Intermission XXXVI

The chamber was a vault of secrets, hidden deep within the bedrock of an unknown city. No sound from the outside world penetrated its marble walls, which were hung with masterpieces that would have made any royal gallery weep with envy. The only light came from a single, ornate candelabra of black iron, its flickering flames casting long, dancing shadows that made the painted saints and mythological scenes seem to writhe.

Around a massive table of polished obsidian sat a gathering of men and women, their attire a silent symphony of wealth—tailored suits of shadowy velvet, gowns of iridescent silk that whispered with every slight movement. They were the very picture of cultivated, ancient high society.

But their appearance betrayed a different heritage. Each possessed an unnatural, porcelain-pale complexion, as if their skin had never been touched by the sun. Their ears tapered to subtle, elegant points, and their eyes, without exception, were a piercing, glacial blue. It was a shared lineage, a bloodline that marked them as separate from, and made them believe they were superior to, the common rabble of the world.

The man at the head of the table, Julius, brought a clenched fist down upon the obsidian. The impact was not loud, but it was sharp and final, like a gavel pronouncing a death sentence. The fine crystal glasses of blood-dark wine trembled.

Julius: “All of them! Dead!” His voice was a low thunder, all the more terrifying for its controlled fury. The glacial blue of his eyes burned with a cold fire. “We have spent decades—a pittance to us, yet an eternity of careful planning—re-establishing our influence. We planted our agents like precious seeds in the fertile soil of their government, nurtured them, guided them into positions of power after the Great Purge scattered our thralls to the wind all those decades ago.”

He leaned forward, his gaze sweeping over the assembly, each member meeting his eyes with a mixture of fear and shared outrage.

Julius: “And now, I am to understand that our entire cell in Disca—the council members who voted as we commanded, the mayor who opened the city’s gates to our commerce and our will, all loyal devotees of the Blood God—has been erased. Wiped out not by rival factions, not by the blundering Witch Hunters, but by… a single necromancer! Our work. Our investment. Our foothold in a crucial border city… all of it, turned to ash and bone for one man’s deranged performance.” He paused, letting the weight of the loss settle in the silent room.

The silence that followed Julius’s pronouncement was thick enough to stifle the candle flames. It was finally broken by the man seated to Julius’s immediate right, Harvy. He was older than most in the room, his sharp features etched with the wisdom of centuries, and he chose his words with the care of a man defusing a bomb.

Harvy: “With all due respect, my lord,” he began, his voice a low, steady counterpoint to Julius’s thunder, “we must contextualize our enemy. That was not merely ‘any necromancer.’ It was Vince. The architect of a thousand tragedies, the rumored leader of the Rattle Bone cult.”

Julius: “I do not care what fanciful titles the cattle give him!” he roared, his composure shattering. His pale fingers gripped the edge of the obsidian table, their knuckles white. “I want to know how one of the many deranged bone-sculptors discovered that sensitive secret! How did he know to target our people?”

From further down the table, a younger member, Matthew, dared to interject. He had a diplomat’s face, accustomed to smoothing over conflicts.

Matthew: “My lord, it is possible he did not know. The Rattle Bone fanatics are… chaotic. Their logic is not our logic. This could have been a random, if spectacularly timed, atrocity. A mere stunt.”

Julius’s head swiveled toward Matthew, his gaze so intense the younger member seemed to shrink in his seat.

Julius: “You expect me to believe in such a convenience, Matthew?” his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “Out of the entire city council, Vince’s ‘random’ kidnapping perfectly aligned with the two individuals who had sworn blood-oaths to us? And that he then proceeded to eliminate the mayor, the linchpin of our control, completely severing our influence? No. I categorically refuse to swallow such a pathetic coincidence. There is a leak. Someone within the Blood Callers is feeding information to that corpse-monger, and they are actively sabotaging us.”

Harvy, seeing the direction of Julius’s paranoia, offered a more palatable, yet equally terrifying, alternative.

