Still seated in the dimly lit chamber, Drazel hadn't shifted in hours. His body was again folded in the same pose; one leg stretched out across the cold floor, the other drawn tight against his chest.
His gaze lingered on his own arm, where the flesh had begun to rot, the skin cracked and gray like bark splitting from a dead tree. The stench was faint but unmistakable, a reminder of the hunger gnawing inside him.
This was the curse of his kind. When a demon went three days without feeding, their bodies began to wither, collapsing in on themselves piece by piece until nothing remained.
For Drazel, the decay came slower, he could last nearly two weeks before the rot spread too far. But the hunger was no less merciless.
Even so, he refused to touch the blood of anyone else. His craving was singular, fixated only on mine. That obsession burned in him like an unspoken vow, and yet even it had been checked by the restrictions placed upon him.
His master's command was absolute: no feeding on the students. Not even the corpses.
So he endured, watching his flesh blacken, feeling it peel as though his own body sought to betray him.
Then the silence broke.
A command echoed in his mind, cold and absolute, snapping him from his daze like a whip across the skull. The voice reverberated through the marrow of his bones, impossible to ignore.
"Drazel. Go and bring that vessel to me."
It was not a request. It was an order.
---
Thirty-Five shifted slightly in his chair, his head turning toward the row of monitors lined against the left wall. Each screen flickered with distorted light, capturing glimpses of the city outside.
Streets split open like wounds, buildings collapsing in showers of dust, the frantic blur of people running without direction. Fire licked through the skyline, and yet his expression remained unchanged; blank, cold, untouched by the images of chaos.
Behind him, the chamber pulsed with a darker presence. A thousand figures knelt in silence, their heads bowed low. Cloaks of shadow draped their forms so completely that their shapes blurred at the edges, as if the darkness itself had claimed them. From their bodies seeped a heavy black aura, curling upward in slow, restless tendrils that thickened the air.
To look at them too long was to lose certainty; were they men, demons, or remnants of something that should have long since died? No eye could tell for sure.
Thirty-Five's voice broke the silence, steady and without emotion, the words carrying the weight of absolute command.
"Go," he said. "To the old underground train station. Leave no human breathing. Wipe every last one of them from existence. And when the work is done…" His gaze narrowed, his tone cutting sharper. "…wipe yourselves."
The cloaked figures stirred at once, as though the command had snapped through their bones. A sound like rustling ash rose in the chamber as their bodies shifted, shadows bending and unraveling.
In the next moment they were dissolving, one after another breaking apart into streams of black aura, streaks of darkness sliding across the walls and vanishing into the stone.
When the last of them disappeared, the chamber fell silent again. Only the monitors remained, flickering faintly in the dark, reflecting the calm, unblinking face of Thirty-Five.
---
In the court chamber, the five government bodies remained seated in their semicircle, the hunters posted among them like silent guardians. The air was thick, weighed down by argument and tension that still lingered from their last exchange. Then, without warning, a voice rang out.
"Wow!"
It did not come from the heavy double doors. It did not drift down through the high arched windows. It came from directly behind Saelrix, so close it felt as though someone had been standing in his shadow the entire time.
The effect was immediate. Several councilors stiffened, their heads snapping around. A quill clattered to the floor. Even Saelrix himself was startled, his yellow eyes flickering with unease before narrowing sharply.
The voice continued, steady and merciless, each syllable carrying like a hammer against stone.
"There you are, all seated in this safety… while outside, the people die with no safety to run to."
The words slithered through the chamber, curling into every corner. Ministers exchanged nervous glances, Military hands twitched toward hilts they didn't carry, and the Judiciary froze as though judgment had turned against them.
The Councilors shifted uneasily in their seats; a minister's quill slipped from his fingers and tapped against the floor. Somewhere in the rows, a chair creaked as someone leaned forward, straining to see who had dared to enter unseen.
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
The figure stepped away from Saelrix, the movement pulling every eye in the chamber. His stride was measured, and steady, each step echoing against the marble floor until he reached the side and paused.
Light spilled across him, unveiling a face too composed for the tension he had just created.
His eyes were blue, sharp and luminous, bright as the open sky breaking through storm clouds, and they held the chamber in a quiet command that made even the boldest hesitate. White-blue strands of hair framed his features, cut neatly yet soft enough to shift with the slightest tilt of his head, catching the flicker of torchlight as he moved.
He stood level with Saelrix in height, shoulders broad and posture calm, but there was no mistaking the difference between them. Saelrix carried menace, but this man carried inevitability.
His presence filled the room with a weight that pressed against every chest, a calm that silenced even the air.
Whispers died in the throats of the council, the Judiciary froze as if judgment itself had been rendered, and the Military straightened without meaning to, the instinct of discipline betraying respect.
He was known by every soul in the chamber, feared and respected beyond all measure, the most powerful and unchallenged Shinkari of their time. Thalor Ashenhive, Seventh Generation, the Master of Loop, the one who bent Time itself. And to me, not only a legend but my father.
