CHAPTER 11
[AT THE ABANDONED HOME IN THE WOODS]
Amid the mounting chaos, the Six remained suspended in a trance-like state—motionless, silent, and utterly removed from themselves. Their bodies leaned backward at angles that mocked the laws of gravity, spines arched far beyond what bone and muscle should permit. They did not fall. They did not tremble. It was as though unseen hands held them aloft, cradling their bodies in a terrible, reverent stillness.
Minutes passed.
Nothing changed.
Their eyes remained drained of color, pupils swallowed by pale white voids that reflected nothing of the world around them. The chanting continued—not from will, not from consciousness, but from somewhere deeper, older. Their lips moved in perfect unison, shaping syllables that no longer belonged to any known tongue. The air around them felt thick, compressed, as though the room itself were holding its breath.
And then—
The scene shifted.
[AT THE FOSTER HOME]
The foster home glowed warmly against the encroaching darkness of the night. Inside, laughter rang through the halls as the remaining twelve children busied themselves setting the dining table. It stretched far longer than usual, polished to a near-perfect sheen, its length carefully measured to accommodate twelve chairs—six on each side.
Ms. Ren and Calista moved efficiently, placing dish after dish onto the table. This was no ordinary meal. Platters of food, rich in color and aroma, filled every available space. The scent alone made mouths water. To the children, it felt unreal—like something pulled from a storybook. A feast meant for kings. Or nobles.
Excitement buzzed in the air, contagious and bright.
For the twelve, it felt like celebration.
For the first time in their lives, they were being honored like this. Laughter spilled freely, their joy loud enough to almost drown out the distant thunder rolling across the sky. For a fleeting moment, the looming storm above the city felt irrelevant. The night might have been dark, but inside the foster home, everything felt warm.
Perfect.
Almost.
Haru stood apart.
She smiled when others smiled, laughed when laughter reached her ears—but something inside her refused to settle. A quiet unease tugged at her chest, persistent and insistent. This night could not be perfect. Not when the Six were absent.
They were family.
And families did not celebrate without one another.
As the final dishes were arranged and the candles prepared, Haru's restlessness finally pushed her to act. Slipping away unnoticed, she made her way toward the Six's room. Surely they had returned by now. Surely they had snuck back in.
But the room was empty.
The beds untouched.
Her heart sank.
She turned toward the window—and froze.
At first, her vision blurred, her eyes struggling to adjust. She stepped closer and pushed the window open. Cold wind rushed in, biting against her skin and sending a shiver down her spine. The night sky revealed itself fully then—thick, murky clouds stretched endlessly overhead, churning unnaturally fast.
And in the distance…
Haru squinted.
Far beyond the treeline, the clouds seemed to spiral, converging around a single point. The darkness there looked heavier. Denser. As though the sky itself was folding inward.
That was the direction the Six had gone.
Her unease sharpened into fear.
She leaned forward—
And suddenly felt hands on her shoulders.
She gasped, spinning around in alarm.
Nayeli stood behind her.
She wore a gentle smile, warm and reassuring, as if she had always been there. As if she hadn't appeared without sound, without warning.
Haru tried to speak—tried to explain—but Nayeli interrupted softly, her tone light.
"Dinner's ready," she said. "Everyone's waiting for you."
Something about it felt wrong.
Haru hesitated. Nayeli hadn't asked about the Six. Hadn't questioned their absence. Hadn't even glanced at the sky.
When Haru pointed toward the clouds, Nayeli laughed it off with a playful shrug.
"Just rain clouds," she said easily.
And then guided her away.
[THE DINING HALL]
The sight that greeted Haru stole her breath.
The table was immaculate. Dishes of every kind filled its surface, steam rising gently into the air. At the center of the table, several black candles burned steadily, their flames unnaturally still despite the absence of drafts.
The room was already brightly lit.
The candles felt… unnecessary.
Eleven children were seated, eyes wide with wonder, hands folded impatiently. They turned toward Haru with bright smiles, eager for her to take her place so they could begin.
She paused.
There were twelve chairs.
Only twelve.
No extra seats.
No room for the Six.
The realization sent a chill through her.
Slowly, carefully, Haru walked to her seat. With each step, awareness crept in. She studied the foster guardians—Ms. Alice, Ms. Ren, Nayeli, and Calista—standing together at the far end of the room.
Their smiles were flawless.
Too flawless.
Something about them felt hollow, as though the warmth they projected was painted on. Haru couldn't explain it—not fully—but she felt it in her bones.
Still, she sat.
The children gave thanks. The meal began.
They ate with joy, savoring every bite, laughter rising again. To them, it was a night they would remember forever.
