Orion stepped out through the hotel's glass doors, adjusting to the early-morning chill still clinging to the street. He scanned the quiet avenue - empty sidewalks, shuttered storefronts, lamps flickering their last breaths before sunrise - until his eyes lit up.
Leaning casually against the polished black frame of a Ford Galaxie, looking like he'd stepped out of an old photo of São Paulo's golden years, was a much older man in neatly pressed social clothes: slacks, suspenders, and a crisp button-up stretched over a comfortable belly. The man raised a hand with a warm grin. Orion perked up immediately, waving back.
Silvio flicked the half-finished cigarette from his fingers and crushed it under his heel before climbing into the car.
Orion hurried over, and Silvio - ever the gentleman - opened the passenger door for him.
"Thanks, Silvio!" Orion said as he sank into the soft blue-carpeted seat, exhaling deeply. He turned toward the portly, white-haired man with a smile. "Good morning!"
"And a good morning to you too, lad," Silvio replied cheerfully, already twisting around in his seat to rummage for something in the back of the car.
"I thought you were on vacation," Orion asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Oh, I was," Silvio said absentmindedly, still searching. "But you know how it is."
Orion snorted. "What, Sabrina's not home so you got lonely and ran back to work? And what about the missus?"
"The missus is the problem, lad," Silvio corrected with a chuckle. "She nags me nonstop until I get out of the house."
He straightened triumphantly, holding a small plate stacked with two steaming cheese-and-ham sandwiches and a cup of pitch-black coffee. He handed them over.
"Here."
Orion stared at the offering - surprised and delighted in equal measure - before grinning wide.
"You're the best, you know that, right?" he said. He took a sip of the coffee, humming in satisfaction as the bitter heat spread through him.
"Trust me, I do," Silvio said, matching his smile. He turned on the radio, and Tim Maia's soulful voice filled the cabin. With a practiced glance at the mirrors, he started the engine and pulled the Galaxie onto the road.
Orion took a hearty bite of the sandwich, stretching a bridge of melted cheese that he wasted no time devouring. "I'm still telling aunt Marlene you're running from her," he warned through a mouthful of bread and ham.
Silvio barked out a laugh. "Go ahead. I'll enjoy the makeup sex after the fight."
Orion made a face. "I did not need that mental image."
"Whatever you're imagining, son, I'm bigger," the old man boasted.
Orion choked on a laugh. "Anyone is, with the right potion."
"Now, don't you go spreadin' my secrets," Silvio scolded good-naturedly.
Orion laughed, shaking his head, and went back to his food. He finished the sandwiches quickly, then tapped the plastic cup and plate twice with his finger - both vanishing in a soft, crisp displacement of magic. With that done, he reclined in his seat, letting his body relax as he turned to gaze out the window. The city drifted past in blurred streaks of neon signs, shuttered shops, and streetlights standing like lone sentinels over the quiet dawn.
"Speaking of Sabrina," he said at last, breaking the comfortable silence, "how's she doing? Been a while since I saw her."
Silvio groaned with a mix of fondness and irritation. "Don't I know it? She pesters me about you all the damn time. Just like her mother." He huffed. "At least she's considerate enough to bribe me with a massage or a plate of food before she starts bothering me."
Orion chuckled, and Silvio snorted.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for her graduation, I was-"
"Busy," Silvio finished gruffly, earning a guilty nod from Orion. "Don't worry, lad, I know it. She knows it too. Though she was right miffed when you didn't show up."
He paused, but his voice warmed with pride. "She's real excited now that she got into the program. My friend Jonas - you know Jonas, right? Jonas Machado? One of her instructors. He told me that if she keeps up this rhythm, she'll be ready to take her vows in two years."
Orion let out a low whistle. "That's fast."
"Yes, well, she's got her motivations." Silvio gave him a pointed side-eye that Orion pretended not to see. Then the old man chuckled. "Besides, who are you to talk about fast, Mr. Youngest Caçador in History?"
Orion let out an awkward chuckle… which soon trailed into an awkward silence.
Silvio took one look at his face, sighed deeply, and lowered the volume on Tim Maia. Then he turned serious.
"Look, Orion, lad. I know you've got your hang-ups about relationships…"
"The life of a Caçador is-"
"-Dangerous. I know. I know." Silvio stressed, raising a finger. "But as tragic as it is when one of you good folk gives your life in the line of duty and leaves a partner behind, I can tell you with - what, fifty years of experience now? - that the ones who do have someone waiting for them are a hell of a lot more likely to come back home."
"And this 'someone' you're proposing for me is your daughter?" Orion asked with a teasing smile.
"Maybe! Possibly! Probably!" Silvio declared with a booming laugh, slapping his thigh. "The girl's had a crush on you since forever. Tried to graduate on her fifth year too, you know? Soon as she found out you did it. Took me and her mother dragging her to the Senhorita to knock sense into her - told her she wouldn't be allowed to start training even if she graduated early."
"And you think that's healthy?" Orion asked, honestly curious.
Silvio shrugged. "There's nothing healthy about being a Caçador, lad. No offense."