"Here you are," Thalor's voice cut through the chamber, steady and merciless, "debating on nothing else but your own survival. How selfish." His words struck like a hammer against stone, echoing off the marble walls and sinking into the silence that followed.
Not one of the councilors or ministers dared to breathe too loudly.
"How about," he continued, his tone sharpened by disdain, "you get on your feet and go fight?"
Until now, his eyes had not so much as flicked toward them. He spoke as though addressing shadows, his presence enough to fill the entire chamber without needing to settle on a single face.
But when at last his gaze rose, calm, and piercing, blue as the sky itself –it swept across the court like a blade drawn free of its scabbard. No one moved, none dared.
They were silent, not out of respect, or out of discipline, but because their very bodies betrayed them. Muscles stiffened, fingers locked against parchment, lips parted in frozen words that never left their throats. A terrible stillness gripped the room.
Only Saelrix stirred. He exhaled slowly, his faint smirk returning as if amused by the display. "Seriously, Thalor," he said, his voice edged with mockery, "are you really going to talk to them while they're frozen like that?"
The truth was plain to see. Everyone in the chamber had been caught in Thalor's grasp, time itself arrested at his command. Their eyes were wide, expressions twisted mid-motion, anger etched into brows, irritation pulling at lips, despair hanging in still air.
They could feel, they could hear, they could sense every word passing over them like chains tightening around their necks. Yet none of them was permitted to move. None of them could speak.
Thalor turned his gaze to Saelrix, his expression unchanged, his tone even. "Yes," he replied, voice calm yet lined with a quiet, crushing authority. "Because I did not come here to listen to their nonsense."
The words rang in the chamber with the finality of judgment, leaving no room for rebuttal.
He moved, his steps measured, until he stood before one of the Judiciary. Leaning closer, he brought his piercing blue eyes level with the man's frozen stare. His voice dropped lower, each syllable deliberate, cutting through the silence like a knife. "As you sit here… planning war on your neighbors… you have no idea where your family is, do you?"
The judge's eyes widened, a faint twitch betraying the terror beneath the paralysis. His lips trembled, but no words formed, his voice shackled by the time-lock. The smallest flinch ran across his features, but it died there, trapped in stillness.
Thalor straightened, his presence looming. His gaze swept over the chamber, pausing on each face as though peeling back the skin and looking into the heart beneath. None escaped the scrutiny. Fear twisted into silent defiance, irritation into helpless rage, yet all of them were bound, unable to shift so much as a finger.
With a lazy motion, Thalor lifted his hand. His index and middle fingers rose, unhurried, as though the gesture itself was almost beneath his effort. Between them, the air shimmered, then a thin sheet of light curled, solidifying into form; a piece of parchment, written in no ink yet inscribed with meaning that pulsed faintly.
He released it, tossing the paper upward with casual ease. It spun in the air, drifting weightlessly until it reached high above them, swaying near the chamber's vaulted roof.
Then, without warning, the parchment stilled. The air cracked faintly, like glass under pressure. A thin glow spread outward, curling in an expanding arc until it formed a vast transparent barrier – bluish, and crystalline, shimmering faintly. It locked into place around the entire chamber, sealing them in as though a second skin had grown over the walls themselves.
The councilors' eyes widened, expressions contorting further. The Military stiffened, caught between awe and fury. The Ministry's scribes stared upward, faces pale in the barrier's reflected glow. But none could speak. None could move.
Thalor's gaze swept them one last time, his presence filling the chamber like a storm cloud. His words came quietly, but each syllable carried the weight of command. "Stay out of my way," he said, his voice firm, and unbending. "And you will not get hurt."
No more, nothing less.
With that, his form blurred, the glow of his eyes flickering like a dying flame. Then, as though he had never stood there at all, he was gone, vanished from the court. The barrier dissolved in a whisper of blue light, releasing them from its grip.
The stillness shattered. Breath rushed back into lungs, shoulders convulsed as if freed from invisible chains. Some officials clutched at their throats, gasping, feeling as though they had nearly choked on silence itself.
Others, red-faced and trembling, slammed fists against the table as if the act could erase their helplessness. A few burned with rage, whispering vows of crushing the man who had just walked out, but even now their bodies trembled with the memory of being pinned like insects in amber.
Only the Hunters remained composed. Ms. Lowlan's expression was unreadable, her sharp eyes calm and steady, while Weynof simply leaned back, the faintest flicker of a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. They, more than any others, understood the gulf that separated them from a Shinkari.
The silence did not last.
A Judiciary, his voice sharp and quivering with fury, stamped the table so hard the inkpots rattled. "What is Thalor doing out of his bounds?" he demanded. "Did he actually leave his wife alone?"
A councilor muttered from across the table, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. "That bastard, using his ability on us. He's probably looking for someone foolish enough to send him to his grave, him and his wife both."
The chamber erupted in low murmurs again, anger and fear twisting together, but every word only echoed the same truth: none of them had been able to stop him.