The expansive chamber stood with a sense of foreboding majesty, its lofty stone walls engulfed in shadows that appeared to reach infinitely toward the heights of the arched ceiling. A subtle light, ghostly cast a frigid, otherworldly radiance across the space. This muted brightness originated from archaic sconces, their flickering flames wavering as though reluctant to disturb the heavy atmosphere that saturated the room.
In the center of the chamber, seven stands rose majestically, each fashioned from a distinct material reflective of its lineage—shimmering marble, lustrous onyx, ancient cedar, among others, each resonating with its own distinct presence. These stands were positioned in an immaculate circle, representing the alleged parity of the seven esteemed families, yet the heaviness of their unspoken stares hinted at a lack of true unity.
Above each podium, a richly woven banner suspended, showcasing the distinctive emblem of the family it symbolized. These banners stood as a reminder of the long-standing traditions and immense influence held by each house. The colors and designs of these authoritative symbols lightly swayed in a mysterious current of air that flowed through the chamber, though its source remained unknown to all.
The Emblem of Intersecting Blades, The Gleaming Sun with Beams Spreading Wide, and The Twister Whirling with Vapors—each symbol stood as a bold declaration of the distinct powers and territories held by the clans.
The air was oppressive, laden with silence and lingering conflicts. A palpable energy emanated from the seven individuals, a force that had influenced historical events for generations. Their faces, partially illuminated by the muted light, exhibited a stern determination, concealed under veils of strategic thinking.
An overwhelming hush enveloped the space between them, a gripping quiet that resonated throughout the corridor with greater force than any dialogue ever could.
This meeting was far from typical. The seriousness of their congregation was evident, with a silent consensus that the matters at hand might change the destiny of Havana. Each person, enveloped in their own sense of authority, prepared themselves—be it to challenge a long-standing adversary, safeguard their heritage, or grasp a chance concealed within the rising tumult.
Lucius Ferrum, leader of the Ferrum lineage, moved on his platform, the clattering of metal reverberating across the chamber. His sculpted, powerful build was clad in dark, armor-inspired attire, the material enriched with shiny metallic threads that sparkled in the dim illumination. His steel-gray hair cut closely, and his cold gray gaze swept over the audience, displaying a blend of irritation and distrust.
The banner behind him, featuring a shield and crossed swords, fluttered as though reflecting his unease.
“What’s the purpose of this gathering?” Lucius’s voice resonated, breaking the hush around them. His inflection was assertive, suggesting he had more important matters than mingling with the other leaders of the family.
A gentle but resolute tone responded to him. “I called this meeting.”
Everyone focused on Astraea Luxor, the most youthful of the group. She exuded a celestial charm, her luminous blonde hair sparkling as if it were woven from gold. Her golden-hued eyes radiated a captivating brilliance, while her pale complexion seemed to glow gently, creating a soft halo around her. Draped in elegant golden garments, Astraea’s presence was further amplified, lending her an almost godlike quality.
Astraea avoided these meeting, as best she could. She hated the feeling of being dismissed for her age. However, the imperativeness of the meeting was absolute. Otherwise, it may bring danger to her people. They were all she had left. Astraea would do anything to protect them.
In the shadows of the hall, a banner displaying a luminous sun with rays reaching out stood out sharply, its brilliance nearly overwhelming against the surrounding gloom.
Lucius squinted at Astraea. “What’s the pressing matter that has gathered us all here?”
Astraea took her time before responding. Rather than speaking, she activated a switch on her podium’s side. The circle’s center illuminated, casting a holographic projection. The sight that emerged cast a palpable tension over the entire room.
The screen sprang into action, illuminating the shadowy corridor with a haunting image. What unfolded was a chilling spectacle—a savage onslaught on The Threshold carried out by the notorious triads, infamous for their viciousness. The atmosphere was heavy with the pungent odor of smoke and blood, intermingled with the wails of the doomed.
Government guards, who had once valiantly protected the perimeters of Havana, fell with merciless precision, their corpses discarded carelessly like shattered dolls. The earth below was drenched in crimson, the inert figures scattered across the war-zone as though they were merely abandoned waste.
Absolute chaos embroiled The Threshold, which had previously represented resilience and protection, was now consumed by flames. The breaching of those walls had never happened. Until they arrived.
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The blaze surged relentlessly, consuming the stone and mortar as if they were trivial twigs. The scorching heat warped the atmosphere, transforming the bastion into a blazing spectacle, its once-mighty form dissolving into soot.
The quivering fires created monstrous silhouettes over the devastation, the moving glow exposing the real terror of the tableau in bursts—bloodied arms, disfigured corpses, and the empty, lifeless gaze of the slain.
Amidst the turmoil, two individuals were noteworthy. The first was a large man, his muscular physique adorned in a bright Hawaiian shirt that looked ridiculously incongruous among the destruction. He held a position of assertive bravado, his chest expanded as he posed like a victor in an artwork, his expression beaming with a broad, victorious smile.
A twisted satisfaction sparkled in his gaze, enjoying the chaos he had unleashed, as if the turmoil surrounding him was merely a show put on for his entertainment.
