Cassian had always trusted instincts over plans. Tonight, however, even he felt a rare twinge of unease.
The safe node was quiet, almost too quiet. Only the hum of flickering fluorescent lights filled the room as he paced between crates of weapons and equipment. Serah sat at a metal table, flipping through documents with a calm efficiency that betrayed nothing. Jax leaned against a wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp, like a predator waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
"Something's coming," Cassian said softly, breaking the silence.
Serah didn't look up. "More than usual."
"Already too late," Jax muttered. "They're not moving randomly anymore."
Cassian stopped pacing. "You mean…"
"They've sent someone," Serah finished. "Someone who isn't bound by the rules we know."
Cassian tilted his head. "Define that."
Serah's expression stiffened. "The Archivist."
Cassian frowned. He had heard the whispers of such a figure before, always in hushed tones among the older hunters. An entity older than the city, older than most bloodlines, hidden in the shadows for centuries. The Archivist didn't just enforce the Night's laws—it rewrote them, silently correcting mistakes, collecting secrets, and punishing vampires who stepped too far.
"And why now?" Jax asked, voice tight. "Why send the Archivist after a human hunter?"
Serah's eyes flicked toward Cassian. "Because this isn't just a human hunter. This is… something else. The Night cannot touch him."
Cassian didn't move. "I'm listening."
"The Elders are afraid," Serah said. "Afraid of what you are. Afraid that the Night itself has an anomaly it cannot control. And the Archivist… it exists to restore balance. To remove anomalies."
Jax whistled low. "Well, that sounds friendly."
Cassian let out a dry laugh. "Friendly or not, it's coming for me."
Hours passed slowly. The three of them sat in tense silence, broken only by the occasional radio chatter from the underground network. Reports came in from all corners of the city: safehouses abandoned, Elders moving in precise, calculated patterns, blood wards failing to function as intended.
"They're reorganizing," Serah said, her eyes scanning the data on the monitors. "Every single Elders' stronghold is now linked. They're preparing for a single strike."
Cassian's hand rested on the knife at his hip. "And the Archivist?"
Serah shook her head. "No one knows where it resides. It doesn't appear in divination, wards, or tracking. You could walk past it and never sense it. Its presence is subtle, almost imperceptible—until it acts."
"And when it acts?" Jax asked.
Serah's lips pressed into a thin line. "The Archivist doesn't fail. Ever."
Cassian felt a cold weight settle into his stomach. Not fear, but calculation. He had faced Elders who could crush hunters with a thought, vampires who could warp reality with blood pressure, but this—this was different. The Night itself had sent a weapon beyond comprehension.
"Then we need to prepare," Cassian said.
Serah nodded. "I've already arranged a fallback point. It's outside the city, undiscovered. But it won't be enough if the Archivist comes tonight."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "Then we have to find it first."
Jax's grin was grim. "Good luck with that. You can't hunt what doesn't exist."
Cassian said nothing.
Night fell again, heavy and suffocating. The rain returned, tapping against the metal roof in irregular bursts, masking their movements. Cassian followed Serah and Jax through a series of underground tunnels that twisted beneath the city like a living labyrinth.
Every corner they turned, Cassian felt it—something observing, always just out of sight. Not a predator. Not a hunter. Something… aware.
"This is it," Serah whispered, stopping at a steel door embedded into the tunnel wall. Unlike the other entrances, this one had no markings, no cameras, no locks. Yet Cassian could feel it—power contained behind it. Silent, deliberate, and old.
He crouched, knife ready. "You're sure this is where it waits?"
Serah nodded. "We won't get another chance to see it first."
Jax shifted his weight. "Then we don't knock?"
Cassian smirked slightly. "We don't knock."
He pushed the door open.
The room inside was vast, cavernous, impossibly wide. The walls were lined with shelves of old tomes, jars filled with strange fluids, and hundreds of objects whose purpose Cassian could not even guess. Candles flickered in clusters on the floor, forming patterns that shifted subtly, almost like they were alive.
And in the center, sitting atop a black stone dais, was the Archivist.
Not tall. Not imposing by size. But the aura it radiated made the hairs on Cassian's neck rise. It was entirely human in appearance, though its eyes glowed faintly, like moonlight reflected in a deep river. Its fingers were long, hands clasped in its lap, and yet every movement it made, however small, seemed to command the entire space.
"You are…" it said, voice calm, melodic, resonant. "Cassian Hale. The anomaly. The one the Night cannot touch."
Cassian lowered his knife slightly, studying it. "And you are?"
"An Archivist," it replied. "An observer, a collector, and a corrector. I am older than the Elders you fear. I have existed before the Night was named. And now… I have come for you."
Cassian's fingers twitched. "For me?"
"Yes," the Archivist said. Its gaze never wavered. "Because you cannot be controlled. You disrupt the balance. You force the Night to adapt. And the Night does not forgive disruption."
Serah's hand rested on her knife. Jax stood rigid. Cassian, however, remained calm.
"You can't touch me," he said quietly, almost to himself.
The Archivist tilted its head. "I do not wish to touch you. That is irrelevant. I am here to observe… to determine if you must be preserved or removed."
"Removed?" Cassian echoed, his voice sharper now. "Like the Elders you work for?"
"They do not concern me," it said simply. "Your existence is the concern. The Night cannot adjust to anomalies. You are one such anomaly."
Cassian felt the weight of the words settle over him, but not fear. He could sense power in this being unlike anything he had ever faced. Not the raw destructive force of Elders, nor the lethal precision of vampire warriors. Something… different.
"Then test me," Cassian said finally. "See for yourself that the Night cannot touch me."
The Archivist's eyes narrowed slightly. "Bold."
It raised one hand. The air vibrated. Cassian felt pressure begin to build, subtle at first, then coiling like steel bands tightening around his chest. Other hunters would have collapsed immediately. He would have shattered.
He felt… nothing.
The pressure intensified. Candles flickered violently. The floor seemed to tremble beneath him. Yet still, Cassian stood, unwavering.
The Archivist's expression changed ever so slightly—curiosity replacing detachment. "Interesting," it murmured.
Jax muttered under his breath, "I've never seen anyone stand against that…"
Cassian ignored him. He focused on the Archivist. "Done yet?"
The pressure released suddenly, snapping like a rubber band. Cassian took a deep breath.
The Archivist rose from the dais, moving toward him with fluid grace. "You are… unique. I have studied anomalies for centuries. None resist me like this."
Cassian tightened his grip on his knife. "Then you know why I exist."
The Archivist paused, tilting its head. "No. I do not. And that is the problem."
The silence stretched, thick and dangerous. Outside, the city's lights flickered as if sensing the tension inside the underground chamber.
"You are curious," Cassian said finally. "And so am I. Let's stop wasting time. Why are you here?"
The Archivist's gaze swept over the hunters and landed back on him. "To decide whether you will live long enough to understand what you are. To determine if your existence is a threat… or a solution."
Cassian's eyes narrowed. "Then let's get started."
The Archivist smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. "Yes. Let us begin."
Outside the underground labyrinth, the city moved unaware. But deep within the shadows, whispers of the Night spread quickly.
An anomaly existed. And something, ancient and unstoppable, was coming for it.
Cassian Hale didn't flinch.
Because he had never been touched by the Night.
And now, the Night had sent its most precise instrument to change that.