"None taken," Orion said with a smile.
"Besides," Silvio continued, "I was never able to deny my little girl anything. Which is exactly why I managed to snag this trip from another one of the drivers."
Orion blinked, surprised, sitting up straighter. Silvio's grin only widened. He reached into his pocket, rummaged, then withdrew two small folded papers and shoved them into Orion's hand.
"And also," he added triumphantly, "why I snagged these."
Orion looked down at the objects pressed into his hand. Two glossy black tickets, embossed with shimmering gold letters: Navegadores da Bahia vs. Cavaleiros do Campo.
"For the Quidditch game next weekend," Silvio said proudly, chin tilted up like he'd just revealed a masterstroke.
Orion blinked at them, mouth opening in disbelief.
"Silvio, I can't-"
"Up up up! No excuses." Silvio wagged a finger in his direction. "I know for a fact you'll be on leave this weekend. Or are you telling me you'd rather spend your time with moldy old books instead of my daughter?" His glare made it very clear which answer was acceptable.
"No!" Orion denied instantly. "I just-"
"Good!" Silvio cut in, satisfied. "Then you'll show up at my door at five p.m. sharp. Dressed nicely - but not too nicely, it's a game, not a wedding. Bring a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers." He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "She likes the yellow ones."
Orion let out a defeated sigh. "Do I get a say in this at all?"
"No," Silvio said cheerfully. "Oh! And don't bring her home before… hm… let's say three in the morning? Me and her mother will be having our fun."
Orion choked, half laughing and half horrified.
"Silvio, for god's sake - stop telling me about your sex life!"
Silvio only chortled, absolutely unashamed.
Orion stared back down at the tickets, turning them over between his fingers. A thoughtful look settled over his face.
Would it actually be so bad if he went?
Sabrina was sweet. Funny. Pretty. Dangerously good with curses. She could take care of herself. And she wanted to join the Order - she'd understand his life better than any civilian ever could. He'd known her since they were children; so there would be none of the awkwardness of a stranger, none of the forced effort.
Again… was there any reason not to?
Orion sighed, faint but fond, and slipped the tickets safely into his pocket.
Silvio's hand clapped his shoulder immediately, nearly knocking him forward.
"Good man! I knew you'd make the right call. And I didn't even need to threaten to crash the car!" He laughed thunderously. Orion joined him, though his had a nervous note beneath it.
"Oh, who am I kidding?" Silvio continued. "The wife and kid would skin me alive if I so much as harmed a single - uh, well, not a hair, since you chopped all that off. Good choice, by the way. A man's hair should be short. Leave the long hair for the women - it looks better on them. I swear, every year I swear I see more and more-"
"Silvio." Orion interrupted, amusement clear in his voice.
"Yah?"
"I think we're far enough from the city now."
Silvio immediately checked the mirrors - left, right, rear. Not a car in sight. He nodded and pressed a button on the door; the windows rose smoothly with a soft hum.
"You're right, lad." He reached under the steering wheel, fingers finding a hidden lever. "You should get some sleep. It'll be a long trip."
The car gave a brief shudder - as if the world itself had hiccuped - and then everything outside flashed white for a single heartbeat.
When the glow faded, all trace of the countryside was gone.
Outside the window stretched endless, swallowing darkness, a void so complete it made the glass feel like an opening into nothing. The only thing breaking it was the road of white light beneath them, stretching forward into infinity.
Orion watched the eldritch scenery for a moment, unmoved - he'd traveled the Caminho Entre-Sombras more times than he could count. The novelty had long worn off.
He sighed, pulled the small lever at his side, and let his seat recline almost flat.
"I think I will," he murmured, eyes already drifting shut. "Wake me when we get there?"
"Will do," Silvio replied, his voice turning solemn. "Sleep well, Caçador."
-~=~-
The volume on the radio shot up so loudly it bordered on painful, jolting Orion awake. He blinked twice, slowly, then fixed Silvio with the flattest stare he could manage.
"Really?" he asked, voice dry as sandpaper.
Silvio only snickered, already dialing the volume back down to humane levels.
"Well, I'm not the crazy bastard who's gonna shake a Caçador awake. Last time I tried that I almost lost a finger!" He wriggled his hand in front of Orion as proof. "Granted, the poor thing was barely a month on the job and had a breakdown crying right after. Poor lass."
Orion shook his head, smiling despite himself. He drew in a deep breath, scrubbed a hand down his face to chase away the last of his sleep, and turned to look out the window.
The same endless blank darkness greeted him. Outside, nothing existed but the car itself and the thin road of white light they glided over like a ghost through nothingness.
"We're not there yet?" he asked, brows lifting in confusion.
"Almost," Silvio said casually. "Figured you'd want to see us going through the gate."
Orion looked ahead, seeing only the road stretching onward into eternity.
"How can you tell?" he asked - genuinely curious, not skeptical.
Silvio puffed out his chest like a rooster.
