"Welcome to the Reckoning, Celvian."
The words hung in the air.
No one spoke.
The red-haired woman's fury remained palpable but silent. The older man's jaw set, but he nodded once in acceptance. Even Draven, despite the rage clear in his posture, said nothing more.
The matter was settled.
"Before we discuss anything else," the hooded figure - Veyron - said, his voice carrying quiet authority that made everyone straighten slightly, "the boy needs healing."
The woman with blonde hair moved from her position near the wall. She approached with measured steps, her expression carefully neutral as she stopped before him.
"May I?" Her voice was professional, distant.
Cel's jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed not to let anyone touch him, not to show weakness, not to—
"It's just healing," she continued, reading his hesitation. "Nothing more."
He gave her a curt nod.
Her hands lifted, hovering inches from his chest. Warmth spread through his torso - not the searing heat of the worm's breath, but something deeper that hummed beneath his skin. The throbbing ache in his ribs eased. The torn flesh across his back knitted together. Even the deeper injuries - the ones he'd been ignoring - began to fade.
It took perhaps thirty seconds.
When she stepped back, Cel could breathe without pain for the first time since Esrin had thrown him across the wasteland.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She inclined her head once, then returned to her position without a word.
"Now then." Veyron's attention fixed on him fully. "You've been invited to join an organization you know nothing about. That hardly seems fair."
Cel remained silent, waiting.
"The Reckoning exists for a singular purpose," Veyron continued. "We hunt those who abuse their power. Chosen Ones who believe divine favor places them above consequence. Those who commit atrocities knowing their power protects them."
The words settled in Cel's chest with uncomfortable weight.
"We kill them," Draven added with a grin. "When the law fails. And it always fails for the powerful. We don't."
"You're assassins," Cel said flatly.
"We're justice," Esrin corrected, her tone brooking no argument. "For victims who have none."
"We operate on a ranking system," Lucien said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Based on strength, not birthright or politics."
"Rank one is the strongest," Silas added, gesturing at Veyron. "All the way down to rank ten." His gaze shifted to the small girl in the oversized chair. "Which will always be—"
"Me. Yes. I know." Hina crossed her arms. "Every time someone joins, I get bumped down again. Thanks for that."
Something tightened in Cel's chest. Strength, not birth, not bloodline.
Everything the Sun Clan wasn't.
"Since we're doing introductions," the older man near the wall spoke up, his rough voice carrying the weight of experience, "I'm Ronan. Fifth Reckoning. Graveyard's Orphan. Life Clan."
The young man by the fire straightened. "Silas Mortbane. Eighth Reckoning. Death's Friendliest Face." His grin was infectious despite the gravity of the situation. "Death Clan, obviously."
"Iris Peakvault." The woman who'd healed him spoke quietly. "Seventh Reckoning. Veiled Crag. Mountain Clan."
Her posture shifted subtly when she spoke - shoulders drawing inward slightly, gaze lowering. The change was so minute Cel almost missed it.
"Zara." The red-haired woman's voice came sharp as broken glass. "Sixth Reckoning. Wrath's Only Daughter. Mountain Clan as well." Her blue eyes carried naked contempt. "Try not to die immediately."
"Already did that," Cel said before he could stop himself.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat. Then Silas laughed - genuine and bright.
"Oh, I like him already."
"Draven Goldwind," the brash man said, his tone carrying casual arrogance. "Third Reckoning. Goldreaver. Mercenary Guild." He gestured at himself with a flourish. "Also the wealthiest person in this room, but that's hardly relevant."
The small girl piped up again. "Hina! Tenth Reckoning - formerly ninth but apparently not anymore!" She crossed her arms with theatrical indignation. "Small Tyrant. I work for the Royal House as Palace Administrator." A pause. "I should have voted for your death."
The comment was so absurd, delivered with such genuine petulance, that something in Cel's chest loosened slightly. Not quite humor - but close.
"Lucien Stellarion," the young man with tired eyes said from his chair. "Fourth Reckoning. Dreamfall. Second Prince of the Empire."
