The news reached the Maverick stronghold three days after the destruction of Azel Park's laboratory.
The great marble doors of the council chamber opened with a thunderous echo, and servants hurried through, their faces pale. In their hands were blood-sealed scrolls — reports written in haste, stamped with the crest of the House's private informants.
The chamber itself was vast — it's a hall carved from obsidian and etched with veins of molten gold, the sigil of the Phoenix Crest shimmering above the dais. It was said that the Mavericks were descended from the first Flameborn cultivators, and their stronghold still burned with that legacy — elegant, terrifying, and cold.
At the head of the long table sat Lord Alaric Maverick, the family head. His eyes were sharp as metal, his hair was like a storm of black threaded with crimson. Power rolled off him like heat from a forge.
Beside him stood his brother, Lord Fen Maverick, a tall man with silver eyes and a perpetual smirk that hid more than it revealed.
When the messenger bowed and laid down the scroll, silence filled the hall.
Fen picked it up, unrolled it, and read aloud.
"Report from Azel Park's outpost… destroyed. Both Wyrmscourge guardians deceased. No survivors among his research circle. Cause — unknown assailants, wearing masks. Witnesses describe unnatural fighting styles and… shadows moving freely."
The parchment fluttered in his hands as he finished. For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the magma veins running beneath the marble.
Lord Alaric finally exhaled through his nose — not with rage, but irritation.
"So… our investment dies in smoke."
Fen's smirk widened slightly.
"Seems so. Though I must admit, brother... Azel always played with fire. His experiments on the Hollowborn were never stable."
"He was close," Alaric replied curtly. "Too close to be wasted like this. He nearly achieved the first successful infusion of hollowborn gene to the potion."
Across the table, several elders exchanged uneasy glances. They all knew the risk. Funding Azel Park's secret work was forbidden by the High Council — tampering with Hollowborn life was taboo, despite they being useless....they were not allowed to use their body for experiments....no one is above this....even among the ruling clans. But if Azel had succeeded…
He could have changed the foundation of power itself.
Alaric rose slowly from his seat.
"Whoever killed him," he said, voice low but sharp, "has interfered with the Maverick plans."
Fen shrugged, leaning against the table.
"The reports mentioned masks. Could be the same ones that the reports last time entailed. But there's no sign they're tied to any known house or faction."
Before Alaric could respond, another voice entered the hall....it was calm, curious, and far younger.
"Masked ones?"
Heads turned...
At the far end of the chamber, Mabel Maverick stood framed by the golden archway, her presence commanding yet quiet.
She was young — perhaps in her early twenties — with long dark hair that shimmered faintly red under the torchlight, like threads of ember woven through midnight silk. Her eyes, were like bright amber and full of sharp thought, her eyes carried the calm curiosity of someone who always asked why when others stopped at how.
Alaric's expression softened slightly.
"Mabel. You shouldn't be here."
She approached the table anyway, her stride steady, confident.
"I heard the whispers outside. Azel Park is dead. Two Wyrmscourge guardians are gone. You invested heavily in his research — doesn't that concern you?"
Her tone was respectful, but not timid. She had long learned how to speak like her father — precise, sharp-edged.
Fen chuckled softly.
"Concern, yes. Fury, no. Your father knows rage burns too quickly."
Mabel glanced at him, her expression was unreadable.
"And who were these masked attackers?"
Fen folded his arms.
"Unconfirmed. Survivors claim they fought with strange energy — not cultivation as we know it. They used shadows, chains, crystal limbs. Abilities… outside our spectrum."
"So," Mabel said, narrowing her eyes, "they're not cultivators."
"No," Fen replied. "And yet they killed two Wyrmscourge experts."
That caught her attention. Even Alaric's gaze flickered briefly toward his brother.
"You're certain?"
"Absolutely. Their cores were torn apart — not shattered from outside pressure. More like by some internal force....one was stabbed though"
The word hung in the air.
Mabel frowned.
"Torn apart… that's something beasts do."
"Precisely," Fen said. "And beasts don't wear masks."
A cold silence followed.
Alaric finally spoke again, his voice a low growl.
"Find out who they are. Quietly. If they are an enemy faction, we will erase them. If they are… something else, we will study them."
Mabel tilted her head slightly.
"May I?"
Both men looked at her....they were astounded.
Fen raised an eyebrow.
"You wish to handle it yourself?"
"A group capable of killing Wyrmscourge experts deserves proper attention," Mabel replied calmly. "And besides… I'm curious."
Her father studied her — the way her eyes glimmered with that dangerous mix of intellect and daring. She reminded him of her mother in that moment — sharp, restless, unwilling to obey the boundaries drawn for her.
After a pause, he nodded once.
"Take two of your wardens and follow the trail. But you report only to me, understood?"
Mabel smiled faintly.
"Of course, Father."
Fen's smirk deepened as she turned to leave.
"Curiosity is a flame, Mabel," he called after her. "Feed it too much, and it burns the hand that holds it."
Without turning, she replied softly,
"Or it lights the path others are too afraid to walk."
With that....she left.
---
Later that night
In her private quarters, high within the eastern tower, Mabel stood before her mirror, fastening her crimson cloak.
The city below burned faintly with torchlight — her family's crest glowing above the roofs like a second sun. She could still hear her father's voice echoing in her mind. Find out who they are.
On her desk lay an open report — rough sketches of the attackers drawn from witness accounts. Masked figures. One cloaked in shadows. One wielding flames. One surrounded by spectral chains.
She traced a finger over the parchment.
"Y'all killed two Wyrmscourge," she whispered. "Without cultivation."
Her lips curved slightly.
"Now I really want to meet you."
Outside her window, a storm began to gather — faint red lightning streaking across the horizon.
Mabel Maverick — heir to one of the most powerful family in the Masta Realm — had just set her eyes on the ghosts of the Hollowborn.
And whether she sought answers or something deeper, the paths of the Mavericks and the Masked Ones were now destined to collide.
---
In the shadows below
Unseen by her, a single raven landed on the tower ledge — its feathers black as smoke, its eyes glinting with faint red.
It tilted its head once, then took flight again, vanishing into the storm.
Far away, in the hidden depths of the Masked Ones' fortress, Number 10 opened her eyes.
"They're watching," she murmured. "The Mavericks are moving."
She turned to the wall where Sané's number — 99 — was carved in faint crimson light.
"Let's see if you're ready for the world to notice you."
---