"Well, ya get a sense for it after traveling through this gods-forsaken place for decades." He waved a hand with exaggerated humility. "I may be just an Aborto, but there's enough magic in my blood for that at least."
Orion's expression darkened. "I hate that name."
Silvio chuckled softly, glancing over with a warm, almost fatherly grin.
"What, Aborto? Relax, lad. It is what it is. I'm well past bein' mad at the world for it. My wife never cared, and my daughter ain't ashamed of me. What more could a man ask for?"
Orion smiled at that, though he still shook his head.
"Still. It's a cruel thing to call someone."
"Well," Silvio said, adopting a theatrical tone, "then ya'd better keep going the way you are. At this pace you'll end up a big shot, and then you can squeeze those fancy pansies in the Golden City to change it."
"We'll see," Orion replied with a grin. "How long d'you think until we're there?"
"Anxious, aren't ya?" Silvio teased.
"Well, you did wake me up early," Orion pointed out.
"That I did," Silvio admitted with a good-natured laugh. "Shouldn't be long now… just about-"
Silvio never finished his sentence.
The space ahead of them shifted, the endless ribbon of white road suddenly splitting as a column of light erupted upward from it - an immense beam that pierced the empty void above like a celestial lighthouse.
Orion leaned forward instinctively, eyes widening, a smile tugging at his lips.
No matter how many times he'd traveled this route, the sight never failed to stir something in him.
Silvio chuckled at his reaction and pressed his foot down on the pedal.
The car surged toward the pillar, the brilliance swelling in the windows until it filled everything.
The moment they touched it, the world stuttered - a single blink of broken reality-
-and then everything snapped back into place.
They were now rolling along an ordinary road, the familiar scent of wet earth and vegetation drifting in through the vents. Thick Atlantic Forest greenery flanked the asphalt, dense with ipês, jacarandás, bromeliads tangled around tree trunks, and vines draping over everything as if trying to reclaim the road for themselves.
Orion turned in his seat, glancing at the rear window with a soft smile.
Where the void had been only moments before, the road now began at the base of a tall, mist-kissed mountain, its slopes covered in deep green.
Silvio lowered the windows, letting the humid morning air sweep in, and nudged up the radio's volume. The steady beat of atabaques filled the car, followed by the warm voice of the singer:
"Quando eu me encontrava preso na cela de uma cadeia
Foi que eu vi pela primeira vez as tais fotografias
Em que apareces inteira, porém lá não estavas nua
E sim coberta de nuvens
Terra
Terra
Por mais distante o errante navegante
Quem jamais te esqueceria."
Orion looked ahead - and there it was.
Home.
Rising from the horizon was a city unlike any other: massive step-pyramids, broad and terraced, each crowned with a small temple-like top. Their stonework - huge darkened blocks carved with age - caught the morning light on their golden inlays, making their silhouettes gleam with a regal, timeless weight.
But as they drew closer, the impression of ancient grandeur mingled with modern life.
Between the pyramids ran paved roads lined with cars and buzzing scooters. Streetlights, power poles, and suspended lines intersected the view. The pavement shimmered faintly; it must have rained not long ago - the lingering gray clouds above supported the theory.
The car slowed as they entered the city proper.
Smaller, square buildings flanked the street - homes, markets, schools - each built in the same stone-and-gold aesthetic, as if the entire city had been carved from one continuous, sacred tradition.
Despite the early hour, people were already moving about:
Sweeping doorsteps, arranging fruit stands, opening shutters, walking briskly to work.
Lush greenery curled around the stone structures - trees sprouting beside walls, vines trailing from balconies, flowerbeds bursting with color - nature and architecture intertwined in an effortless embrace.
The rising sun washed everything in soft, golden light, giving the city an almost mystical glow.
Aritaya.
One of the many Cidades Invisíveis - the "Invisible" or "Lost Cities" of South America. Founded by the witches and wizards who fled to the Americas in the earliest days of colonization, then sealed away from the Muggle world.
Only the Caminhos allowed safe passage in or out.
A sanctuary.
For magical beings hunted elsewhere.
For cultures nearly erased.
For the forest itself.
The surrounding stretch of Mata Atlântica remained lush, untouched, and impossibly healthy - an island of ancient green left standing while logging and deforestation devoured nearly everything else around the state.
Orion looked through the window as the car trundled along the main road. A line of children in pristine uniforms crossed the walkway, following a woman in a nun's habit—likely their teacher. He recognized the symbol stitched onto their shirts: a bald, white-bearded man in a red mantle, a golden halo above his head.
Saint Gerônimo.
Patron of orphans and abandoned children.
Orion's mind drifted to the suitcase he'd left behind at the outpost - to the old uniform tucked into some forgotten corner. The same emblem still embroidered into the fabric.
"Ave, Caçador!" the woman greeted brightly, raising a hand in salute.
"Ave, Caçador!" the children echoed, their voices bubbling with excitement, tiny faces turned toward him with awe and admiration.
"Ave!" Orion called back with a wide grin, waving as Silvio gave a playful honk of the horn.
