The Sanctum of Veils did not walk in daylight.
Their presence was felt in whispers: villages emptied with no blood spilled, warlords found strung from their own gates with their tongues sewn shut, entire bloodlines erased so cleanly their names fell from memory. They were not an army. They were an idea. An idea sharpened into ritual and blade.
Their creed was simple—the world must be pruned of rot. And in their eyes, Forsaken were not anomalies to be studied or tolerated. They were rot made flesh.
Cloaked figures gathered in their hidden cathedral, faces hidden behind masks of bone and shadow. At the altar stood Armand Veyth, one of the Sanctum's high agents, his voice echoing across the chamber.
"The Hunters have come begging. Three Forsaken stand united: Rayon Veynar, Severin Dros, Cairo Vale. Each dangerous alone, together they represent a plague. The Hunters falter. We will not."
The masked congregation answered as one, their voices hollow in the great hall:
"We will not."
Armand spread his arms, cloak falling like wings. "We enter the stage not as saviors, not as allies, but as the hand of silence. Every Forsaken will fall. These three most of all."
The candles guttered out, the chamber swallowed in black.
The Sanctum had accepted the contract.
Cut to the Trio:
Later that night, in a tavern hidden deep within the city's underbelly, Rayon, Severin, and Cairo sat around a dimly lit table. Empty bottles crowded the wood, the smell of smoke and liquor heavy in the air.
Rayon flicked his strings lazily across a half-full glass, spinning it without touching. "So," he said, smirk tugging at his lips, "our friends at the Association have finally pissed themselves enough to call for help. Can't say I didn't expect it."
Cairo leaned back, one boot on the table, grin sharp. "Oh, you'll love this. They didn't just call for help. They called for the Sanctum."
Severin's expression darkened, his glass stopping midair. "The Veils?"
Cairo tapped the side of his glass, deliberately slow, enjoying the weight of the moment. "The very same. Masks, rituals, creepy whispers—you know the stories. Hunters chase monsters. The Sanctum? They erase them. Permanently."
Rayon arched a brow. "Erase? Interesting word. Sounds like a challenge."
Cairo laughed, arrogant and careless, but there was an edge beneath it. "Careful, Rayon. The Sanctum isn't like the Hunters. Hunters bleed pride when you cut them. The Sanctum bleeds nothing. They don't come at you with lines of soldiers. They come in shadows. You won't even know you're fighting until the noose is already on your neck."
Severin finished his drink and set the glass down with a heavy thud. "Then we'll cut the rope before it tightens. If they think they can erase us, they've already underestimated what they're walking into."
Rayon smirked again, dark eyes gleaming. "Good. Let them come. I've been waiting for something worth playing with."
The three of them laughed—not out of joy, but out of defiance. Brothers, not by blood or trust, but by their refusal to bow to anything that claimed dominion over them.