In an unknown realm....
In a Massive dark hall.....five figures was seen seating on copper thrones. The hall ofcourse was silent. Shadows clung to the corners like old memories refusing to fade. Within that silence sat five figures—Numbers 1 through 5 of the Masked Ones. Each one of them wore a mask different in design, yet equally dreadful; symbols etched with runes that pulsed faintly as if breathing.
The air hummed with energy.....the air there was dense, heavy, and even ancient.
Number 1 spoke first, his voice was low, precise, and cold as tempered steel.
"Number 12 and the young shadow one did well. The fragments retrieved from the ruins have confirmed the presence of a True Source."
Across the black table of bone and stone, Number 3 tilted her head. Her mask was slender, carved to resemble a weeping angel.
"True Source…" she murmured, as her fingers was brushing the faint light radiating from a crystal orb before her. "That could awaken the dormant relic we found beneath the southern catacombs."
Number 4, ever the skeptic, leaned back in his chair. "We've been trying to awaken that relic for decades. You really think this fragment will change anything?"
Number 2's laughter cracked the silence. "It's not about belief. It's about opportunity. The Source isn't just energy—it's the Maker's breath condensed. With it, we could forge something beyond even the Maker's curse."
Number 5's voice was calm but firm. "A weapon," he said simply. "One that can control the Maker's Wormholes—or seal them."
Number 1 nodded. "Precisely."
At that, Number 12—who had been standing quietly behind them—stepped forward, bowing slightly. Her tone was calm, almost reverent.
"The shadow one, Number 99, continues to evolve. He handled the curse beasts with instincts that can't be taught. I believe he's the first in a long time to have truly bonded with his Vestige."
Number 3's mask tilted slightly. "Bonded… or consumed?"
Number 12's tone darkened. "Perhaps both. But he's different. He doesn't just use his shadow—he moves with it. His soul isn't fighting his power anymore; it's flowing through it."
Number 1 remained silent for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the table.
"The Hollowborn are changing," he said at last. "And perhaps the world will need something just as monstrous to face what's coming."
The meeting grew quiet once again. Shadows flickered. For a moment, all five of them stared at the glowing fragment at the center of the table—its light pulsing like a heartbeat.
Number 2 finally spoke, breaking the silence.
"Then it's settled. Begin the preparations. We'll forge the weapon beneath the Deep Forge."
"Understood," Number 12 said with a bow.
Before leaving, he heard Number 1 mutter almost to himself,
"And keep an eye on 99. There's something about that boy's shadow… it feels familiar."
"And also tell number 10 and 11 to begin with the plan"
Meanwhile, far from the Hollowborn stronghold…
The Falcon Family's fortress-city of The Well gleamed under a crimson dusk. Its towers rose from cliffs like blades, banners fluttering with the sigil of the soaring falcon. Inside, in the great council chamber, a storm was brewing.
Lord Halden Falcon, head of the family, sat at the center throne. His golden armor reflected the firelight dancing from the braziers around the chamber. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"They retrieved the Source?" he asked in disbelief.
"Yes, my Lord," replied a kneeling informant. "The ruins near Dravenloch were attacked by a group of Masked Ones. The Maverick heir—Lady Mabel—was present, but they escaped."
Halden leaned forward slightly. "Mabel Maverick… that girl's curiosity will get her killed someday."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the council.
One of the elder Falcons, Lord Varn, smirked. "The Mavericks are losing their edge. Ever since the disappearance of their eldest son, their influence has waned. The Falcons must take advantage of this chaos."
Another councilor, Lady Eris, added coolly, "Their protection of that Transmuter, Azel Park, was foolish enough. Now his death has drawn unwanted attention. If the Masked Ones truly have a True Source… the power balance will tilt again."
Lord Halden rose to his feet. The room fell silent.
"The Source," he said slowly, "was something the five families swore never to touch again. The last time one of us meddled with it, the Maker's curse spread."
He turned toward the blazing map of Dravenloch projected before him.
"But if the Masked Ones have broken that oath, then so be it. We'll need to prepare. If necessary, we'll hunt them down ourselves."
Lady Eris folded her hands. "And the Mavericks?"
Halden's expression hardened. "Let them wallow in their failure. Their daughter's compassion will be their undoing. We Falcons… we'll soar higher from their ashes."
In a dark corridor beneath The Well…
Two figures whispered in secret—a pair of Falcon spies.
"You heard Lord Halden," one said quietly. "He's preparing for war."
The other nodded. "And if the Masked Ones really have that Source… then we're all in danger. The Hollowborn aren't supposed to evolve."
"They're not evolving," the first said grimly. "They're remembering."
---
Back within the Hollowborn domain…
Sané stood outside the chamber where Number 12 had been called. The young shadow wielder gazed at the cavern walls, veins of dark stone glowing faintly with flowing energy. His reflection shimmered in the obsidian pools below—his once-gentle eyes now holding a strange, hard glint.
He clenched his fists.
The Source. The battle. The girl with the fire in her eyes—Mabel.
He could still see her standing there amidst the chaos, light blazing around her as beasts fell in droves.
She had looked at him once—through the smoke, through the madness—and he had felt something… unsettling. Recognition? Pity?
He didn't know.
A faint whisper crawled through the shadows. His own voice echoed back at him.
"You're not the boy you used to be, Sané."
He turned slightly, smirking to himself. "Yeah… I know."
From deeper within, Number 12 emerged, her mask reflecting the dim light.
"Number 99," he said quietly. "The council has acknowledged your performance. They'll send you again—soon."
Sané nodded slowly. "To retrieve more fragments?"
"Something like that," 12 replied. "But this time… there will be eyes watching us. The families have started to notice."
Sané looked up, his gaze distant. "Let them watch. The shadows don't fear the light."
Number 12 paused for a moment, then smiled faintly behind her mask. "Careful, Sané. That kind of thinking is how monsters are born."
Sané's grin widened.
"Maybe that's what they need me to be."
---