Next to him, there was a man of shorter stature, his manner cool and unsettlingly indifferent. His expression was unreadable, as if the chaos surrounding him held as little significance as the shift in seasons. He maintained a laid-back stance, with his hands tucked away, observing the devastation with an emotionless stare.
Amid the turmoil, he stood as the calm center, shielded from the surrounding pandemonium. No hint of happiness or despair crossed his face—only a detached, analytical gaze, as if he watched the carnage unfold from a distance, entirely removed from the brutality.
The display, even without sound, vividly illustrated the chaos and violence that had engulfed The Threshold, serving as a harsh warning and testament to The Triads’ dominance and the fresh danger they represented to the already delicate harmony of Havana.
With an icy tone, Astraea stated, “The assault on The Threshold is common knowledge. However, what may surprise you is that the whole incident was documented and uploaded to the Cybernet. Those clips and photos have been distributed to all prominent newspapers in Havana.”
Selene Tempest hesitated briefly before she replied, her voice indifferent. “And? What difference does it make?”
Selene stood gracefully, her height accentuated by a willowy figure and cascading white locks that danced as though forever influenced by the wind. Her grayish eyes, reminiscent of a turbulent ocean, changed hue, mirroring the ever-changing skies she ruled over. A collection of loose garments in varying blues and whites draped around her, appearing to sway with an invisible breeze. The banner looming behind her depicted a spiraling tornado amidst clouds, representing the Tempest family’s dominion over nature’s forces.
A different voice, smooth yet laced with contempt, interrupted Selene’s rejection. “It’s apparent that your wisdom is overestimated, Selene.” The speaker was Isabella Gaian, the eldest and arguably the most esteemed of the family leaders.
Even in her later years, Isabella exuded a majestic and grounded charm. Her cascading chestnut locks, wavy and long, framed her visage beautifully, while the deep green of her eyes mirrored the verdant woods surrounding her kingdom. With a sun-kissed complexion, she donned flowing robes in shades of green, embellished with intricate patterns of leaves and vines, representing her bond with the natural world.
In the background, the banner showcased an oak tree accompanied by swirling vines, symbolizing the resilience and togetherness of the Gaian family.
Isabella pressed on, maintaining her composure. “These visuals present the triads as champions to the public. They aim to win over the masses, and from my perspective, they seem to be achieving that.”
Astraea affirmed with a nod. Lady Gaian is correct. “At last, the triads are starting to receive support.”
Next to speak was Noctis Umbral, a personality shrouded in darkness. His tone was hushed, nearly inaudible, but it held an authority that drew focus. “The triads have sought our demise ever since we turned against them. However, when they last possessed genuine power, their leader met his end.” His deep-set eyes darted to the man facing him, an unspoken understanding exchanging between them.
The figure under scrutiny was Magnus Boreas, a man whose aura matched the frigid gusts he wielded. Standing tall with a robust build, he had a halo of frosty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes that appeared to shimmer in the low light. His complexion was ghostly pale, clad in garments designed for cold, adorned with blue highlights. His demeanor was aloof, bordering on apathetic, as he delivered his words.
“The triads are simply a group of kids and old folks at this point," Magnus remarked with disdain. "My family and I wiped out their strength.”
Astraea let out a frustrated breath, her tolerance clearly diminishing. “It’s not about that, Magnus. The real concern is that, in the wake of events, many individuals from outside The Threshold are now pouring into Havana, overwhelming The Commons.”
The atmosphere grew charged as Astraea pressed on, her tone laced with worry. “The Hunters ensured that many of these individuals met their end, yet in their fervor, innocent bystanders became collateral damage. Both Noah and Elektra Voltaire witnessed it, and now the seven noble families are shouldering the consequences.”
When the name Voltaire was spoken, attention shifted to the individual positioned at the farthest podium. Alaric Voltaire, patriarch of the Voltaire lineage, was an older gentleman of tall and slender build, possessing striking blue eyes that appeared to crackle with energy. His hair, a mix of gray and vibrant cyan, was neatly combed back, contributing to his sharp and somewhat formidable look.
His complexion boasted a subtle bronze hue, complemented by an impeccably fitted suit that radiated confidence and command. The banner behind him featured a bird accompanied by two lightning bolts, representing the strength and agility of the Voltaire lineage.
Isabella Gaian gave a grin, her eyes glimmering with understanding. “You look a bit restless, Alaric.”
Alaric’s face revealed barely concealed irritation as he surveyed his colleagues. “I acknowledge that my foolish offspring acted improperly,” he said, lowering his head slightly in a gesture of contrition. “I fully accept the blame.”
Astraea acknowledged his gesture with a nod. Although I don’t have any children myself, I can appreciate the hardships involved. Yet, we must confront the truth that this outcome was unavoidable.
Astraea scanned the space with her striking golden eyes, her expression intense. “War looms ahead. The triads have savoured victory, and now they enjoy the backing of the masses. We need to brace ourselves for what lies ahead. War is ahead of us”