The estate sat on the outskirts of the city, an abandoned noble manor swallowed by ivy and time. Its marble walls were cracked, its towers leaning, but beneath Rayon's strings, Severin's wealth, and Cairo's ruthless touch, the ruin became something else. Something alive.
The three stood before the gates as their people filed in—an army not of uniforms, but of outcasts, killers, thieves, mercenaries, and Forsaken.
Rayon spread his arms, black eyes glinting. "Welcome to the new heart of the underworld. This is not a home. This is not a palace. This…" his voice sharpened, "…is the Obsidian Web."
The name settled like a weight over the crowd. The recruits looked to one another, whispering. Dark. Catchy. Fitting. The Web—it implied traps, strands, inescapable fate. And Rayon stood at the center.
The Three Leaders:
Rayon called his people first—faces from both his palace-turned-headquarters and his city web. Fighters, spies, manipulators who bent their strings in their own ways. They filled the courtyard like threads being pulled into a knot.
Cairo's men came next—rough, scarred, careless in posture but sharp in eye. They joked, shoved one another, but when Cairo raised a hand, silence cut the air. These were men who lived in chaos and thrived in it.
Severin's group arrived last—fewer in number, but sharper, refined. Men and women in dark coats, silent as they moved. These were professionals: killers and merchants who knew the value of silence as well as blood.
The three groups stood apart at first, measuring one another. Predators, all of them.
Then Rayon's strings flicked through the air, sharp enough to snap attention.
"From this moment," he said, "you are not gangs. You are not strays. You are threads of the same Web. And every thread connects back to me."
A hush fell over the estate. No one challenged him. Not with Cairo smirking like a devil at his side, and Severin's eyes gleaming like a shark's in the dark.
The Web began to take shape. The manor's halls were stripped and reforged—training grounds in the courtyards, hidden armories in the basements, tunnels beneath the earth for escape or ambush. Rooms were repurposed: Cairo carved out an arena where blood would flow for sport and discipline, Severin set up a war room dripping with maps and coin-ledgers, and Rayon claimed the highest tower as his throne of strings.
It wasn't just an estate. It was a fortress of shadows.
But shadows draw shadows.
Far from the estate, in the silence of a ruined chapel, the Sanctum of Veils gathered. A masked figure dipped a blade in black oil, whispering words older than kings. Another lit candles that flickered green, shadows stretching unnaturally long.
Armand Veyth, the high agent, raised a scroll. On it, three names written in crimson ink bled into the parchment: Rayon Veynar. Severin Dros. Cairo Vale.
He pressed the scroll to the flame. The parchment didn't burn. It dissolved into smoke. The names hung in the air like whispers.
"The Web is born," Armand murmured, "and we will burn it strand by strand until nothing remains."
That night, as the Obsidian Web settled into their new stronghold, a shadow already crept across their gates. Not Hunters this time. Something older. Something hungrier.