The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a dozen black candles casting eerie, flickering shadows across the walls. The space seemed to stretch endlessly, though its boundaries were hidden behind dense, swirling mist. At the center of the chamber stood a massive, ancient round table carved from obsidian, its surface etched with strange, arcane symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Around the table, figures cloaked in dark robes sat in complete silence. Their hoods obscured their faces entirely, leaving only an impression of shadowy voids where features should have been. Some leaned forward slightly, hands clasped as if in contemplation, while others sat back, their stillness unnerving. The air was thick with tension, a suffocating blend of malice and purpose.
One of the figures finally broke the silence, their voice low and guttural, as if it crawled up from the depths of a deep cavern. "...Redemption," they hissed, their words lingering in the air like smoke. The others nodded slowly, the gesture almost imperceptible but unanimous.
Another figure, seated to the right of the first, spoke next. Their voice was sharp and biting, like steel scraping against stone. "...Revenge. For the millennia of humiliation, for the chains they forced upon us."
A third figure slammed a hand down onto the table, the impact resonating through the chamber like a drumbeat. Their voice was distorted, metallic, and unearthly. "...Born for this. This is the moment we’ve waited for."
The room fell silent once more, the weight of their collective resolve pressing down like a heavy shroud. The mist around the edges of the chamber swirled faster, as if agitated by the intensity of their gathering.
Finally, a figure seated at the head of the table leaned forward. Their presence seemed different from the others, more commanding, more sinister. When they spoke, their voice was clearly forged, a deliberate amalgamation of tones—low, resonant, and chilling. It was a voice designed to instill fear and obedience.
"Our target," the figure began, "is the Region 13 Recruit Exchange."
The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, sending a ripple of movement through the assembled figures. Some shifted in their seats, while others clenched their hands into fists. It was clear that this announcement had stirred something deep within them.
The leader continued, their tone deliberate and dripping with menace. "The gods have grown complacent, their plans predictable. They believe their precious recruits are untouchable, hidden away in their training grounds and protected by their so-called mentors. They are wrong."
Another figure spoke up, their voice thin and reedy but laced with venom. "We will crush their hopes. The recruits are the seeds of their future, their weapons against us. If we destroy them now, we cut the gods at their roots."
"Indeed," the leader said, their voice cutting through the room like a blade. "This is not merely an act of destruction. It is a message. We will remind the gods and their loyal pawns that we are not defeated. That we will never be defeated."
A figure to the left of the leader leaned forward, their hands steepled beneath their hood. "The Region 13 recruits are heavily guarded. Their mentors, the soldiers stationed at the outpost, and even the field supervisors will be formidable obstacles."
The leader chuckled darkly, the sound echoing unnaturally. "Formidable, yes. But not invincible. We have prepared for this. The corrupted beasts that roam the prairie are... useful, but limited. They lack the intelligence to be anything more than cannon fodder."
Another figure interjected, their voice gravelly and impatient. "Then what is the plan?"
The leader raised a hand, and the room fell silent once more. "We will unleash our own."
A collective murmur swept through the chamber. One figure—their voice trembling with a mix of excitement and fear—whispered, "You mean…the Aberrations?"
"Yes," the leader confirmed. "Our creations. Perfected over centuries of experimentation. They are stronger, faster, and far more intelligent than any corrupted beast. They will not simply attack. They will hunt."
Another figure’s voice, cold and calculating, cut in. "Deploying the Aberrations will risk exposing our hand too soon. The gods will know we’re behind this."
The leader’s tone remained calm but firm. "Let them know. Let them see what their hubris has wrought. This is not about secrecy. This is about dominance."
One of the figures—their voice soft and almost serpentine—added, "And the recruits themselves? What of their awakening powers?"
"They are untested," the leader replied dismissively. "Raw potential without refinement. Against the Aberrations, they will be nothing more than lambs to the slaughter."
Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.
A low, malicious chuckle spread around the table, growing louder as more of the figures joined in. It was a sound devoid of joy, filled only with malice and the anticipation of carnage.
The leader raised their hand again, silencing the laughter instantly. "We have waited for this moment for centuries. The gods will learn the cost of their arrogance. The recruits will die, their hope will shatter, and Region 13 will burn."
One final figure, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. Their voice was deep and resonant, carrying an air of finality. "The preparations are complete. The Aberrations are ready. All that remains is your command."
The leader nodded slowly, their hooded head casting a long shadow over the table. "Then it is decided. At dawn, the hunt begins."
