The chamber was cold; its walls lined with faded symbols that pulsed faintly like the slow beat of a hidden heart. The Puppeteer stood in the centre, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes on the sigil carved into the floor. The candle flames danced, but they burned black instead of gold, as though feeding on the air's fear.
He had already seen too much resistance from Mukul and his allies. They were clever, and worse—they were unpredictable. The last confrontation had cost him resources, pawns he had nurtured for years. He could not allow another mistake.
"The board has shifted," he murmured, voice sharp but almost amused. "If they wish to test my patience, let them face something beyond their imagination."
He knelt, touching one of the sigils. A ripple spread through the floor like water disturbed by a stone. Shadows thickened in the corners of the room, twisting and bending as though alive.
From the darkness, a presence stirred—old, hungry, and waiting.
"You have been asleep long enough," the Puppeteer whispered, his tone both commanding and reverent. "It is time you walked again in this world."
The shadows convulsed, forming the vague shape of a tall figure. Slowly, it took form—a man with skin pale as bone, eyes like pits of ember, and an aura that carried the suffocating weight of death itself.
The Puppeteer's lips curved into a thin smile. "My lieutenant… my Phantom Warden."
The figure's head tilted slightly, studying him in silence. Then a voice emerged, low and echoing, as if spoken from the depths of a tomb. "You dare summon me after so long. For what purpose?"
"To hunt the light that grows too bright," the Puppeteer answered without hesitation. "There are those who challenge me, who believe they can untangle my strings. I need them broken—one by one."
The Phantom Warden's grin was all teeth, sharp and cruel. "And what of their leader?"
The Puppeteer's smile hardened. "Mukul is not ready to die. Not yet. Fear must soak into him first, into his allies, until they begin to doubt their very steps. You will test their resolve. Push them to the edge."
The Warden's shadowy cloak rippled like liquid night, stretching across the floor. "And if they do not break?"
"Then," the Puppeteer said softly, eyes glinting with cold certainty, "we will strip away their hope, layer by layer, until surrender becomes mercy."
A silence followed, heavy and absolute. Then the Warden bowed his head ever so slightly. "Very well. Show me their names. Their faces. Their weaknesses."
The Puppeteer extended his hand, and thin threads of crimson light coiled from his fingertips, weaving an intricate pattern in the air. Each thread shaped into an image—Mukul, Kavya, Aaradhya, and others who stood by them. Their forms hovered, glowing faintly against the darkness.
"Memorise them," the Puppeteer commanded. "They are the obstacles between me and what is mine. Begin with the weakest. Make their fall loud enough that the strongest tremble."
The Warden studied the faces with eyes that gleamed like dying embers. "It will be done."
The chamber grew darker still, and the sigils pulsed in a frenzy as the Warden's presence spread, spilling out like a flood. The Puppeteer watched him fade into the shadows, a predator unleashed.
For the first time in weeks, the Puppeteer felt something close to satisfaction.
He whispered to the darkness, almost like a prayer: "Let the game truly begin."