In the hour before sunrise, when night still clings to the soil like an old regret, Verden becomes quiet in a way that feels personal.
You don't hear the birds.
You don't hear the wind.
You don't even hear yourself breathe.
It is the kind of silence that reminds you of the moment after a loved one dies -
when the world keeps going,
but your soul doesn't.
That was the silence that wrapped itself over Crescent City this morning.
A silence that did not arrive naturally.
It was carried.
He walked through the dawn with a cane tapping softly against the polished stone road, each step measured like a man accounting for his sins. His suit, midnight black, pressed with reverence, didn't sway in the breeze because the breeze itself refused to move.
The Quiet King had returned from another night of cleaning the world of its small cruelties.
And the silence followed him like a loyal dog.
People watched from windows, but none dared speak. No one ever spoke when he walked. Not out of fear, fear feels cheap, but out of the heavy respect that comes when someone has buried more wars than most have read about.
He moved toward the Covenant Hall, the ancient marble giant that guarded Crescent City's heart. It was said the hall had no echo, because echoes were a luxury. In this place, even sound felt humbled.
As he approached the stairs, a young messenger sprinted into view, panting, breath tearing in and out of his chest. When he saw the Quiet King, he froze mid-step as if he'd suddenly forgotten how legs worked.
"Sir, the Elders' Council... they request your presence. There was a ..."
The Quiet King lifted one finger.
Not to silence him.
But to soften the world.
The messenger felt his throat close gently, not in pain, but in a way that said: you've spoken enough; breathe now.
The young man swallowed hard, nodded, and backed away, trembling.
The Quiet King continued up the steps, breath calm, heart steady, the rhythm of a man who had lived too long and endured too much.
But inside him, Nocturne stirred.
A whisper of regret,
a quiet ache,
a familiar presence tapping at the edge of his ribs like a memory wanting attention.
He pushed open the doors.
And the silence inside the hall bowed.
The Elders were waiting.
Twelve old souls, each carrying sadness so profound it could have been sculpted. Their eyes spoke more than their mouths ever could.
One Elder, a woman whose hair fell like burnt silver, addressed him.
"Grandmaster... the Covenant has been breached."
The Quiet King tightened his grip on the cane.
Not in anger.
But in recognition.
He had been expecting this.
"Which House?" his voice came low, carrying weight like a slow drum.
"Not a House," she whispered.
"A shadow."
A hush rippled through the room, not fear, but that strange pressure that comes when truth walks in uninvited.
The Elder continued:
"One of our Wardens... disappeared. His records... gone. His name... gone."
Her voice cracked.
"He has been taken by the Forgotten."
The Quiet King closed his eyes.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he knew what always followed when the Forgotten started moving.
Balance was shifting.
Something was coming.
He opened his eyes, and silence poured out of them.
"Prepare the Covenant," he said, voice soft but absolute.
"There will be more."
The Elders nodded.
But before anyone could respond,
a laugh echoed through the chamber.
A loud, joyful, absolutely misplaced laugh.
The doors swung wider, and a man strolled in barefoot, grinning ear to ear, hands behind his head like he'd just woken up from the world's best nap.
The Smiling Gentleman.
Gold earrings.
Loose, wrinkled white shirt.
Eyes sparkling like mischief trying to behave.
"Yoh, you okes look tense," he said, waving lazily. "What, someone die? oh wait, don't answer, I like surprises."
The Elders tensed.
The Quiet King didn't.
Silence bent around the two men like a bowing servant.
The Smiling Gentleman leaned against a column, still beaming.
"Grandmaster," he said. "You feel it too, neh? That thing in the air...
that...
shift."
He wiggled his eyebrows dramatically.
The Quiet King held his gaze.
"Nightfall stirs," he said.
The Smiling Gentleman's smile softened, just for a heartbeat, revealing a depth he never showed anyone else.
"Ah," he murmured. "So it begins."
The Quiet King turned toward the great window overlooking Crescent City.
Below, the world looked peaceful.
Beautiful.
Innocent.
But peace never lasted in Verden's Reach.
Not when grief held so many names.
And somewhere out there...
far beyond the gleaming rooftops, beyond the House territories, beyond even the reach of the Church...
a young man named Isaiah Saul opened his eyes, unaware that his life, his shame, his exile, his wound.
was about to collide with the Quiet King's silence
and the Smiling Gentleman's dangerous joy.
The first domino had fallen.
And Verden would never breathe the same again.