The figures rose in unison, their movements eerily synchronized. The mist around the chamber thickened, obscuring their forms as they began to chant in a guttural, ancient tongue. The symbols on the obsidian table flared to life, glowing a deep, malevolent red. The room pulsed with an ominous energy, the very air vibrating with the intensity of their ritual.
As the chant reached its crescendo, the mist consumed the chamber entirely, leaving nothing but darkness and the faint, echoing promise of destruction.
The atmosphere in the chamber was thick with anticipation as the hooded figures began to rise from their seats, the shadows cast by their cloaks shifting against the flickering light of the central brazier. The echo of their chairs scraping against the stone floor reverberated through the room, signaling the conclusion of their grim meeting.
Just as the last figure began to turn toward the exit, a hesitant voice cut through the tension.
“Um... excuse me, everyone?”
The voice was high-pitched and strained, as if its owner had forced themselves to speak up at the last possible moment. All movement ceased. Every figure in the room turned slowly to face the source of the interruption: one of the shorter cloaked individuals, sitting near the far end of the table. They had awkwardly raised a gloved hand, their posture visibly nervous even beneath the heavy folds of their robe.
“Yes?” the deep-voiced leader at the head of the table inquired, a faint edge of irritation creeping into their tone.
The shorter figure shifted uncomfortably, their hood dipping as if they were glancing down at a piece of paper or notes tucked away within their robe.
“I think... uh, I think there’s been a slight mistake,” the shorter figure stammered.
The room fell deathly silent. The flames in the brazier flickered unnaturally, casting the cloaked figures’ faces into deeper shadow.
“A mistake?” the leader repeated, their voice low and measured, yet carrying an unmistakable weight of menace.
“Yes,” the shorter figure replied, their words tumbling out in a rush. “The… the target isn’t Region 13. It’s… Region 7.”
The silence that followed was so profound that even the faint crackling of the brazier seemed muted. The shorter figure’s hand lowered slowly, as if realizing too late that they had just dropped a verbal grenade into the middle of the council. One by one, the hooded figures turned to look at one another, their cowls shifting subtly as their heads moved. No one spoke. No one breathed. The weight of the collective embarrassment was almost tangible.
Finally, one of the figures let out a soft chuckle. Then another. Within moments, suppressed laughter began to ripple around the table, awkward and forced, as if none of them wanted to admit the sheer absurdity of the situation.
“Well,” someone murmured, “I guess that explains why…” but their voice trailed off as the awkwardness deepened.
No one knew how to continue. The room was frozen in a tableau of discomfort. A few figures shifted in their seats, their hands fidgeting with their robes or resting awkwardly on the table’s surface. Someone coughed, the sound echoing far louder than it should have. The laughter had stopped, replaced by an even heavier silence.
After what felt like an eternity, the shorter figure slowly stood up, their movements exaggeratedly careful, as though afraid of drawing further attention to themselves. They raised a hand again, this time not in hesitation but with deliberate intent.
“I… uh… I’ll see myself out,” they said, their tone apologetic yet resolute.
Then, with a sharp snap of their fingers, they vanished. The sound of their disappearance—a faint pop, like air rushing into the space they had just occupied—set off a chain reaction.
“Wait… they can just leave like that?” one figure muttered, breaking the silence.
“I thought we were supposed to leave together,” another added, their voice tinged with frustration.
Before long, the room descended into chaos. Figures began snapping their fingers or muttering incantations, their forms disappearing one by one in hurried bursts of magical energy. The room, once filled with dark and menacing presences, was now a flurry of cloaks and shuffling feet as everyone scrambled to leave.
“Watch it!” someone barked as two figures nearly collided in their haste to teleport out.
“Who even invited that idiot?” another grumbled before disappearing in a swirl of shadow.
In less than a minute, the grand and imposing chamber was empty, save for one lone figure still seated at the table. They sat motionless, their hooded head resting on one gloved hand as they tapped their fingers rhythmically against the polished wood.
A heavy sigh escaped them, echoing through the now-empty room. Slowly, they stood, the folds of their robe rustling softly as they adjusted it. They turned toward the large double doors at the far end of the chamber, their footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness.
As they reached the doors, they paused, glancing back at the now-deserted table and the still-flickering brazier at its center.
“Why do I even bother?” they muttered under their breath before pushing the doors open and stepping into the shadows beyond.
The chamber’s doors creaked shut behind them, the sound reverberating through the stone hallways. The brazier flickered one last time, casting long, eerie shadows against the walls, before the flames extinguished themselves, plunging the room into darkness.