He watched them through the rearview mirror as the nun hurried to herd the children back into line and lead them up the wide stone steps into one of the pyramid-side buildings.
"Oi," Silvio barked, though the amusement in his eyes gave him away, "stop staring at the Sister's ass."
Orion scoffed, grinning. "Projecting much?"
Instead of denying it, Silvio hummed thoughtfully.
"It was a nice ass."
"You're ridiculous," Orion said, laughing.
The car continued down the main avenue, heading toward the heart of the city where the largest pyramid towered above everything else. As they approached, Silvio turned into a parking lot already half-filled with vehicles - sleek black models polished to a shine. Ford Galaxies, Fuscas, Simca Chambords, Dodge Chargers, Puma GTBs - old Brazilian classics and enchanted workhorses of the Order.
Caçadores and drivers milled about, stepping out of cars, heading inside, or rolling out on new assignments.
Orion opened the door and moved to climb out, but a hand caught his arm gently.
He turned, startled, to find Silvio looking at him with an expression that was both stern and quietly pleading.
"Don't forget," Silvio said softly. "This weekend."
Orion's features warmed.
"I'll be there. And I'll bring the flowers." A beat. "The yellow ones."
Relief flooded the older man's face, and he nodded, finally releasing him.
Orion stepped out into the crisp morning air, stretching his arms above his head before taking a slow, steadying breath.
Silvio gave a short honk before pulling away and merging back into the road.
Orion adjusted the strap of his satchel and began walking toward the entrance of the central pyramid. Other Caçadores were coming and going along the wide stone plaza, and every few steps someone acknowledged him- a clap on the back, a tilt of a hat, a silent nod of respect.
He returned each greeting with an easy smile or a brief salute.
At the foot of the stairs, he placed his boot on the first step… then paused.
Above him rose hundreds of steps ascending all the way to the top platform where the entrance of the building resided.
He looked up.
Looked down at the step.
And sighed.
For a brief, glorious moment, he seriously considered apparating straight to the top. There'd be a fee, sure, but-
He had money.
More than enough.
Years of high-paying missions and next to no personal expenses had left him comfortably stacked. His equipment was provided or subsidized, potion materials discounted, meals at headquarters completely free. Half the time he didn't even pay for lodging - he slept in the field or on base.
The hotel room earlier that morning had cost more than everything he'd spent on himself this entire year… and that would probably get written off as a work expense anyway.
He could apparate up there a hundred times and not make a dent in his savings.
But it would be a mark on his record.
A small one, yes.
But still a mark.
And his file was spotless.
Orion breathed out another long-suffering sigh.
"Fine," he muttered to himself.
And began the climb.
-~=~-
A magically enhanced cardiovascular system and years of brutal physical conditioning were the only things saving him from panting like a dying horse by the time he reached the top. Even so, when he stepped onto the final landing, he couldn't help rolling his neck until it cracked pleasantly, trying to shake off the tension.
Two guards posted by the doorway exchanged matching smirks.
He huffed out a laugh, flicked them a mock glare, and headed inside.
The chamber at the top of the pyramid was modest in size but immaculate - half a reception area, and half a shrine.
Three entrances fed into the space: the main one he'd just come through, and two archways on the left and right. Only the back wall was sealed.
The structure was built from the same blackened stone that characterized the entire city, but the floor was something else entirely - glossy black ceramic etched with delicate gold fissures, as though molten metal had seeped naturally into its cracks.
Which... is probably how they were made.
Behind a wide semicircular desk sat five women, all dressed in the formal uniform of the Council aides: black short-sleeved button-ups tucked into high-waisted pencil skirts, pantyhose, and neat heels. Their heads were wrapped under dark cloths embroidered with stylized blue eyes that shifted and blinked independently, scanning the room constantly.
Behind them loomed a statue carved from a single block of black marble:
a winged man, blindfolded, serpents coiled at his feet, a scythe gripped in one hand and a lightning bolt in the other.
At the base, in radiant gold letters:
Johann Galafuz, O Primeiro Caçador.
Orion approached the woman seated at the center, trying - fruitlessly - to identify her by the shape of her mouth, the only part of her face left uncovered. She clearly noticed his failure, judging by the teasing curve of her lips.
"Ave, Caçador. Your arrival was already notified," she said.
He almost rolled his eyes. There was no need to notify anything. From the moment he'd stepped into Aritaya, every movement of his had been watched - documented, measured, filed. Still, he kept his composure.
"Ave. Shall I see the Senhorita, then?" he asked, keeping the formal tone.
The woman shook her head and pressed a button hidden beneath the desk. The black marble statue behind them rotated upward on its pedestal while a column rose beneath it.
"Negative," she replied. "You shall present yourself for Judgement first."
As the column locked into place, part of its surface slid open, revealing an interior that looked unsettlingly like a luxury elevator - polished metal, gold trim, plush dark carpeting.
Orion nodded once. Trepidation twisted low in his gut as he stepped inside. The doors snapped shut immediately after him.
