Far below the city, under old stones and broken pipes, the air was thick and cold. A single torch burned, its light small and shaky. The room was a hollow of stone, carved long ago and now filled with a new purpose. Hooded shapes moved in the dark, their faces hidden, their steps quiet. The sound of low voices rolled like wind through old tunnels.
At the center of the room, on a wooden table, lay a body. It was wrapped in a dark cloth, but the shape was clear. Demora's body. The warrior of the night hunters. The one who had chased the light and smiled at fear. Now she lay still.
One of the hooded figures stepped forward. He pulled back the cloth a little, just enough to see. His hands did not tremble. His voice was calm and cold. "We almost had them," he said. "Next time, we go with full force."
A whisper moved across the room. Some hissed agreement. Others only watched. The torch threw long shadows on the walls. The stone felt older than any of them.
Near the table, a man stood with little robes and a thin face. His name was Pimo. He was not like the others. He looked smaller. His breathing was quick. He folded and refolded his hands, as if trying to keep them from shaking.
One of the hooded figures turned his head slowly toward Pimo. The voice was low and sharp. "Pimo… handle the rest."
Pimo lifted his eyes. "I… I can do it," he said, but his voice was thin. He looked down at the body and then up at the faces behind him. "I will do what must be done."
A deep voice cut the room. "You will do this, or you will not live to regret it." One of the hooded men stepped closer. A knife glinted in his hand. He pressed it near Pimo's throat, cold and sure.
Pimo swallowed. He had no choice. He nodded slowly.
They set the body on the table, and then they brought small bowls of oil and faint candles. Pimo's fingers shook as he moved the candles around Demora. The hooded ones watched, their breathing slow. They knew what this ritual meant. It was not just for the dead. It was for power.
Pimo bent his head. He began to whisper words that had been passed down in secret. The words felt heavy on his tongue. He had learned them from old books, from men who spoke in half-lights and from debts he could not repay. He did not fully know what the words meant. He only knew that his life depended on them.
As he spoke, the candles' flames leaned inward, small winds circling them. A soft light rose from the table. It was not warm. It was thick, like oil in the air. The hooded figures drew closer. The stones seemed to listen.
Pimo felt fear wash through him. His teeth clenched. He continued the prayer. Sweat ran down his face. His voice grew steady, even as his hands shook. The light on the table grew. It pooled like black water, bright at the center and dark at the edges.
Around them, old marks on the floor began to glow faintly. Symbols written long ago pulsed in slow beats. The air smelled like wet earth and old rain. Pimo's chest felt tight. He was scared, but he could not stop. Not now.
When the prayer ended, the room held its breath. The light on the table dimmed and settled like a thing that had found its place. Pimo dropped to his knees, weak and shaking. The hooded figures stepped forward and lowered their heads for a moment. Then one of them spoke.
"She gave us the path," he said. He looked at Demora's still face and then at the circle of men and women around him. "This is only the first step." We will bring her back. Her power makes us strong. But we need more.
"If we had more people with us, we could have defeated them all," he said, his voice low but sharp. "The ancient ones are too powerful. We can't fight them like this." The hooded figure slammed his hand on the table. Pimo noticed everything but he focused on the task that he have, he knew this was the only way to survive.
"We need new members," hooded figure said. "Not just anyone. We need powerful people. Warriors, anyone who can stand against the old ones. We will train, we will prepare, and we will not run again. Bring even the dead ones. We can add them to our army. We are not letting anyone go". Pimo understand this includes him also. He felt he must do something. But he was helpless. But this time pimo is waiting for the right time. The right time to betray and the right time to escape from them.
"Are you ready for the fight?" he asked to the group. The others nodded. Fear was still in their eyes, but something else was there now too , The joy that they felt when they knew next time they are not alone.
"Long live the shadows" he started to say it loudly. Others followed him. "Long live the shadows" , "Long live the shadows...."
Outside, the night was quiet, but it felt like it was waiting. Next time, they would not be weak. Next time, they would be ready. Their power will be more than Kael can imagine.