The air beneath the Citadel reeked of incense and damp stone.
Lucien crouched on a ledge carved from shadow, the faint glow of his aura swallowed by the darkness. Below, hooded figures circled an obsidian altar, chanting in a tongue older than the city itself. Candles flickered across the walls, casting jagged shadows that danced like monsters.
At the center, the Chancellor stood, robes dragging against the cold floor, hands raised toward the ceiling. His voice was smooth, commanding, almost melodic as he intoned:
"The Crown of Thorns shall bloom again."
Lucien's jaw tightened. He had seen the mark before—etched into The White's horrors, now alive in this world. The Chancellor's ambitions were tied to the void. His cruelty stretched beyond mortal power.
The cultists moved in rhythm, swaying, their chants feeding some unseen presence. The air pulsed, thick and heavy. Lucien's aura throbbed in response, instinct screaming that if he did not act carefully, this chamber could kill him before he even touched them.
He had pawns for this, but Lucien wanted to see it first. To understand the threat.
From above, he leapt silently onto a balcony overlooking the altar. One wrong step, one flicker of aura, and he would be discovered. But The White had taught him precision, patience, and ruthlessness beyond any mortal school.
He watched as the ritual reached its peak. A thin black mist coalesced over the altar, writhing like living shadow. The cultists fell to their knees, hands pressed to the floor.
Then, with a sickening groan, the mist took form. Not a man, not a beast, but something between—a shadow of the void, its limbs jagged, its eyes hollow. It reached toward the Chancellor, who extended a hand as though greeting an old friend.
Lucien's pulse quickened. This was no ordinary summoning. The Chancellor was drawing power directly from the void.
A flick of his wrist, and a small vial of glowing liquid sailed through the shadows, landing in the hands of his scribe-pawn hidden in a corner. Every piece of information he had collected—the wards, the chants, the sequences—was recorded.
Lucien exhaled silently. He did not strike yet. He did not need to.
The chamber was alive, but it was fragile. One calculated move, and the web the Chancellor had spent decades weaving could unravel in moments.
Lucien allowed himself a thin smile.
"Patience," he whispered. "All power has a fracture. And tonight… I will find it."
The shadow creature's gaze swept across the room, hollow eyes grazing over Lucien's hidden perch. For a heartbeat, it paused, as if sensing him. The hairs on his neck rose.
And then it went back to its master.
Lucien melted into the darkness, pulling the knowledge of the ritual with him. The pawns would deliver it; the Chancellor would never see him coming.
Outside, the moonlight painted the rooftops silver.
And in that silence, one thought consumed him:
The Sole Exception does not hide forever. But when he strikes… it will be the last moment his enemies remember.