The doors to the council chamber closed with a soft metallic sigh that felt heavier than thunder. The room was soundproofed, walled in black marble and quiet dread. Only the rhythmic click of William's boots broke the silence as he moved toward the long obsidian table where his inner circle waited.
Each of them wore a ring like his—a dark band set with a stone that pulsed faintly, alive. When he raised his hand, they followed, touching their rings in quiet reverence.
"Brothers," William began, his voice smooth and warm as smoke. "The age of whispers is over. The world will call this rebellion, but we know it for what it is—a cleansing."
He kissed his ring slowly, ceremoniously. The stone glowed red for a moment, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. When he lowered his hand, every man and woman at the table followed suit. The chamber dimmed, the glow from the rings weaving a network of veins across the walls.
"Each of you knows your task," he said, turning his gaze around the room. "Rafael, the docks are yours. The shipments must keep moving. We will need the weapons before the government declares martial law."
Rafael bowed slightly, his expression blank, obedient.
"Salvatore," William continued. "You will oversee recruitment. Every soldier disillusioned, every worker unpaid, every youth who feels betrayed—they are yours to convert. Make them believe they are saving themselves."
Salvatore nodded. "They already do, my lord. The poorest see you as a messiah."
William smiled faintly. "Then all that remains is faith."
He turned to the last man in the room—a gaunt figure in a dark coat. "Minister Harlow, the time has come. We will need access to the broadcast systems when the first strike begins. The world must hear our declaration before the smoke clears."
The minister swallowed, nodding. "And what of Moonveil?"
At that name, the temperature seemed to drop.
William's expression stayed serene. "Let the brothers handle him. Diego is eager, and the stars will favor him before the week ends."
No one spoke for several seconds. The faint hum of the rings filled the silence, like a shared pulse of something ancient and malignant. Then William leaned forward, palms on the table, his smile widening.
"When this begins, we will not stop until every symbol of the old world is ash. Kings, heroes, governments—they will crumble, and from their bones, we will build the new order."
He straightened, his ring still glowing faintly. "Long live the new king," he said softly.
The others repeated it like a prayer.
"Long live the new king."
---
Far from the echo of that chamber, Diego worked alone. He had no faith left for kings or gods, only in vengeance. His safe house was lit by a single candle, its flame flickering over a map of London scarred by knife marks and coded notes. He traced the path from his hiding place to the old port, his lips moving silently as he rehearsed every step.
Moonveil would come. He would be wounded, weakened by the waning light. Diego would strike when the moon hid its face completely.
"This time," he whispered to the air, "I will not fail him."
He touched the blood mark carved into his palm and smiled through his tears.
---
Meanwhile, beneath the white lights of the government's war room, a different kind of storm was gathering. The room smelled of coffee and gun oil, the table cluttered with reports and maps. Generals leaned over them, their faces pale, their voices sharp and clipped.
"We have confirmed uprisings in Whitechapel and Northbridge," one officer reported. "There are whispers of organized recruitment—possibly funded by Y'Nkeos or one of their subsidiaries."
Another general slammed a fist on the table. "William Lex Webb should have been detained weeks ago. Now he has half the people worshiping him as a prophet."
The Prime Commander—an aging woman with eyes that had seen too many wars—looked up from her notes. "It's not just civilians," she said quietly. "We've lost platoons. Soldiers are defecting. Some are calling it a moral stand—others, divine allegiance."
The words hung heavy in the air.
They all knew what that meant: the lines between enemy and ally were gone.
"The Home Guard is stretched thin," another added. "If London falls, we lose the heart of Europe."
The Commander nodded grimly. "Then we hold it. Even if it breaks our hands."
The room fell silent again, the hum of the overhead lights the only sound. Every man and woman there understood that this wasn't just a war for control—it was a war for the soul of the world.
And outside those walls, the city waited, unaware that history was already shifting beneath its feet.
Somewhere between the dark councils of kings and the steel discipline of soldiers, the world balanced on a knife's edge, and both sides whispered the same thing into the night—
It begins.
---