The presence of royalty made this whole organization even more impossible. What kind of group could command a prince's loyalty?
"Esrin." The woman who'd brought him here spoke with quiet authority. "Second Reckoning. Shattered Sky. Chosen Legion."
The hooded figure's presence seemed to intensify slightly. "Veyron Nethis. First Reckoning. Eschaton."
Cel's mind was already cataloging information, filing away details. An organization that hunted corrupt Chosen. Members from various Clans - even the Mercenary Guild and Royal House.
The strength assembled here was utterly insane. The Mercenary King himself. An imperial prince. A Hallowed, who could challenge an entire Great Clan alone - and she was only second in command.
This was enough power to topple the empire.
Veyron's attention returned to him. "You'll need a codename. Take your time to consider."
Cel's thoughts scattered immediately. A codename. Something that would define him in this organization.
White Death surfaced first - one of his paragons. It felt right. Cold. Absolute. A name that carried weight.
Heir to the Moon was out - too revealing.
Frostmark? No - too specific.
His mind circled back to White Death. The name settled in his chest with quiet certainty.
Yes. That felt right.
But before he could speak—
"Now," Veyron's tone shifted, becoming more businesslike, "to the matter at hand. Esrin?"
The white-haired woman's expression remained impassive. "I tracked the Prince of Death to the Ashlands. But the search yielded nothing."
Prince of Death.
His mind raced backward, dragging up half-forgotten lessons from his childhood education. The Death Clan. House Mortveil - the leading Noble House within the Clan. Their heir had been... what was the name?
Fragments surfaced. A prodigy. Good reputation even among the nobility, who were notoriously difficult to please. The last news had been about an expedition. The prince and his father had led a group into the destroyed Western Continent for an investigation in the Emperor's name.
That had been... a year ago? Maybe more?
Wait.
A year. The same amount of time Raven said he'd been trapped in the Hollow Realms.
The implications crashed through his thoughts with terrible clarity.
The young man who'd helped him in the Ashlands. The one who moved with practiced grace, who knew exactly how to survive in that nightmare realm.
Raven was the Prince of Death.
And these people wanted him dead.
Cel's jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides, hidden within Cinderward's cloak.
'He helped me.' The thought came fierce and absolute. 'Saved my life. Without expecting anything in return.'
And now he sat in a room with nine people who would kill Raven on sight if they found him.
"The Prince of Death is our highest priority target," Veyron continued, his tone unchanged. "A Cursed infiltrating the Sun Clan's stronghold shouldn't be possible."
"And yet he managed it," Draven said, genuine appreciation cutting through his words. "Killed their greatest prodigy, a boy of House Solaris. The one with a Divine Oracle as his guide."
"We don't know what he's hiding," Zara cut in sharply. "That's the problem. A Cursed shouldn't have that kind of power."
"But he does," Ronan's gravelly voice added. "Which means either he retained something he shouldn't have, or he's found something new. Either way—"
"He's dangerous," Veyron finished. "And unpredictable. That combination requires caution."
The words settled over Cel like ice water.
So Raven had returned from the expedition as one of the Cursed. Then he'd somehow infiltrated the Sun Clan's stronghold - a fortress that should have been impenetrable - and killed their greatest prodigy. Someone blessed enough to have a Divine Oracle as their guide - just like Cel.
A dark satisfaction flickered through his chest before he could suppress it. The Sun Clan had suffered. Good.
But the satisfaction couldn't drown out the questions burning in his mind. 'What happened on that expedition to make him Cursed? What drove him to kill their prodigy?'
Cel forced his breathing to remain steady, his expression neutral. Every instinct screamed to defend Raven, to argue, to demand answers.
Yet revealing his connection would doom them both.
'If they knew I'd been traveling with him...' The thought sent ice through his veins.
So he stayed silent, letting the discussion wash over him while his mind churned.
"We'll wait for him to surface again," Veyron said finally. "Esrin, you'll face him when he does."
