The mansion trembled once — a subtle vibration, almost imperceptible.
But to Chief Roman, it was enough.
He froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing as the chandelier above him swayed without wind.
The tremor was faint, yet it resonated in his chest — a pulse that wasn't his own.
He turned toward the grand windows overlooking Manhattan. The skyline gleamed cold and still, but beneath the noise and glass, he could feel it — a shift, distant yet familiar. The Plateau had stirred.
He touched his wristwatch, and the hidden panel in his study wall slid open silently. Inside, a black console hummed to life, casting pale light across the dark wood.
> "Initialize secure line. Omega channel," he said.
The console responded in a calm, artificial voice:
> "Authentication confirmed. Encryption sequence active."
The lights dimmed automatically. Curtains sealed.
A projection formed before him — a large circular display divided into six shadowed windows.
Five were already filled.
The silhouettes within were blurred, their voices distorted. Yet their presence was unmistakable — heavy, practiced, and dangerous.
Men and women whose decisions could end economies or ignite wars.
"Chief Roman," one of them said — a woman's voice, elegant but edged with iron. "You felt it too, I presume?"
Roman's jaw tightened. "The Heart of the Plateau has awakened. The resonance was clear. The vessel has aligned."
A low murmur rippled through the call — approval, fear, interest.
"The vessel…" another voice, deep and unhurried, spoke. "You mean the archaeologist. Nwankwo."
"Yes," Roman said. "Chuka Nwankwo. He's attuned to the Heart now — perhaps fully bonded. I underestimated the relic's selectivity."
The first voice returned, colder now. "You were instructed to control the activation, not chase it. Every delay gives the other relics time to awaken."
Roman's eyes flicked to the projection, the faint glow of the relic around his wrist pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Control requires understanding. The relics are not machines to be switched on and off at will. They respond to lineage — and to willpower. I have both."
A third figure leaned forward, the silhouette revealing the faint outline of medals on a uniform. His accent carried the weight of command.
"Then prove it. The Pacific relic shows signs of movement. A tremor was registered along the trench last night — deep seismic readings our satellites can't explain."
Roman's fingers tightened around the desk. "Then it's begun. The others are responding to the Plateau's awakening."
"That's why this meeting was called," said another — a smooth male voice with a hint of European aristocracy. "Containment is no longer an option. The cycle has started. We move to Phase Three."
Roman frowned. "Phase Three? That wasn't approved."
The voices shifted, a ripple of quiet dominance spreading through the call.
The female voice answered. "It was. You just weren't told yet."
Roman's expression darkened. "I fund this operation. My company—"
> "Your company," the uniformed man interrupted, "is a front. A necessary mask. Do not mistake financial muscle for sovereignty, Roman. You work under the Covenant, as we all do."
The word hung heavy: Covenant.
An old name — one whispered across borders, known only to those who traded in forbidden knowledge and divine ruin.
Roman's jaw flexed, but he didn't respond.
He understood the hierarchy. He hated it — but he understood it.
"The relics were never meant to be divided," said another voice — low, old, and filled with quiet menace. "Yet humanity scattered them, thinking power could be caged. We are simply reclaiming what was lost."
Roman leaned forward. "And if the relics choose their own bearers, like Nwankwo?"
"Then they will learn to serve," the voice replied. "As all power does."
The statement lingered in the silence that followed. Roman's fingers twitched — the faint light of Divine Authority glimmered along his hand, subtle but unmistakable. The air around him thickened briefly, and even through encrypted static, the others seemed to pause, as if instinctively compelled to listen.
He smiled faintly. "You speak of control. I embody it."
The shadows didn't reply — but one of the silhouettes leaned closer to the screen.
The distortion couldn't hide the glint of gold at his collar or the faint insignia of a sun within a laurel — the crest of a powerful nation.
When he spoke, his accent was unmistakable: heavy, deliberate, carrying the weight of an empire built on obedience.
> "Then perhaps, Chief Roman," he said, "you'll help me claim the relic that belongs to me."
Roman's expression hardened. "And which relic would that be, Excellency?"
The silhouette tilted his head slightly, and the faint outline of a medal flashed beneath his uniform — the symbol of an iron sun.
> "The one buried beneath the Pacific. Divine Protection. My armies could use a god that bleeds for no one."
A chill rippled through the line.
Even Roman did not speak immediately. The others remained silent — even the woman who'd spoken first.
Roman finally answered, voice controlled. "The Pacific relic remains unstable. If awakened prematurely, it could sink half the trench."
The dictator's silhouette didn't move. "Then you'd best make sure it doesn't, before someone else does."
The connection flickered, one by one the shadows fading until only static remained.
Roman stood alone in the dim study, the city lights flickering far below.
He exhaled slowly, the tension in his jaw easing only slightly.
Then he turned to the mirrored wall behind him — the same one that reflected nothing.
"Five shadows," he murmured. "And one who hides in the dark even from them."
His reflection flickered, and for an instant, another shape looked back at him — tall, robed, with eyes that glowed faintly gold.
Roman didn't flinch. He simply smiled. "The world is waking, old friend. Let's see who claims it first."
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