The old theater's shadows have teeth tonight.

I watch them crawl across the walls, twisting into shapes that shouldn't exist. Reality feels thin here, like tissue paper in the rain. Four hundred years of immortality teaches you to recognize when something's wrong with the world. This? This is wrong on a cosmic scale.

Mikey hasn't moved from the orchestra pit in hours. Just sits there, staring at his hands like they belong to someone else. Blood still cakes his fingernails from when he tried to help Waylan. Poor kid doesn't understand - you can't piece someone back together when reality itself has torn them apart.

"We need to talk," I say, my voice echoing strangely in the dusty air. The acoustics are wrong. Everything's wrong.

He doesn't look up. "About what? How I got everyone killed? Or how I sent VoodooEyes to... to..."

"To somewhere he deserved to be." I move closer, shadows writhing in my wake. "But that's not what we need to discuss."

Something shifts in the darkness behind the stage. Not a normal shadow - this moves like oil on water, flowing against the light. I've been seeing more of them lately. Ever since we lost the others.

"The Fellowship is planning something," I continue, watching Mikey's shoulders tense. "Something big. I can feel it in the spaces between moments."

"How can you tell?"

I smile, though it feels wrong on my face. "Four centuries of pulling strings teaches you to recognize when someone else is tugging at reality's threads."

Finally, he looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, haunted. Good. Fear makes people pliable. "What do you want me to do?"

"I need you to look." I kneel beside him, all fatherly concern and hidden agendas. "Use your connection to the shadow realm. Find them."

"I can't." His voice cracks. "After what happened last time-"

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"Waylan died because we weren't prepared." I squeeze his shoulder, feeling him flinch. "Help me make sure it wasn't for nothing."

The shadows behind me stretch, reaching. Hungry. Something's changing in the world - not just here, but everywhere. I can taste it in the air, like copper and old pennies.

"Just a quick look," I promise, lies flowing smooth as silk. "We need to know what they're planning."

Mikey closes his eyes. The temperature drops. Reality holds its breath.

The shadows move.

Not like before - this is different. They don't just flow; they remember. I've seen this before, in scrolls hidden deep within the monastery's restricted section. Warnings about what existed before existence existed. The real reason The Fellowship formed in the first place.

Then Mikey screams.

It tears through octaves that shouldn't exist, making reality ripple like a pond in the rain. Blood streams from his nose, black in the strange light. The shadows dance and twist, forming patterns that hurt to look at.

When it stops, he's shaking. "I saw them. The Fellowship. They're... they're preparing something. A ritual."

Ice forms in my gut. Not fear - I haven't felt real fear in centuries. This is older. Deeper. "What kind of ritual?"

"They called it The Call of the Umbras."

The name hits me like a physical blow. Memories flood back - ancient texts in Aahan's restricted section, warnings about forces that existed before light, before dark, before reality learned how to be real.

"Tell me exactly what you saw." My voice sounds distant, even to myself.

Mikey describes it in broken sentences. A gathering at an abandoned church. Symbols drawn in materials that hurt to look at. Chants in languages that taste like static.

I recognize it all. The Fellowship isn't just working with shadow entities - they're trying to control them. Harness them.

Reality itself shivers at the thought.

But in that shiver, I see opportunity. The Fellowship thinks they can control cosmic forces? Fine. Two can play that game.

"We have to stop them," Mikey says, still trembling.

I hide my smile. "Yes, we do."

As Mikey gathers what's left of his courage, I study the shadows writhing across the theater walls. They're moving with purpose now, forming patterns I recognize from those ancient texts. Preparing for something.

The Fellowship thought they could exile me. Control me. Write me out of their story.

Time to show them what a real puppet master can do.

Even if I have to tear reality apart to do it.