The Inscription Chamber lay deep beneath the fortress, carved into the living rock of Mount Sicarius itself. There were no windows, the only light came from the torches held by iron brackets that bathed everything in a flickering orange shadow.
Despite being underground, the air moved as the fresh mountain wind carried through the narrow ventilation shafts, keeping all the chambers inside the fortress dry and breathable. The temperature was cool but not cold, and it was even comfortable.
Stefan Grayford stood at the center of the ritual circle inside that Inscription Chamber, his upper body bare with seven black stigmata visible across his back and arms. Each mark told a story of his struggles, written in pain and survival.
The Night's Stride mark scripted between his shoulder blades. Around his throat there was the Soundless Voice mark. And five others, each representing a layer of power climbed with a piece of his humanity traded for supernatural strength.
And tonight, he would receive the eighth, after six years of blood, death, and sacrifice.
The Supreme mark, the mark that would make him Phantom Lord, the supreme commander of the Phantom Court, the deadliest assassin organization in the whole continent.
The twelve High Masters stood outside the circle in formal positions, arranged according to their hierarchy on the Council Court. All wore black ceremonial robes with silver embroidery, the Phantom Court sigils displayed in their chest.
Their combined spiritual pressure making the air felt thick and heavy, pressed down on Stefan like a physical weight.
Master Edgar Lancaster at the northern point, his face showing nothing. Master Gresham to the east, his grey hair kept wild despite the formal occasion. Lady Chadwicke. Lord Derby. All the members of the Phantom Council Court, gathered to witness what they believed would be his ascension to be the highest leader of the Phantom Court.
One figure stepped forward from the southern point.
Master Cyrus Cross, the Ink Master, with his silver hair tied back with a red ribbon. He carried the ceremonial dagger, its blade inscribed with runes.
His expression was gentle and kind with the same warm and fatherly smile Stefan had known for six years. And that smile hadn't changed at all, encouraging him through failures, celebrating his victories, and guiding him through impossible trials when Stefan thought he couldn't continue.
"Kneel, my son," Cyrus said softly.
Stefan knelt down, lowering his head further in respect, and his hands resting on this thighs, his back straight. He was ready to receive the stigmata.
His seven existing marks began to warm against his skin, responding to the active ritual circle beneath him.
"One more step, my son," Cyrus continued in a clear voice through the silent chamber, "and you will become our leader."
Stefan's heart pounded with anticipation, anxiety, and pride. Six years of work culminating in this single moment.
He heard Cyrus move behind him, the soft rustle of his robes, and the quiet clink of a vial that was retrieved from ceremonial vestments.
The cork came free with a soft pop. The liquid poured into the ceremonial dagger with a sound Stefan knew intimately after seven previous incriptions, but there was something off. There was no sound of the sizzling when the liquid touched the blade.
"The Phantom Lord," Cyrus said, making Stefan's attention shifted to his words, speaking the ritual words loud enough for all assembled Masters to hear, "represents the culmination of an heir's journey. It unifies all previous stigmata, elevates their power, transforms the bearer into something beyond mortal limitation."
His hand settled on Stefan's shoulder.
"This will hurt more than any inscription you've received before," he said gently, low enough for Stefan's ears only. "But endure, my son. Endure, and you will be reborn into greatness."
Stefan nodded as his throat felt tight with emotions.
Then the cold metal of the dagger touched his back along with the wet ink made from all his successful ingredients gathering. It was the familiar sensation that preceded hours of controlled agony.
But everything shattered.
The blade didn't trace the careful and controlled lines of inscription.
It stabbed, and thirty centimeters of steel punched through Stefan's back, shattering his ribs and tearing through his lung. The tip emerged from his sternum, dripping blood onto the ritual circle below.
Pain exploded through him, not the expected agony of stigmata inscription, but the sharp and terrible clarity of a mortal wound.
Stefan's eyes fell into his chest, where the blade had pierced completely through his body. Blood poured from the exit wound, soaking into his pants.
He couldn't breathe as his lung collapsed. Air whistled through the hole in his back instead of reaching his throat.
"You were never meant to be the Phantom Lord," Cyrus whispered into Stefan's ear from behind, his voice still sounded gentle and kind, as if explaining something unfortunate but necessary. "The Court cannot risk your ambition. You're too dangerous, Stefan. Too much like your father."
The dagger twisted, making Stefan's body convulsed.
He tried to turn, tried to see Cyrus's face to understand what was happening. His hands were already on his chest, pressing against the wound, but blood poured through his fingers in hot pulses timed to his failing heartbeat.
His mouth opened, trying to ask why, but only blood came out, bubbling past his lips and running down his chin.
Cyrus pulled the dagger free.
The wet sound of steel leaving flesh echoed through the silent chamber, and Stefan's body jerked forward from the motion. He collapsed onto his side, convulsing.
"I'm sorry for the deception," Cyrus said, stepping back, still wearing that gentle smile. He looked down at Stefan's dying body indignantly. "But you must understand. You are too dangerous. That position is reserved for someone more suitable to the Court's needs."
Stefan forced himself to roll over, however every movement sent fresh agony through his ruined chest. He managed to look up at the man who had just murdered him.
Cyrus stood calmly, holding the bloody daggerm behind him, the other eleven High Masters watched with complete indifference. There was no shock on their expressions.
They all had known this would happen.
Stefan tried to speak again, his lips formed the word why, but no sound emerged except a wet gurgle.
"The ink I showed you earlier was made with regular writing ink mixed with wheat starch," Cyrus said conversationally, as if the person he just stabbed would reply to him normally. "It looked correct, smelled correct, but you believed it was your ink because you trusted me."
He smiled, and for the first time, Stefan saw the cold behind that warm expression.
"I raised you well for exactly this purpose," Cyrus continued. "Six years of guidance, encouraging your training. And you did precisely what I needed to reach the treshold of the Supreme Layer."
He pointed the bloody ceremonial dagger toward the chamber doors.
"Unfortunately, you were always meant to be the sacrifice for the next Phantom Lord."
The massive doors swung open and someone entered with calm steps.
Stefan forced his failing vision to focus, and fresh shock cut through the pain like a second blade.
A young man walked into the chamber, his upper body bare. His black hair was cut in the style of high nobility, and those dark green eyes had the exact same shade as Cyrus's eyes.
The young man stopped just outside the ritual circle and looked down at Stefan's dying body coldly.
Then he bowed formally to Cyrus.
"Father," he said in a respectful tone, completely unbothered by the man bleeding to death three meters away.
Father?
Cyrus's son?
Stefan's mind struggled to process what he was seeing even as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
Jareth. That's Jareth Piers.
I killed him during the fifth trial. He was dead, I
killed him myself. I–
Understanding crashed over Stefan like ice water poured over him.
Cyrus's bastard son...