"…We can strike."
"It is risky," a hooded woman said. "The Academy is still one of the most secure fortresses in the world."
"But its students are not," the Serpent Mask whispered.
One of the elders turned sharply.
"You suggest… an extermination?"
"No. Not extermination." The Serpent Mask tapped a finger against the table. "Crippling. Wounding the future. Cutting the wings of the next generation."
"The Empire's strength has grown too fast," another elder agreed. "A blow to their youth is a blow to their future armies."
"And the Prince?" one asked sharply.
"Capture," Serpent Mask said. "If possible. His existence might be the key to unlocking the sealed arrays beneath our world."
The room murmured in agreement.
But Operative Nine shook his head.
"With respect, my Lords… capturing him may be impossible. Even now, his instincts are monstrous. The instructors are already wary."
"Fearful?" the Serpent Mask teased.
"…Respectful," Nine corrected. "And frightened."
The Council fell silent again.
The obsidian mask leaned forward.
"Describe the boy."
Nine hesitated.
"He… does not fight like anything we've seen. He does not 'learn.' He simply… knows. Like instinct. As if reacting to a pattern the world itself cannot hide from him."
Several members stiffened.
"That sounds like—"
"Yes," Nine said, voice tight. "A Celestial bloodline. Perhaps even—"
"Do not say the word," the obsidian mask growled. "Not until we are certain."
The word they did not speak hung heavily in the air.
At last, the leader, the only mask carved from crystal, clear as frozen time, spoke.
His voice was ancient.
Worn.
Powerful.
"Prepare the attack."
Nine bowed deeply.
"What are your orders?"
"A three-phase strike," the crystal mask said. "We will begin by collapsing the floating platforms' stabilizers. The academy will fall into chaos."
"And the students?" the woman asked.
"Fear will cripple them faster than blades. Let the weak scatter."
"Phase two," the Serpent Mask continued, eyes gleaming. "We release the Harrowed Legion, our disposable shock troops. They will break the wards and isolate the instructors."
"And phase three…" another whispered.
They looked at the crystal mask.
He finished quietly:
"Phase three… we claim the Prince."
The table glowed faintly as runes lit up.
Twelve hands lifted.
Twelve sigils resonated.
A sickening pulse of corrupt mana rippled outward.
The air itself screamed as a twisted seal formed above the table, shaped like a jagged, screaming eye.
"Initiate Operation Severed Dawn."
The chamber erupted with power.
Torches flickered violently.
Darkness howled along the walls.
Operative Nine bowed so deeply his forehead touched stone.
"It will be done."
Yet as he rose and left the chamber, a shadow peeled itself from the ceiling.
A tall figure.
Hooded.
Silent.
Watching.
The crystal mask glanced up at the presence.
"You disagree."
"No," the figure whispered. "I simply foresee… complications."
"Complications?"
The figure's voice was like smoke drifting through a graveyard.
"The boy. The academy. The timing. The prophecy. It aligns too perfectly."
"And?"
"And," the hooded figure murmured, eyes glowing faint silver beneath the hood, "if you push the boy too soon…"
A pause.
The temperature dropped.
"He will awaken."
The Council froze.
Fear, not hesitation, but genuine, bone-deep fear, flashed across every masked face.
Even the crystal mask's fingers trembled slightly.
After a long moment, he spoke.
"…We will strike regardless. We cannot allow the Empire's youth to reach full maturity. And the boy…"
He hardened his voice.
"Even if he awakens, he will be unfocused. Untamed. Vulnerable."
The hooded figure said nothing for a moment.
Then:
"Very well."
It turned to leave.
But as it reached the door, the crystal mask spoke one last time.
"Shadowmaster. If the prophecy is true… if the boy holds that bloodline… then even our victory may end in ruin."
The hooded figure paused.
Slowly, its lips curved beneath the shadow of the hood.
"Then let ruin come."
It vanished into dust.
The chamber dimmed.
The Council rose in unison.
And in twelve separate voices, cold as winter:
"For the Veilborn. For the end of the age. For the fall of the Empire."
The attack on the Academy had begun.
...
The Howling Maw fortress did not sleep.
Mana storms clawed at its exterior, creating shrieks that echoed through the stone corridors like the wails of dying gods.
In the Council chamber, the marble table still glowed faintly from the sigils the Council had invoked.
The room was empty, but not silent.
Shadows writhed across the floor.
Someone remained.
A mask shaped like a cracked moon hovered above the stone.
Councilor Kyriel removed her mask with a quiet exhale, letting her midnight hair spill down her back.
She ran a trembling hand over the table's cracked surface.
"Plotting to invade the Academy…" she muttered. "Fools. All fools."
She was not alone for long.
Footsteps, two sets, echoed behind her.
Kyriel did not turn. She didn't need to.
"Councilor Varos," she said. "And Councilor Ilmare."
Two figures approached—one tall with a sleek obsidian mask (Varos), the other short, robed, wearing a wooden mask carved with an eternal, neutral expression (Ilmare).
Varos broke the silence first.
"You peeled your mask first." His voice was smooth, dangerous. "Not like you."
Kyriel finally turned.
"Not like any of us to throw twenty years of strategic maneuvering away on a reckless attack," she shot back. "The boy is strong. Worrying strong. But provoking him before we know the extent of his bloodline…?"
Ilmare interrupted quietly.
"The vote was unanimous."
Kyriel scoffed. "Unanimous because half the Council is terrified to contradict the Crystal Mask. And the other half is blinded by their hatred of the Empire."
Varos leaned against a pillar.
"So you propose we… what? Ignore the threat? Let the Academy raise a monster?"
Kyriel's eyes narrowed.
"No. I propose a plan that won't kill us."
Ilmare tilted their wooden mask. "Speak."
Kyriel stepped into the center of the dimly lit chamber.