A room hidden from all was thick with warmth, a humid, sticky heat that clung to everything. It felt alive in the most unnatural way, like the air itself was exhaling.

Inside, darkness ruled. But it wasn't the kind that brought relief. It was oppressive, suffocating, made worse by the unsettling sounds that permeated the space. Clicking, like nails scraping on bone, gnashing from unseen mouths, and the constant gurgling flow of a viscous liquid that moved through the room in pulses. There were no visible windows or doors, no clear way in or out. The place felt sealed, insulated from anything resembling normalcy.

From the ceiling hung strands of a thick, white slime. They drooped in sloppy, wet threads, swaying slightly as if the very air itself breathed with a twisted rhythm.

The walls glistened, damp with the same substance. And yet, amidst this nightmarish landscape, there was a single, haunting source of light—a candle made of a quartz-like material. It sat, seemingly untouched by the filth around it, glowing with a soft, white flame at its tip. There was no wick, yet the flame burned steadily, casting an eerie glow over the center of the room.

Below the candle lay an object, swaddled in filthy linen that might once have passed for gauze. The fabric was marred with strange markings—footprints from beasts, jagged tears from claws or fangs. Some parts of it were shredded, almost gnawed upon. The section closest to the candle was drenched in crimson, soaked as though it had absorbed the blood of countless creatures, a wriggling, pulsating mass that refused to dry.

Suddenly, from the ceiling, a figure descended. It landed soundlessly in the pool of light, its grotesque form revealed by the pale glow of the candle. The creature was massive, an arachnid with giant, hairy fangs that scraped against one another with a low grinding sound. Above the fangs, multiple eyes spun in their sockets, rolling in every direction. One of the eyes was ruptured, leaking a stream of thick, blue blood that carefully avoided dripping onto the linen below.

A leg, long and covered in jagged, chitinous spikes, lowered from the creature’s body, moving with surprising delicacy. It reached out and tapped the blood-soaked linen with a gentle touch, as if testing its safety.

The moment the leg made contact, a furious scream, sharp and piercing, erupted from the darkness. The spider-creature turned its remaining eyes toward the sound. Another figure emerged from the shadows and stepped into the candle’s glow.

It was shorter than a Human, but taller than any Dwarf, its body covered in short, white fur that stuck to its skin in patches. One long ear extended from the back of its skull, with a disfiguring scar where another ear should have been. Its small, black eyes were dripping with blood, and blood poured from its nose, ears, and mouth as well. The creature's whiskers twitched uncontrollably, and its cleft lip exposed long, yellowed teeth that clicked together, spitting blood with each gnash.

The arachnid’s fangs rubbed together quickly, producing a soft, motherly hum that filled the space with an unsettling calm. “A Crow-shaped Beast has appeared in the kin-pen. It has been consuming the horde. Destroyed a sight-sharer kin.”

The rabbit-like creature, twitching and gnashing, spat blood with each rapid word. “The human that arrived—he’s meddling with Sichal's affairs. Blew up the Second Shell.”

The spider’s fangs twitched in response. “How did he surprise you during your interaction?”

“No interaction,” the rabbit replied in a high-pitched, rapid squeak. “Threw a bomb before I could say or do anything.”

The spider paused for a moment, the clicking of its fangs slowing as it processed the information. “A dangerous one. The Third Shell and Prime Shell are all we have left now for anchors.”

The rabbit’s irritation showed through the twitch of its nose and the gnashing of its teeth. “We will restore the bond before they deteriorate.”

The spider’s voice, though soft, carried a weight of warning. “The horde’s Energy will concentrate into us with fewer kin now. Our minds grow less sharp with each passing day, Toy. If Master’s gift is not returned soon, the incoming power will force us to Stampede. You are the only one left who can call upon the Change.”

The rabbit’s ear drooped, its blood-slick whiskers twitching as it looked toward the blood-soaked linen beneath the candle. “You say all that I know. The Shells will make do. Less than ten days until we can return everything to how it should be.”

The two creatures stood in silence, their forms casting twisted shadows in the eerie candlelight, a the linen wrapped object lay motionless.

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Gabri and Imael burst through the "staff only" backdoor, their breathing ragged, each carrying one of the two aspirants they’d managed to save. The backstage of the Sichal Theater was a whirlwind of chaotic activity.

Performers lounged in mismatched states of readiness, some idly rehearsing lines or steps, others indulging in substances that sent them into heady, euphoric states. A few hadn’t even bothered with decorum, locked in brazen embraces for anyone to see. But every one of them snapped to attention as Gabri and Imael stormed in, their shouts for the Director cutting through the room like a blade.

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Whispers followed them, though no one dared speak aloud. It wasn’t the state of the aspirants they were carrying that drew the most attention—it was the fact that one was missing. In the performers’ eyes, the brothers were as good as dead. The unspoken thought rippled through the room like wildfire: ''Oh, they are fucked…''

Gabri’s voice, still hoarse from the struggle in the slums, rang out again. “Director!” he bellowed, desperation edging every syllable.

The cry traveled through the space, echoing into the theater’s backstage until it reached one of the more gaudily decorated backrooms.