A sharp ding sounded. Orion grabbed the rear handrail, planting his feet wide and bending forward slightly, bracing himself. A cheerful, catchy tune began playing from some hidden speaker - a jarring contradiction to the dread climbing up his throat. He ignored it.
The cabin lurched, then began descending in a spiraling motion so disorienting it punched nausea straight into his skull. It took everything he had - years of discipline, trained breathing, and stubborn pride - not to throw up.
Long, torturous minutes later, another ding echoed. Orion barely paused long enough to steady his legs before stumbling out of the cursed box the moment the doors slid open.
He straightened and exhaled slowly… and then the sight before him stole the rest of his breath.
If the city above was surreal antiquity woven with modern life, this place was something entirely different - alien and eldritch.
The smooth, crafted walls gave way abruptly to raw stone. A path of black bricks stretched ahead into an immense cavern lit only by the eerie blue glow of torches burning with unnatural azure flames. Their light guided a long, solemn walkway suspended over a lake - or river - of dark, viscous tar. Strange, flickering blue radiance pulsed beneath the surface, trapped like ghostly lightning struggling to escape.
Monoliths rose from the tar, each carved with runes and sigils. Some he knew. Some he recognized vaguely. Some were incomprehensible - and that was certainly intentional.
At the heart of the cavern stood a raised platform, which he reached by climbing a series of wide, ancient steps. Past a stone gateway lay a single small column rising to the height of his stomach, topped with a sharp, pyramid-shaped structure of polished black stone.
Without hesitation, he placed his hand atop the pyramid and pressed down.
Pain flared as the sharp edges bit into his skin. Blood welled - but not red.
Black.
Thick and dark as the tar-river below, his blood trickled down the pyramid's facets like spilled shadow.
Orion's eyes flared blue, his irises narrowing into predatory slits.
Around him, the tar-river began to stir.
What had been a still, viscous darkness writhed awake - churning, twisting, spiraling into motion as though some colossal heartbeat pulsed beneath it. A maelstrom formed directly before him, the surface buckling inward as something ancient rose from the depths.
Tentacles - glossy and writhing, woven from living shadow and electric-blue ectoplasm - shot upward. They twisted and coiled into themselves, spiraling into shapes disturbingly similar to the staff strapped across Orion's back. Blue orbs flickered to life between the tendrils, shifting their gaze in every direction at once, never settling.
The creature continued to climb out of the whirlpool, its body shedding tar as it reshaped.
What emerged was a serpentine, amorphous mass of coiling ectoplasm, crowned with a head between draconic and demonic, elongated and horned. A quartet of eyes - two on each side - glowed with alien focus, while a lone central eye burned bright on its forehead, fixed wholly on Orion.
Between its horns, a small blue flame flickered… then surged upward in a roaring conflagration, blooming into a bonfire of ghostly azure fire.
Orion exhaled, a smile tugging at his mouth, unbidden and reverent.
M'bae Tatá, Patron of the Caçadores.
An ageless being made of living ectoplasm. Once, long ago, it had roamed the surface world - thriving in moonlit hours as it fed on its prey's sight, only to wither to near-death each dawn when sunlight scorched it down to its core.
Johann Galafuz found it during one such cycle and struck a pact. He built this sanctuary, promised the creature a steady supply of food, and in return asked for protection over the city he envisioned.
The long-dead wizard received far more than he'd expected.
For M'bae Tatá possessed a dual nature. It could feed on the eyes of the dead, yes. But also on those of the living. When a living being willingly offered their eyes, the creature returned a new pair in its place: ectoplasmic eyes that granted some measure of its own innate power.
The ability to see past sight.
To peer into memory - one's own and others'.
To wield a ghostly blue fire capable of burning through magic itself.
Thus, the Ordem dos Caçadores was first founded to feed the creature… but as M'bae Tatá's consciousness evolved beyond its initial animal instincts, it laid down laws.
The young, the pregnant, and the innocent must never be hunted.
Ever since, every Caçador brought the eyes of their quarry here. M'bae Tatá consumed them, absorbed their memories, and judged whether the kill had been righteous.
If it had - and it almost always did - nothing happened.
If not?
Then the ectoplasm running through a Caçador's veins ignited from within, and they were reduced to something less than ashes.
More than any Master of the Hunt - who historically has always been the head of the Galafuz family - it was M'bae Tatá who served as Jury, Judge, and Executioner. The absolute authority behind the Caçadores.
Of course, as the Order grew from simple feeders into guardians and hunters, they often faced prey that left no eyes to recover - or none intact enough to offer - such as Orion's own quarry tonight, the Cabra Cabriola.
In such cases, the Judgement required a… different process.
Orion withdrew his hand from the pyramid. The wound sealed instantly, a dark scab knitting over the torn flesh as if it had never been cut at all.
He raised the hand to his face, exhaled once through his nose, and - plop - removed each of his eyes with practiced efficiency.
Even cupped in his palms, he could still see through them. Vision wavered between what lay ahead of him and the image framed by his own hands - an unsettling, disembodied double-sight he had long since grown accustomed to.
He extended his arms toward the monstrous serpentine form.
