The chamber was carved into silence.
Twelve screens flickered in a crescent arc around a polished obsidian table, each bearing the dim outline of a powerful figure — faces cloaked in anonymity, voices filtered through distortion. Only the faint hum of encrypted transmission filled the vast underground hall.
At the center, a single chair was empty — the chair that once represented balance within the Council.
Now, it belonged to Chancellor Adrian Voss.
> "Your little performance," a deep voice hissed from the far left screen, "has destabilized half the continent. You've made the world believe in miracles again — and in doing so, you've made our work infinitely harder."
Another voice — sharp, female, cultured.
> "We agreed to operate from the shadows. To guide history, not shatter it. What you did on that battlefield was reckless, Adrian."
Voss leaned back in his chair, his image clear unlike the rest — he never hid behind filters. Golden light danced faintly at the edge of his pupils, a quiet reminder of the power humming within him.
> "Reckless?" he said, smiling faintly. "No. Necessary. They needed to see the power they've spent centuries denying. Fear breeds obedience faster than treaties."
The council erupted — a dozen voices overlapping in static fury.
> "You've turned our network into a cult of followers."
"The United Nations is in chaos!"
"Our secrecy is compromised!"
"You risk everything for spectacle!"
Voss laughed softly — not mockery, but amusement, as if their anger was the buzzing of insects around a torch.
> "You speak of secrecy as if it's still possible. The relics were never meant to remain hidden. They are awakening, whether you accept it or not."
A long pause followed. Then, from the center screen, a calm voice — measured and heavy with authority. Chief Roman.
> "We didn't form this council to worship power, Chancellor. We formed it to contain it. You forget what these relics are capable of."
Voss's gaze flicked toward him, the smile fading.
> "Containment is an illusion, Roman. You of all people should know that. You've felt its pull."
Roman's jaw tightened. He said nothing, but the faint sheen of sweat on his brow betrayed him. He had felt it — the hum of the relic beneath containment glass, whispering promises through his dreams.
For weeks now, the temptation had grown louder.
Every night he found himself drawn to the relic's chamber, staring through the reinforced glass at the ancient sigil glowing faintly at its core.
A voice, sometimes soft, sometimes thunderous, whispered:
> "Command me, and the world will obey."
He clenched his fists beneath the table.
> "You overestimate me," he said quietly.
Voss tilted his head. "Do I?"
The others resumed their arguments, shifting targets. Some now turned their suspicion toward Roman.
> "Your division controls two relics already, Chief."
"Can you guarantee they remain secure?"
"Or are you, too, listening to the same siren that drives him?"
Roman's silence was answer enough.
Voss chuckled again, low and dark. "You see? Even now, you crave what you pretend to condemn. Every one of you. Power is not the enemy — fear of it is."
The council leader's voice snapped like a whip.
> "Enough. This session is adjourned. Until we regain control of public narrative, no further relics are to be uncovered. Any unauthorized activity will be treated as treason to the Covenant."
The screens blinked out one by one, until only Voss's image remained — smiling into the void.
Then his feed, too, dissolved into black.
---
Far across the ocean, in the gilded sprawl of Voss' private estate, the Chancellor stood before a wall of old relics — fragments of ancient scriptures, metallic shards from forgotten temples, all glowing faintly in the dark.
Outside, thunder clawed at the sky.
Storms rolled across the Atheon skyline, lightning webbing through the night.
Inside his hilltop mansion, Voss stood before a wall of glass, overlooking the city below. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft golden hue emanating from his hands.
Outside, crowds filled the capital's plazas, holding candles and chanting his name.
Protector. Savior. Hand of the Maker.
He watched them in silence — not with pride, but with something colder, sharper.
> "Greedy, frightened children," he murmured. "They would rather worship what they cannot understand than rise to meet it."
He turned from the window, walking past a long table upon which several relic fragments lay under containment shields — pulsing faintly in rhythm with his own heartbeat.
> "And those fools in the Council," he continued, his voice low. "They call me reckless because they fear losing control. But the truth…" — he placed his palm against one relic, the light flaring in response — "…the truth is, they have no idea what control truly means."
The relic's glow brightened, forming a faint halo that rippled across the floor. The air vibrated with energy.
> "They hunger for power," he said softly, "but power is not taken. It is accepted."
He closed his eyes as thunder rumbled outside, his silhouette framed by lightning.
> "Let them scramble for fragments," he whispered. "Let them deceive and betray each other. In the end, they will kneel. Not because I command it…" — he smiled faintly — "…but because they will finally see what stands before them."
He raised his hand once more, and the mansion's lights flickered.
Outside, the storm began to spiral — golden threads weaving through the clouds above Atheon.
> "Greedy, ignorant fools," he murmured, the words barely audible over the storm.
"They will thank me for saving them… even as I break them."
To him the members of the shadow council were like kids playing with fire.
Lightning flared, and the glass shattered outward — not from force, but from the hum of power itself.
And in the silence that followed, the Protector smiled.
--