil shimmered faintly in its appointed place: the scales of Judicators, the spear of Recon, the endless flame of the Healers, and others still.
Tonight, two of those chairs sat empty.
Liora Sunfall, the Vanguard, presided as always. She radiated a kind of effortless authority, her presence a mixture of warmth and gravity. Her voice could inspire or crush depending on her mood, and as she rapped her staff once on the floor, the lanterns steadied, and silence rippled through the chamber.
"Commanders of the Watch," she began, her golden eyes sweeping the room, "our monthly council convenes. Let us begin."
The agenda, as tradition demanded, began broadly. Each commander reported progress from their divisions.
Drax Ironfist, Recon, spoke first. His voice was gravelly, blunt and clipped. "Northern patrols report increased border skirmishes. Nothing large-scale, but too organised to be dismissed as banditry. Someone's probing defences."
Selene Valtor, the Enforcer Commander, leaned forward, her silver gauntlets clinking. "Then strike preemptively. Waiting invites weakness."
Amara Solis of the Artisans shook her head. "Rashness breeds instability. We cannot govern chaos with brute force alone."
Already, the table split. Rael Kazen sat silently behind Orrin Vale, the Judicator Commander, watching the same old patterns repeat. Amara, ever the diplomat. Selene, ever the hammer. Drax, pragmatic but wary of overextension.
Then came Fenrir Kaeioul, Healer Commander—or rather, his captain in his stead. The man, pale from exhaustion, bowed stiffly. "Lord Fenrir sends apologies. He remains at the infirmary. The number of wounded this month exceeds expectations."
That drew murmurs, some impatient, some grim.
The Sentinels' Kaelen Vyrn folded his massive arms. "Always excuses from the healers. They should learn the battlefield bleeds with or without them."
"Yet it is their hands," Rowan Atkinson of the Shadows replied smoothly, "that ensure you stand tall to boast about it afterward, Kaelen."
The room bristled. It was always this way—sparring, politicking, and old rivalries playing out like storms trapped in glass. Rael exhaled quietly. He had grown used to it, though part of him itched to smash his fist into the table and tell them that men were dying while they argued like crows over carrion.
But then the atmosphere shifted.
The last empty chair—the Warden's—remained vacant. Instead, only his captain had arrived, a gaunt figure who seemed almost nervous to sit among giants. Whispers ticked around the table like embers in dry grass. Two commanders absent was rare.
Liora tapped her staff again. "The Warden's absence is noted. His captain may speak when required."
And so the matters turned.
Trade disputes. Rogue Soul Art practitioners. The aftermath of a collapsed leyline in the southern provinces. Each item was handled, debated, and tabled.
Until Orrin Vale, the Judicator Commander, shifted in his seat. His presence was iron—harsh, immovable. When he spoke, his voice cut through the hall like the swing of a blade.
"There is one more matter," Orrin said. "The confrontation in the East."
Silence fell. Even Selene stilled.
All eyes turned to Rael.
He stiffened under the weight. His knuckles whitened as he bowed, stepping forward when Orrin gestured. The bodies, the screams, the shattering humiliation—they surged back unbidden.
"I will speak," Rael said, his voice low but steady.
The lantern light glinted across his red hair, damp from the long march back to the capital. His uniform was patched, his blade newly cleaned. The memory of failure clung to him like smoke.
"We were deployed to intercept a fugitive accused of slaughtering a noble household. A routine Judicator matter." He swallowed. His throat felt raw. "But during our operation, we were… interrupted."
He paused. Faces stared back. Liora's eyes burnt with quiet curiosity. Selene's with undisguised hunger. Rowan's with veiled calculation.
"A masked man appeared," Rael continued. "Alone. He engaged our forces. And…" His jaw tightened. "He defeated us."
Shock rippled across the table.
Selene laughed—a hard, metallic sound. "One man? You expect us to believe a single shadow bested an entire Judicator unit?"
Rael slammed his fist on the table before he realised it. The sound cracked like a whip. His face flushed. "Do you think I want to admit this shame?!" His voice echoed against the vaulted ceiling. "He cut through us as if we were nothing. The Commander himself—new as he is—fought him. And still…"
His breath hitched. He forced himself to continue. "Still, the masked man stood victorious."
A murmur rose, disbelief mixing with unease.
Liora leaned back, steepling her fingers. "Describe him."
Rael hesitated, searching memory. The mask: elegant, almost regal, with that faint stone dangling from the side. A presence cold and unyielding. Eyes that showed no fear, no hesitation.
"He wore a mask. Covered both eyes. Moved like no fighter I've seen. His strength—"Rael exhaled sharply—"was unnatural. He shattered the Commander's prana field like it was glass."
That, more than anything, unsettled the room.
Drax scowled. "Then either you exaggerate, or this man is no ordinary foe."
"He is no ordinary foe," Rael said firmly. "And worse—he did not kill us. He chose to leave us alive. As if…" His voice faltered. "As if we were beneath him."
The insult cut deeper than any wound.
Orrin's expression darkened, but he gave a curt nod.
Liora absorbed the testimony in silence, her gaze sharp as a falcon's. Finally, she rose, staff striking the floor once.
"This masked adversary", she said, "poses questions that cannot be ignored. A man who can repel a commander, however inexperienced, is a threat. Whether he stands alone or as part of something larger remains unknown."
The weight of her words pressed into every corner of the chamber.
Amara Solis spoke softly, her tone deliberate. "Such strength, unchecked, could destabilise entire regions. If he serves no master, he may yet be turned toward balance."
Selene slammed her gauntlet on the table. "Or cut him down before he grows bolder! Mercy is weakness."
"Mercy", Rowan interjected, "can also be the keenest weapon. An enemy spared today may serve tomorrow."
"Or slit your throat the day after," Kaelen growled.
The debate swelled, a storm of voices. Kill him. Recruit him. Study him. Ignore him. Each commander pushing their vision of control, order, and survival.
Rael stood forgotten in the midst of it, fists trembling at his side. None of them had been there. None of them had seen how helpless it felt, how humiliating it was to stand against that masked phantom and know you could do nothing.
But then Liora's voice thundered, silencing all.
"Enough."
Her gaze swept them like a blade.
"This council does not dither. It acts. And so we shall."
The air grew taut. Even Rael's breath hitched.
Liora raised her staff, her expression unreadable. "The masked man is to be classified as a hostile entity. His capture, if possible, is preferred. If not…" Her eyes hardened. "…then he is to be slain."
A stillness gripped the chamber, colder than steel.
"Kill him or lock him away for good."
The words struck Rael like a hammer. His pulse thundered in his ears. Something deep in his chest stirred—fear, yes, but also defiance.
The meeting closed. One by one, the Commanders rose and filed from the chamber, their symbols flickering out as they left. Liora remained last, silent as stone, before turning into the shadows.
Only Rael lingered, staring at the sigil of the Judicators engraved into the table.
Later, outside the chamber's vaulted doors, Rael walked the long corridors with Orrin. The Commander's silence was heavier than any lecture. Finally, Rael spoke, his voice quiet.
"They don't understand. None of them saw him. None of them know."
Orrin gave no answer. His gaze was fixed ahead, unreadable as ever.
Rael clenched his fists. The memory of that mask haunted him; the weight of helplessness gnawed at his pride. He hated it. He hated him.
But beneath the hate, a spark flickered. A desire not just to defeat that man but to prove himself, to climb higher, to show the Watch that Rael Kazen was no pawn to be dismissed.
The council had drawn its line in blood. And Rael intended to meet it.