Tendrils slithered from the swirling mass around M'Bae Tatá's head - delicate, precise. They wrapped around the offered eyes, lifting them from Orion's palms with almost ceremonial grace before retracting and pulling the eyes into the creature's shifting body.
And then-
Darkness.
Sight cut away cleanly, without pain but with absolute finality.
Orion stood still.
Breathing calm. Heart steady.
He knew that if the Patron found fault in his actions - if his hunt had transgressed its decrees - he would be dead before his body hit the ground. Instant incineration from within with nothing left behind.
Yet he remained tranquil.
Seconds passed.
Then nearly a minute.
Then longer still - longer than any previous Judgement he had undergone.
But he did not waver.
When he finally felt something placed back into his palms, he released the slow breath he'd been holding… then froze.
Something was wrong.
These were heavier. Metaphysically, at least.
Almost alive in his hands.
Radiating power far beyond what he had ever received. So dense with ancient magic that it vibrated faintly against his skin.
His composure cracked - not in fear, but in disbelief.
Mouth half-open, he tilted his blind face upward.
"…Are you sure?" he asked softly.
The chamber answered only with silence.
From M'Bae Tatá, silence was confirmation.
He swallowed, throat dry.
Then lifted the orbs to his face and pressed them gently into his waiting sockets.
The world detonated.
Cold fire exploded through his skull, ripping down his spine with every thunderous beat of his heart. The burn spread, searing through his veins, reaching his chest like a hammer blow. He fell to his knees, a strangled sound caught in his throat as his blood - literally - died.
Burned into ectoplasm.
Human life unmade and remade.
Normally, contact with the substance was toxic and potentially lethal to humans, even to a wizard.
But Orion inhaled sharply-
- and the fire steadied.
Shifted.
Strengthened.
His vision snapped back, clearer and brighter than it had ever been.
He rose slowly, blinking in the surreal brilliance of his new sight. In the distance, M'Bae Tatá had already begun dissolving back into dormancy, sinking into the river of tar like a creature exhaling after a long day.
"Thank you," Orion said softly.
He bowed by instinct, then stopped mid-motion, chuckling at himself before straightening his posture again.
He began his walk back across the platform, marveling at every step. New shades of blue glinted in the torchlight - shades he had never known existed. Textures leapt out at him, crisp and alive. The cavern seemed larger, sharper, more real.
He dragged his feet to prolong the return, but the elevator arrived far too soon.
He touched the carved stone and it split open, revealing the polished interior.
Catching his reflection in the wall's glossy surface, he paused.
His eyes glowed - not faintly, but vividly - blue burning bright beneath slit pupils. The sclerae were pitch black, veins of shadow radiating outward into the nearby skin like cracks in obsidian. Even as he watched, the veins slowly withdrew, fading beneath.
He smiled.
Then immediately scowled as the elevator lurched into motion.
Closing his eyes, he braced himself for the nauseating spiral ascent.
"Ugh… here we go again."
-~=~-
Orion stood before the double wooden doors, each one carved with sprawling scenes of Caçadores in battle. The engravings were almost alive in their detail - hunters clashing with monstrous beings of every shape and nightmare: anthropomorphic beasts with snarling muzzles, winged serpents with hooked beaks, scaled hounds sprouting draconic wings, and wolfish creatures whose many heads writhed like a hydra's.
Above the doors, set into a golden frame, an eye carved from blue gemstone stared down at him. Its surface glimmered with artificial life, tracking even the smallest movement.
He stared back flatly.
After a full two minutes of this silent standoff, he exhaled through his nose and lifted his hand to knock-
The door swung open a heartbeat before his knuckles made contact.
His eye twitched.
Still, he stepped forward.
The hall that greeted him was an expanse of carefully curated opulence. High ceilings arched above rows of tall illuminated pillars, their metallic surfaces gleaming under warm sconces. Strong geometric lines dominated the architecture - sharp, rigid, authoritative - yet intermittent potted plants softened the edges just enough to prevent the room from feeling sterile.
Only just.
A blue-and-gold carpet stretched in a perfect line toward a raised platform at the far end of the room. Upon it sat a dramatic, throne-like chair positioned before an enormous window.
Outside the glass sprawled a glowing underwater landscape. Fish drifted in schools, algae waved in phantom currents, and long serpentine silhouettes glided past in the distance.
Beautiful, hypnotic and completely fake.
Orion knew the truth: beyond that window lay only stone and more stone. They were still, after all, dozens of meters beneath the earth.
His new eyes drank in the details with almost painful clarity. Even from this distance he saw her more vividly than he could have seen her before even while standing at arm's length.
She sat perfectly composed on the high-backed chair, as if the wood itself deferred to her. Candlelight shimmered around her, casting soft halos against paneled walls. A wide sunhat rested atop her head, its brim wrapped in blooming blue roses.
Behind round, blue-tinted lenses, her eyes gleamed with serene, unnerving awareness - seeing far more than the air of the room.
Her dark hair, long and thick, spilled over her shoulders, tangling slightly where it met the lace details of her dress. The dress itself was an elaborate onyx weave in an unmistakably gothic style - sculpted to her tastes.