Harvy: “Considering the Rattle Bone’s particular… expertise,” he said carefully, “it may not be a traitor in the traditional sense. Their necromancers are known to ensnare and interrogate a soul before it fully departs the mortal realm. Perhaps one of our agents met with an ‘unfortunate accident’ we have yet to discover, and Vince simply… read the information from their dying mind.”

The grim possibility settled over the room. A traitor could be rooted out and punished. A security breach born of the enemy’s necromantic capabilities was a far more insidious threat.

Julius: “Regardless of the method,” he declared, his decision final. “I want a full review. Every agent, every contact, every communication channel connected to the Disca operation is to be scrutinized. I will know how Vince knew.”

Seeking to steer the conversation toward a solution, Harvy tentatively asked,

Harvy: “Then, shall we begin plans to send new members to Disca? To re-establish our presence once the dust has settled?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Then, Julius slowly, deliberately, turned his head to face Harvy. The simmering rage in his eyes was not the hot, explosive anger from before, but something colder and far more dangerous—a deep, personal disappointment that was infinitely more terrifying.

Harvy seemed to physically diminish, sinking back into his plush chair as if seeking to escape the weight of Julius gaze. The shame and fear on his face were a clear admission: the suggestion had been a profound mistake.

Julius did not raise his voice. Instead, it dropped into a tone of glacial contempt that was far more withering than any shout. He looked at Harvy not as a colleague, but as a master looking upon a disappointingly simple child.

Julius: “You dullard,” he began, the insult hanging in the air, sharp and final. “Do you truly believe it is that simple? That we can pluck replacements from the ether and slot them into positions of power like pieces on a game board?” He leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes scanning the others at the table, ensuring they all absorbed the lesson. “Ever since the ‘Red Book Incident’ laid bare our methods, infiltrating the governments of either Gix or the Union has become a feat of monumental patience. Their intelligence agencies and bureaucrats now pick apart the history of every aspiring official, searching for the faintest whiff of association with the Nameless Gods. The shadows we once operated in are now flooded with light.”

He stood, pacing slowly behind his chair, a predator circling its cowed prey.

Julius: “The only way to bypass this scrutiny is to cultivate our agents as genuine paragons. Their pasts must be meticulously crafted, polished to a blinding shine. They must live their covers for a decade, sometimes two, building a life of unimpeachable public service, all while we work in the shadows to erase any trace of their true origin. The mayor of Disca was twenty years in the making. He was an investment. We cannot simply send a new one. The next candidate will require a generation of preparation before they can even think of running for office.”

Julius stopped, his hands resting on the back of his chair, his gaze sweeping the silent, assembled council.

Julius: “Now,” he said, his voice deceptively soft. “Does anyone else wish to waste my time with a similarly naive suggestion?”

The chamber was utterly, profoundly silent. Not a breath was drawn too loudly. Every eye was fixed upon the grain of the obsidian table, the flicker of a candle flame—anywhere but the searing intensity of Julius’s stare. The weight of his authority had crushed all dissent.

Julius: “Good.” The word was a dismissal of the entire failed line of thought. “The reality is this: the loss of Disca forces our hand. We will have to… petition… the other factions for assistance. And, distasteful as it is, we may need to broker a temporary peace with the Bloodletters faction. This setback will strain our finances, and our ongoing conflict with them is a luxury we can no longer afford.” He resumed his seat, the strategist once more. “So, dispatch envoys to the Blood Court. We will—”

The massive oak door to the chamber burst open, shattering the carefully maintained atmosphere of secrecy. A human servant, his face pale with a mixture of terror and urgency, stood gasping on the threshold. Such an interruption was punishable by death, a fact that was clearly written in the man’s trembling posture.

Servant: “Lord Julius! Forgive me!” he blurted, falling to one knee. “But Lady Sana has arrived unannounced! She… she demands an audience immediately! She claims to bear world-changing news about the Dreamscape!”