She nodded once.
His gaze swept across the room. "The rest of you - if you spot him, track but do not engage. Only intervene if absolutely necessary."
Murmurs of acknowledgment rippled through the gathered members.
Veyron's attention returned to him. "Your codename?"
Cel met his gaze. "White Death."
A pause. Then Draven laughed - sharp and approving. "Dramatic. I like it."
"Your paragon?" Silas asked, genuine curiosity in his green eyes.
"Yes."
"Well then, White Death," Veyron said, and there was something almost approving in his tone. "Let me welcome you again, Ninth Reckoning."
The moment felt significant despite its simplicity. Cel nodded once.
"How old are you, Celvian?" Veyron asked.
"Sixteen."
A pause.
"That's perfect. You'll be enrolled in the Chosen Academy."
Cel blinked. "What?"
"The Academy trains young Chosen," Hina piped up, her earlier petulance forgotten. "All Chosen attend."
"Which makes it the perfect place for you to grow stronger," Veyron added.
"My task there?" Cel asked carefully.
"Observe the other Chosen. Report any concerning behavior. Protect them from external threats." Veyron's tone made it clear this wasn't negotiable. "And become stronger."
The unspoken message was clear: Prove you deserve to be here.
"Esrin will escort you," Veyron continued. "Since she brought you here, she'll ensure you arrive safely."
The white-haired woman's expression didn't change, but something in her posture suggested this wasn't unexpected.
"When do I leave?" Cel asked.
"Immediately." The Academy begins in ten days. That gives you time to settle in."
Cel nodded slowly, processing. The Academy. Where all Chosen trained. Where he'd once dreamed of being sent, back when his father's approval still mattered.
The irony was bitter.
"Any questions?" Veyron asked.
Hundreds. But Cel couldn't voice the ones that mattered most.
Instead, he said: "No."
"Then we're done here." Veyron rose from his seat with fluid grace. "Esrin, prepare for departure. The rest of you, dismissed."
The meeting dissolved. Members rose and headed for the door, some casting final glances at Cel - curious, assessing, hostile.
Silas paused on his way past. "Welcome to the team, White Death. And don't mind Zara's glare - she's like that with everyone."
"Heard that," Zara called from across the room.
"Good!" Silas flashed a grin before disappearing through the door.
Soon, only Cel and Esrin remained.
She stood by the fireplace, her ruby eyes fixed on him with that same measuring intensity that had nearly gotten him killed earlier.
Esrin moved toward the door without a word.
Cel followed.
They stepped out of the manor into the crackling void. The floating island was as it had been - dark stone beneath his feet, violet emptiness stretching in every direction.
Esrin stopped on the edge of the island.
A rift appeared without ceremony - a gash in the air that shouldn't exist, its edges crackling with violet energy.
She crossed the threshold without pause.
Cel followed before he could reconsider.
The rift swallowed them whole.
This time, Cel knew what to expect. The violent inversion of reality. The way gravity became meaningless. He kept his eyes fixed on Esrin's back and let the chaos wash over him without fighting it.
It ended faster than before.
Solid ground materialized beneath his feet.
Cel's vision cleared by degrees.
They stood in what appeared to be an abandoned bar. But calling it forgotten would be more accurate.
Dust coated every surface in thick layers - tables, chairs, the long counter that dominated one wall. Bottles lined shelves behind the bar, their labels faded beyond recognition. Cobwebs stretched between rafters overhead, swaying slightly as they disturbed the stale air.
The windows had been boarded over from the outside, gaps between planks allowing only narrow shafts of light to cut through the darkness.
Esrin moved toward what Cel assumed was the front door - a heavy wooden thing with iron fittings that had gone to rust.
She gripped the handle and pulled.
The door tore open with a shriek of protesting metal.
Light spilled through the widening gap - real light, golden and warm. Sound followed. Distant at first, then growing clearer as the door swung fully open.
Voices. Laughter. The clatter of wheels on cobblestone.