Deep beneath a mountain stronghold there was a home.

The home was a prison. A perfect one. It had no exits, no entrances. It was surrounded on all sides by miles of sedimentary and metamorphic rock. It was isolated entirely from the outside. Its architecture was a marvel of runic technology. Entropic cells powered arcane circuits that provided the home with food and water, recycled its air, even incinerated its trash and waste.

It represented the pinnacle of Grimnir’s ability.

The home was a prison. But it was a well-equipped one. Large and luxurious. Its showers could run for centuries at high pressure and any temperature desired. Its larders were stocked with every manner of refreshment imaginable. Its recreation facilities would shock the wealthy of any nation. It featured bowling alleys, swimming pools, game rooms, and the only movie theater left in the entire world.

The cinema had been included at the express request of the home’s sole occupant.

But it was still a prison. A secret prison. The number of people who knew it existed could be counted on one hand, and only because they had been allowed to know. Somehow coming by the knowledge of its existence in any other manner would result in a swift, brutal end. No one entered the home. No one left it.

Save for one.

Pylon, the many Hands of the Coterie, manifested in the home’s main office wearing his customary gunmetal grey suit, gloves of the same color, and tweed shoes. A polished steel helmet with a rounded top sprouted from his collar, shrouding his face and neck from view.

Of course, Pylon wasn’t just here.

He was east of the REZ, working on refugee accommodations in Haven. He was managing the Bern Institute, overseeing curriculum and personally tutoring the students and advising the professors who required it. He was fighting the Devoted in Old Europe and the Deathlands. He was organizing trade deals with the Shadow City.

He was here, and there, and everywhere, but right now, he was mostly here. In the mountain home. The room he appeared in was bare of all decoration save for a single, large desk embossed with the letter ‘C.’

And at the desk, sat the home’s sole occupant. The real master. His liege and lady. The head of the Cabal. Earth Bet’s only hope in the face of the apocalypse.

The Coterie’s secret queen.

Troupemaster Sibyl looked the same as she always had, blond hair falling neatly past her shoulders, a twinkle of mischief hiding itself in her grin, and fierce, overwhelming knowledge burning behind her eyes.

“Matthew,” she greeted him kindly, like the mother he’d never had. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have never guessed she was one of the most powerful people in the world. But her name said differently. It shone like a beacon in his Blessed sight.

~~~

Sibyl, The All-Seeing-Eye

~~~

“Troupemaster,” he said, kneeling. Sibyl sighed.

“Oh, get up Matthew. I’ve told you, when it’s just the two of us you can call me Sarah.” She smiled at him again, teasing and probing and flirting and genuine. And as always, watching his response. “I’d prefer it, even,” she added slyly.

He didn’t know if she did it on purpose or if she just couldn’t help herself. Still, he knew his helm would hide nothing from her gaze. With Sibyl, honesty was the best policy. So he replied frankly.

“I dare not, Troupemaster. I can’t afford to let something slip while I’m not here. I will not risk my own incompetence exposing you. Easier to convince myself I simply don’t know your name.”

She chuckled wryly, shaking her head. “Honestly, I’m not sure why we even bother keeping it a secret. Even before, next to no one knew it. Even before the Collapse…”

Sibyl trailed off, eyes growing distant, mind consumed with memory. Losing herself to the past. It had become a more and more frequent occurrence, these days. An eidetic memory with over half a millennium to access. Centuries to review and reconsider. Untold ages from which to extract information. Thinkers like her, they weren’t designed to live this long.

Stolen novel; please report.

“For appearances, Troupemaster,” he said, his voice wrenching her back to the present. “It’s necessary, to maintain your image.”

“Oh, yes. My image. Be it ever so humble,” she said, chuckling once more. “If only it were real. If only I was as powerful as all imagine me to be.” She hesitated, voice faltering. “Maybe we wouldn’t have to sacrifice so much…”

“You are very powerful, Troupemaster,” he said, interrupting her distraction again. “You possess the greatest mind in the world.” Pylon spread his arms. “Without you, none of this would be possible. I could never replace you. No one could. Without you, our mission, our work, would all come to nothing.”

“Our mission,” Sibyl repeated. She hummed to herself, a soft tune filling the empty room. “The death of the Warrior. A tale as old as, well, me,” she said, smirking. “Perhaps older.”

“Once upon a time, very long ago, we were many. We were multitude. Oh, Matthew. If only you could have seen it. The true extent of our grasp.”

She looked at the bare table, gazing deep between the grains of wood, eyes fluttering and growing dim.

“Our facilities blanketed the earth, spanning countless dimensions. Miles upon miles of metal, of offices, computers, laboratories, all staffed by tens of thousands.”

“Now, we number fewer than twenty.”

“Once upon a time, we were mighty. The most puissant parahumans in existence served our cause. We could see everything, strike from anywhere. We had agents in the very highest echelons of society, influencing all.”

She sighed, her face crinkling in fatigue and loss. “Now, the strongest fight only amongst themselves, and we scramble to pick up the pieces.”

Sibyl paused, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. “Yes, once upon a time, we were indomitable. And still, we lost.”

She stopped, and frowned.

“And yet, it all went according to plan. I remember it entirely, Matthew. Every step. I’ll never forget it. Everything, everything went precisely as she planned it.”

“But how? How can losing be part of the plan? How can centuries of destruction and death be part of the Path? What was she thinking?”

Suddenly her voice was small, far smaller than Pylon had ever heard before, smaller than he’d believed could be possible. For a moment, Sibyl was no longer the strongest Thinker in the world. For a moment, she was nothing but a little girl, afraid and alone, and above all wondering why.

“Why did she leave me to do it alone?”

Pylon’s Troupemaster turned to him, eyes half desperate and half weary. He’d never seen her like this. He wasn’t meant to see her like this. It wasn’t right.

“Tell me Matthew, do you truly believe it possible? Do you really, I mean really think…we can kill him?”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you.” he replied, simply.

She said nothing, turning away from him and staring at her desk once more. For a little while, the both of them remained there, breathing the impossibly fresh air of the sealed room. When she looked back at him the girl had disappeared, and only the All-Seeing Sibyl remained.

“I’m not omniscient, Matthew. Much as I might wish I was. Much as the Cabal might believe me to be. I don’t know everything.”

She closed her eyes, slowly.

“Even after hundreds of years, I’m not…her.”

They snapped open once more, and fixed on him.

“But I’m not blind, either.”

“I can feel it in the air. I can hear it in the wind. I can see it deep, deep inside the metadata.”

Sibyl’s bottomless gaze bored into him, locking him in place.

“Change is coming, Matthew. Factions begin to make their moves. The Endbringers grow restless. The Labyrinth spits out stronger monsters by the day. Each of Chelm’s Relics stands taller than the last. And Balmut turns his sight towards the east. The Dragon’s tail will soon be pulled.”

She breathed deeply, savoring scents that he would never smell, sights that he would never see.

“The world is waking up, my dear Pylon.”

“And with it, at last, our ancient enemy begins to stir.”