The night was soaked in pitch, a relentless downpour lashing against the Sanctum's cold stone. Thunder rolled intermittently, like the roar of some great beast within the clouds, rattling the window frames.Under this cloak of natural noise, any aberrant sound became blurred, indistinct.
The Observer, along with several other brothers and sisters of the Auric Creed, stood their silent watch along the designated posts winding through the outer corridors of Elysian-Vault-7. Rain streamed down the stone walls, pooling at their feet. The air was thick with a damp chill and a palpable, suffocating pressure. They all knew something of immense importance was held within, and that their superiors had been summoned to the Sanctum's council chamber for an urgent conference. But operatives of their level were kept in the dark, left only to their duty.
Faintly, from the direction of the council chamber, the Observer could perceive the sounds of argument—muffled first by energy barriers, then shredded by the storm into broken fragments. It was like listening to a muffled play through a thick wall. The mysterious disappearance of two colleagues and the indiscriminate Auric Mark resonance signal from the Sanctum had forced the Observer to keep his senses stretched taut, day and night, trying to catch any possible signal.
"...necessary sacrifice... for the greater..."
"...stability above all... the threat must be purged..."
"...not a cost... it is... purification..."
"...my people... know the limits..."
The voices rose and fell, punctuated by the slight, unconscious leakage of energy from certain agitated speakers. The Observer strained, but could only catch these icy shards.
Suddenly, from the shadows at the far end of the corridor, came a soft, sickening thud—the sound of a body slumping against stone.
The Observer and the brother beside him snapped their attention towards the sound, hands going to their weapons. A patrol? Or…
A figure, clad in the same dark robes as they, staggered out from around the corner. It was Phili, assigned to the adjacent sector. His face was a ghastly white, his eyes unfocused. One hand was clamped tightly over his neck, dark liquid welling between his fingers, mingling with the rain and dripping onto his robe, spreading a stark, ugly stain.
His mouth opened and closed, but only a wet, gurgling rasp emerged. "Hk… hk…" He stretched a trembling hand towards them, his eyes filled with a desperate, uncomprehending plea.
"Phili!" a younger cleric beside the Observer gasped, instinctively starting forward.
"Hold!" the older, veteran brother barked, yanking the youth back. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, were locked on the shadows behind Phili. "Something's wrong."
At that moment, two figures slid out from the corner behind Phili, merging with the rain and darkness. They ignored the collapsing form of Phili entirely. In their hands were short blades that seemed to devour the light, appearing in the flashes of lightning as deeper voids, heart-stopping in their absolute blackness.
Umbral-Walkers. Of the Inquisitorial Tribunal.
Ice-cold fear drenched the Observer. What were they doing here? And why had they attacked a brother?!
"Ambush! Sound the alarm!" the old brother roared, his voice tearing through the storm. Defensive Marks flared to life across his body, their glow a beacon in the tempest.
But before the echo of his shout had died—
"Thwip!"
A faint, sharp sound, not from the Walkers, but from a decorative archway shadow to their side. A needle, fine as a hair and nearly transparent, flew true, striking a key energy node on the old brother's shoulder the moment his defenses activated.
The light around the old brother flickered violently, like a faulty lamp, then began to stutter. He staggered, his face a mask of shock and agony.
A traitor. Among them, or perched somewhere above, unseen.
Chaos erupted.
The young cleric bellowed in rage, trying to launch binding strands of light at the Walkers. But as his power coalesced, the flagstones beneath his feet gave way silently, disgorging a burst of chaotic telluric energy that disrupted his casting. He grunted, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth from the feedback.
The Observer saw him then—on a distant watchtower, a cleric whose robes were edged with intricate gold, who should have been providing oversight and support, now looked down upon the chaos with utter indifference. He casually toyed with a crystal that pulsed with a malevolent red light. It was him! He was the one manipulating the battlefield, sabotaging them!
This was no external assault. This was a purge. An inside job.
The arguments from the council chamber seemed to intensify, a sharp crack—perhaps a fist striking a table—carrying through the storm, a distant, bitter irony against the backdrop of close-quarters slaughter.
"...Enough! The operation must...!"
"...You'll regret this... It's not merely..."
"...Silence! Execute the command!"
New Umbral-Walkers materialized like wraiths from every unexpected niche. They were disciplined, coordinated, lethally efficient. One brother, trying to activate the area's ward matrix, had his throat slit from behind. Another, courageously charging a Walker, was impaled through the side by a dark blade striking from his flank, the resolve in his eyes freezing solid as he fell.
The Observer pressed his back against a cold stone pillar, his short staff held defensively, his heart hammering against his ribs. He saw the old brother, the one who had earlier traced his burn scar, his defenses broken, choose to burn his life force in a final, desperate act. A ring of searing light erupted from him, forcing back two advancing Walkers, buying a precious moment. But the cost was absolute; he slumped to the ground, his own light extinguished, his gaze turning vacant.
He saw the young cleric, wounded by the feedback, struggle to his feet, back against a wall, futilely trying to gather power once more. A Walker easily batted his staff aside, and the dark blade plunged into his heart without hesitation. The light in the youth's eyes died swiftly, leaving only bewilderment, as if he never understood what was happening.
One after another. Familiar faces fell in the darkness. Dark robes grew heavier, soaked through with rain and blood.
By virtue of his relatively isolated position and the old brother's initial warning and sacrifice, the Observer had, thus far, avoided direct assault. But he could feel it—those cold, emotionless gazes had already scanned over his hiding place.
Then he saw him. The tall figure, the one with the chain, emerged at the far end of the corridor, flanked by his own loyalists. He watched the slaughter with a detached coldness, as if admiring his own handiwork. He even lifted a hand idly, caught some rainwater, and rubbed his fingers together.
At that moment, a particularly violent fork of lightning split the sky, bleaching the corridor in stark, white light.
For a single, frozen instant, the Observer's eyes met the gaze of the tall figure.
Recognition flickered there—not of him personally, but of his type. An insignificant piece on the board. The gaze held no murderous intent, only… assessment. A cold calculation, weighing the cost of cleanup against the benefit. Then, the corner of the mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly. A mockery. A warning.
The thunderclap slammed down, the light vanished. The figure, too, turned and, with his retinue, dissolved back into the deeper darkness as if they had never been.
The killing continued, but the pressure seemed to lessen just a fraction. Perhaps, for some in the higher echelons, an insignificant, 'prudent' ant like him wasn't worth the effort of a specific blade. Not yet.
The Observer slumped in the muck of rainwater and blood, his back against the pillar, breathing in ragged, shuddering gasps. He dared not move, dared not make a sound. He could hear the last, sporadic sounds of struggle—short, choked gasps, the final thud of a body—but soon, even those faded, until only the relentless hiss of the rain remained. And then, from the council chamber, carried on the wind, the final, weary, and Cold-hearted order, the consensus reached:
"...Clean this up. Tomorrow, issue the bulletin... state... attacked by unidentified energy lifeforms... the fallen... interred with full honors."
The Observer closed his eyes. Tears, indistinguishable from the rain, traced paths down his cheeks.
He knew. The brothers and sisters who died tonight would become cold statistics in a power struggle, a few bland lines in an official report. He was still alive. But he knew, with a certainty that carved him hollow, that something within him had died tonight, just as surely as they had.