Her lips, painted a deep ink-blue, curved into an expression that hovered between amusement and calculation. Around her throat, a black choker hugged her skin, adorned with a tiny ouroboros charm. Below it, a pendant rested over the swell of her chest, bearing the figure of a winged man.
Regal.
Mystic.
Mysterious.
Intentionally intimidating.
Well... that's at least the image she tried to cultivate. But Orion had known her long before she sat on that throne.
He knew, with absolute certainty, that beneath the sunhat, the roses, the gothic lace, and the theatrics was the same woman who, barely a decade older than him, was just a massive fucking dork with an unhealthy obsession with the works of Edgar Allan Poe, Dickens, Lovecraft, and - more recently - Stephen King.
She was the one responsible for giving the Caçadores' uniform its current steampunk-Victorian flair - utterly at odds with both the climate and the culture they operated in. Unfortunately - or perhaps fortunately? - she was also a genius, and had ensured every set was charmed to avoid attracting Muggle attention and to keep its wearer cool instead of roasting under the tropical sun.
Despite whatever complaints he might harbor about the woman who was like an older sister to him, she was still his superior and someone he respected deeply. So he held his tongue at her little prank and walked forward, his boots striking the floor with a dramatic tap - a sound he was certain she was magically amplifying. Then again, the entire office was so saturated with her magical signature that sensing any individual spell was nearly impossible.
Once he was less than three meters from her, he dropped to one knee - one hand behind his back, the other over his heart. It was yet another bit of ceremonial flair she had added rather than any actual tradition of the Order, though he had to reluctantly admit he liked the imagery of it.
"Senhorita Galafuz," he greeted respectfully.
"Meu querido Caçador," she replied, a smile audible in her voice. "Please, stand and take a seat. You need not bow in my presence."
He nearly rolled his eyes. She was the one who had insisted he do it in the first place.
"As you will," he said instead, rising smoothly. A chair of polished black wood appeared behind him the moment she diverted his attention, and he sat.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other - her smile widening as she met his gaze directly.
"Did you enjoy your gift?" she asked.
He couldn't hold back his own smile. His fingers rose on instinct, touching the skin just below his eye. "I did," he admitted. "Though I'm not sure I deserve them."
She snorted - an inelegant sound that she quickly masked with a soft cough, which she ignored. "You broke every record during training, passed every screening with perfect marks, had your loyalty to the Order and to our cause tested in more ways than I care to count, and were never once found wanting." She ticked each point off on her fingers before giving him a playful glare. "What's more, despite being a First Generation, your compatibility with the process exceeded mine - and my family has undergone it for multiple generations, to the point I was already in contact with the ectoplasm in the womb."
Orion resisted the urge to shrug, opting instead for a neutral smile and loading his eyes with as much smugness as possible.
She laughed, bright and regal. "Honestly, my dear Caçador, the only reason you didn't receive those eyes earlier was politics. Certain… members of the higher echelon felt it unwise to grant them to you before you could adapt to their base function and, well… prove yourself."
"That's a wise course of action," he said sincerely.
She sniffed, looking prepared to argue - but then exhaled and let the tension drain. "I suppose. Still, I want you to know this was always meant to happen. And if I had the freedom to decide it alone, it would have happened long ago."
"I know." His smile softened as he looked at the young woman frowning across from him - a frown that quickly curved into a smile. "Thank you."
She waved his gratitude away with casual nonchalance—though the little happy wiggle she made in her seat did not escape him.
"That does leave a question, though," he said.
She nodded. "'Why now', right? Well…" She trailed off, glancing to the side. "Before we get to that, why don't you tell me how your current case has been progressing?"
Orion straightened in his seat - even more than he already had.
"Would you prefer a detailed report or a summarized overview?"
She flicked her hand dismissively. "I already received the official report from your Captain. I want your take."
Orion nodded. "As you're aware, my team's current case concerns the investigation of an individual - or a group - who has gained access to a source of blood cursed with the lycanthropic strain Daemonocapria transfigura. They have been infecting individuals across the countryside since the New Year. We've found no common traits among the victims, no links between them, and all evidence points to the targets being chosen at random, with the infections occurring while they sleep in order to prevent the victims from seeing the perpetrator."
He continued, voice steady but professional:
"Trace amounts of a powdered plant of Indian origin - one known to induce a low-level magical sleep - were found in the homes of the victims. Our team is currently pursuing several leads concerning potential suppliers of that plant.
"Beyond the first three cases - which were all safely captured and executed before they could spread the curse - the subsequent nine, including the most recent, have been successfully cured before the transformation could take hold."
He clasped his hands lightly.
"While we still have no solid identification of the responsible party, we have successfully blocked them from using aerial or spatial-displacement travel, limiting them to ground movement. With the vigilance protocols in place, we have effectively restricted their mobility to the point that, if a single individual is behind these attacks, we are confident we will find them before the next New Moon.