There, the Director, in all his mustached glory, appeared with a slow flourish. He stood in the doorway, a curved cane resting lazily in his grip, dressed in a garish orange vest and brown trousers, his presence both absurd and intimidating. His arrival seemed to suck the air out of the room, silencing even the faint whispers. He began to whistle a sprightly tune, the merry sound entirely mismatched with the tension now thickening the air.

As he stepped forward, something strange happened. The ground beneath him seemed to shrink, as the distance between himself and the brothers vanished into nothingness with each step, his movements even but covering far more space than was natural. His mustache twitched in rhythm with the tune, dancing playfully as his eyes darted around the room, eyebrows jumping with the song's beats.

Gabri and Imael, frozen in place, found themselves unable to speak. It wasn’t fear alone that stopped them—the Director was doing something to them.

His gaze flitted over their faces, and with a slow, over the top movement, he raised three fingers, nodding with exaggerated enthusiasm. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifted. Two fingers went up in his other hand, and his face transformed into a tragic frown, his mustache dipping into a makeshift goatee. His eyes swelled with tears, comically large, as if about to burst from his head.

“Boys,” the Director finally said, breaking the heavy silence, “why are you making me do this now? We were getting along so swimmingly!”

Imael opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get a word out, the Director's cane twirled in his hand, and with two sharp, precise flicks, he struck both brothers squarely on their elbows.

The pain was instant, and though their mouths opened in silent screams, no sound escaped. Their arms, nearly severed at the joints, began to spin wildly, grotesquely rotating as though their limbs were windmills. The Director watched with a sort of bemused indifference, letting their agony unfold in silence, their voices caught in the bubble of Energy he had woven around them.

The aspirants, who had been in a daze of shock, snapped back to reality as the scene unfolded. The girl, her face pale and streaked with dirt, suddenly screamed, “THE PEOPLE IN THE SLUMS ARE MONSTERS!”

The Director paused, his mustache twitching mid-tune, his head cocking to the side in curious amusement. He continued flipping the brothers' arms back and forth with his cane, but his eyes settled on the girl. “Monsters, you say?” he murmured, his voice lilting with false curiosity. He wiggled his mustache again, urging her to continue.

“They—they were!” she stammered. “They—they attacked us, and their bodies—”

“Changed,” Imael gasped, still struggling to form words as his arms twisted unnaturally. “They weren’t normal!”

The Director’s grin faltered for a brief moment, genuine interest crossing his face. His gaze darkened, and with one final flick of his cane, he stopped the brothers’ limbs from spinning, leaving them on their knees, clutching what was left of their arms. Gabri was shaking, his face ashen, while Imael simply gasped, sweat pouring from his brow.

“Well, shit,” the Director said, his voice lilting with amusement. “Who would’ve thought? I guess you boys get off the hook.” His grin widened as he took in the brothers’ broken bodies. “Minya! Fix ’em up. I have to see this shit for myself.”

A petite woman in a dark cloak appeared from the shadows, her eyes cold. She nodded once and began moving toward the brothers, already assessing the damage.

The Director chuckled, waving his hand dismissively as he headed toward the backstage exit. “Be back in a few,” he called back over his shoulder. “Keep the show running while I’m out!”

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A clearing just outside Sichal lay quiet, save for the rustling of trees swaying in the wind.

In the center of the stillness, a scene of pure savagery marred the otherwise serene surroundings. A grisly smear of blood and flesh was ground into the rocky outcrop, and wisps of tattered feathers floated lazily on the breeze.

Nyx, his dark form looming over the carnage, finished the last brutal act of his work, pulverizing the remaining fragments of the Misfortunate Owl’s skull into the mush below.

He stared down at his handiwork with a lingering disdain. The audacity of the Owl and the person possessing it, catching sight of him lurking—it grated on Nyx’s pride.

He operated with precision, after all, priding himself on his mastery of shadow and stealth. To be spotted was an affront to his very existence. Whomever the Owl was connected to should have felt every excruciating tear, every bone break, and every grind of flesh. Yet something felt off.

Nyx clicked his beak, thinking. The Owl hadn’t thrashed nearly as much as it should have during its final moments. There was no satisfying struggle, no real resistance to his onslaught.

Either the one controlling the Owl had severed the link before Nyx could deliver the full force of his punishment, or—he mused darkly—they had an unnervingly high tolerance for pain. A low, displeased sound escaped him. "Feels wrong… hmm." The lingering doubt gnawed at him, a vague sense of unease that something got one over on him creeped into his usually confident mind.

However, with a dismissive shrug of his feathers, Nyx reached into his sash, retrieving a small vial of familiar liquid. Without ceremony, he poured it over the grisly remains. The potion sizzled, erasing all evidence of the carnage in moments.

The air around him cleared of the metallic scent of blood, leaving nothing but a faint whiff of ash behind. Satisfied with the thoroughness of the cleanup, Nyx gave a lazy shake of his wings, his earlier feast still sitting comfortably in his belly.

"Guess I’ll see what the things in those meatbags will do tonight after my little culling."

With a powerful flap, Nyx took flight, soaring high into the air as the clearing below faded into the distance. His keen eyes turned toward the slums once more, where the final events of the night were about to unfold.

He had no idea how close his intuition had come to the truth—the one tied to the Owl could not feel pain. Not an Arachnid.