The night didn't simply darken—it deepened. Thickened. Standing before the central grain silo tower, Bright Morgan felt the cold certainty of danger pool in his gut.
Larkin, the Umbral Covenant's hidden handler—stood calmly at the base of the tower with his ink-dark veins faintly pulsing in rhythm with the night. His eyes, impossibly black, reflected nothing. Not the fire from Sector Nine, not the torches approaching from panicked guards, not the fear simmering throughout Grim Hollow.
Nothing.
Just void.
And intent.
Bright lifted his weapon, his heartbeat quick and sharp. Rolf cracked his knuckles, Lira drew her daggers, Fen clenched his fists, Juno steadied his breathing and Mara's hands trembled.
Hailen stepped forward, blade leveled at Larkin's chest.
"Oyesa," he said quietly, "you've done enough harm tonight. Surrender. Before Atheon gets here, you know what he will do to your kind"
Larkin tilted his head in amusement.