"However, if they are indeed a group - as we increasingly suspect, despite their efforts to suggest a lone culprit - we will need a larger team to cover more territory, preferably with at least two additional Vigilantes to relieve the strain on the only one currently assigned."
His jaw tightened. "We are no closer to understanding the motive behind the attacks than we were at the beginning. But insanity is, unfortunately, a far too common trait among Dark Wizards." He exhaled sharply. "Or perhaps Dark Magic is simply the path most often chosen by the already insane. Either way, our priority remains unchanged: identification, followed by isolation of the guilty party and their capture for Judgement - or, if that proves impossible or too risky, neutralization through judicious force."
Helena was silent for a moment. Then she rose from her chair, stepped to his side, and wrapped his head gently against her bosom, stroking his hair with soft, deliberate affection.
"You have done well, Orion," she said, voice warm with pride.
He swallowed past the tight knot in his throat and nodded.
"Which is why I need you to understand that I'm not doing this as a punishment," she continued.
He twitched in her hold, pulling back enough to look up at her, confusion written plainly across his face.
Helena let out a long sigh, returning to her throne. As she sat, the warmth of Helena faded from her expression, replaced by the cool authority of Senhorita Galafuz.
"You are, as of this moment, officially removed from your team and this case."
Orion's eyes widened. He nearly stood - nearly demanded an explanation - before remembering their roles, their hierarchy, the discipline drilled into him since training. Instead, he drew in a slow breath, released it in a thin, tense exhale.
"As I said," she repeated gently, "this is not a punishment. Two additional teams will be deployed for support, alongside an entire detachment of Vigilantes. Your comrades will not be endangered by your absence. But your presence is required elsewhere."
At those words, the weight in his chest eased. Relief softened his muscles; at the very least, his team would not be left undermanned, and the case might even conclude sooner than expected.
Steadier now, Orion straightened into his formal posture once more. "Then, my new assignment…?"
"Recently, I was approached by a person of interest. A foreign wizard," she began. "This individual brought forth ample evidence - enough for me to believe that a Dark Wizard of great power, and of great threat to our nation, has… returned from the dead."
A cold pit dropped into Orion's stomach. Something frigid slithered up his spine.
"And this Dark Wizard would be…?"
"You-Know-Who," she said without preamble, confirming his dread. "I am led to believe that a ritual was conducted roughly a month ago, and that since then he has been plaguing the living world with his presence."
"My mission?" he asked, voice tightly controlled.
"Your first objective is to verify the truthfulness of this claim and obtain indisputable proof of his return. Should the claim be false, you will return immediately and resume your post."
"And if it is true?"
"In that case," she said, hands folding atop her lap, "you are to aid a local group in spreading proof of his return to the public. Politics prevent us from offering any true support until such confirmation is made public, as the British government has chosen an alarming stance of denial and hostility toward anyone addressing the matter."
Her jaw clenched briefly, the only crack in her composure.
"Once the truth is beyond suppression," she continued, "we may send teams - or at the very least, supplies - to assist their efforts. And regardless of their political stance…" Her eyes locked onto his, unwavering. "Upon confirmation of his return, you are to assist this group in delivering him his final death. Followed, of course, by the extraction and secure acquisition of his eyes."
Orion drew a slow breath, his mind already shifting gears.
"What equipment will be provided?"
Helena's lips curved into a smirk. "Anything you can reasonably carry on your person. Every section of the armory and storage will be open to you. That said, we won't be able to resupply you through legal channels until this stage of the operation is complete, so choose carefully."
A spark of eager excitement flickered across his face at the prospect - open access to every "toy" he might need. But it faded quickly as he forced out the question weighing on him more heavily than any gear.
"Why me? There are a hundred Caçadores more experienced than I am, in both investigation and combat. Even with this upgrade," he tapped lightly near his eye, "I'm nowhere near the level of our true elites. So why send me? Especially when…" He trailed off.
Helena hummed thoughtfully, then smiled.
"For one, your age is a boon. Sending a true veteran would raise the hackles of their Ministry. They would watch your every step. You, however… you're young enough that their frustration will be aimed at our Order, not you personally.
"Your lack of investigative experience is not a problem. Despite my wording earlier, I am already nearly certain that Voldemort has returned. Your task is to secure undeniable proof - and to act as my eyes."
The phrase landed with deliberate weight.
"And your lesser combat experience is offset by your aptitude for it," she added, one eyebrow lifting, "as well as by the advantage brought by their unfamiliarity with our methods, which differ drastically from their traditional doctrine. I do not foresee complications unless you find yourself facing the Dark Lord himself - and that," she said firmly, eyes blazing with command, "is not your role in this."
He nodded once, accepting the terms.
"And finally, well…" She glanced aside - toward the same towering pillar she had eyed earlier.
From its shadow stepped an old man in neon-green robes, his long white beard flowing like river mist. Blue eyes gleamed brightly behind half-moon spectacles, the light in them twinkling llike stars. He smiled as Orion turned toward him - surprised, and yet faintly resigned.
"You," Helena finished with a triumphant smirk, "were requested personally."