Haru barely touched her food.
Her eyes drifted, again and again, to the four guardians watching them eat.
Waiting.
Halfway through the meal, Ms. Alice stepped forward, carrying a stack of papers. One by one, she placed a sheet before each child.
Latin.
Strange, unfamiliar phrases written in careful script.
Confusion rippled through the table.
Calista smiled gently.
"Just a small assignment," she said. "I want you all to recite it together. You've all been learning Latin for this reason, for a day like this."
There were murmurs of reluctant agreement. The timing felt odd, but no one wanted to complain—not when dinner waited just beyond.
All except Haru.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
This wasn't right.
Assignments didn't happen during meals.
She scanned the words again. On the surface, nothing seemed unusual. Just Latin.
Yet her heart raced.
Somewhere, far beyond the foster home, dark clouds spiraled tighter around an abandoned house in the woods.
And whatever had been set into motion—
Was no longer waiting.
After all twelve children had received their copies, they began to read aloud.
At first, it was hesitant—voices uneven, uncertain. Then the words repeated. Again. And again. The sound settled into a rhythm, a chant spoken in unison, steady and unnatural in its harmony.
Haru chanted too.
She didn't understand why.
Her eyes moved from face to face around the table, searching for discomfort, confusion—anything. But the others seemed fine. Some wore neutral expressions. A few even smiled faintly, as if this were no more than a harmless exercise.
That was when Haru noticed the first change.
The air grew colder.
A low rumble of thunder rolled outside, distant at first, then closer—heavier. Lightning flashed through the windows in violent streaks, illuminating the dining hall in harsh, fleeting light. The glass began to rattle, trembling as though the house itself were afraid.
Haru turned toward the four foster guardians.
She expected alarm.
She found none.
Ms. Alice. Ms. Ren. Nayeli. Calista.
They stood perfectly still, hands folded, smiling serenely as chaos unfolded around them. Their expressions did not flicker. Did not crack. It was as though the storm, the thunder, the shaking windows simply did not exist.
Fear tightened in Haru's chest.
The way they smiled—calm, pleased, expectant—felt wrong. Inhuman. A chill crawled down her spine as the chanting continued, louder now, faster.
She tried to stop.
She couldn't.
Her lips moved without her permission. The words poured out of her mouth against her will, each syllable tearing at her from the inside. Panic surged as she looked down at her own hands, stiff and unresponsive, her body no longer hers to command.
She glanced at the others.
What she saw made her stomach drop.
Their eyes were paling—draining of color until only a sickly white remained. Their bodies stiffened, trembling violently as if something inside them was fighting to get out. Veins rose sharply beneath their skin, dark and twisted, pulsing in time with the chant.
They were suffering.
And so was she.
Haru felt it overtaking her—her muscles locking, her breath growing shallow, pain blooming behind her eyes. The chanting grew unbearable, the pressure inside her skull mounting—
Bang.
A sudden, heavy sound slammed against the table.
Then another.
And another.
With the last of her strength, Haru turned her head.
One by one, the children collapsed forward, heads striking the table before them as their bodies went limp. They fell like dominoes, consciousness stolen mid-breath. Their faces were frozen in agony and disbelief—expressions of betrayal etched into their features. Tears streamed freely down unmoving cheeks.
Haru's breath hitched.
It was her turn.
The realization crushed her.
The people who had raised them. Protected them. Loved them.
Had done this.
Her vision blurred. Her body felt hollow, as though something essential was being drained away. Around her, the family she had known all her life lay motionless, lifeless.
She turned her head away from the fallen eleven and looked at the four women standing across the table.
They were still smiling.
Still watching.
Understanding struck her then—sharp and unbearable. The weight of it pressed down on her chest, stealing what little strength she had left.
Her eyes met theirs.
Her expression asked a single, silent question.
Why?
One tear escaped her eye—the only one her body could afford.
Then her strength failed.
She tried to force a very faint smile right before—
Her head struck the table with a dull final sound. Her eyes remained open as tears spilled freely, pooling among the untouched dishes.
The feast ended in silence.
And so closed the second chapter.
[AT THE ABANDONED HOME]
At the very moment the last child fell, the Six were drawn elsewhere.
Their bodies never left the abandoned building—but their consciousness did.
Each of them found themselves alone, suspended in a place that had once been absolute darkness. Then, without warning, torches ignited—one by one—lining a vast path that stretched farther than sight could reach. Massive white pillars rose on either side, towering and endless, fading into shadow above.
The air was heavy with age.
With history.
With inevitability.
It dawned on them all at once.
The ritual had succeeded.
They stood within TheGreat Tombs of Constelli.
And now, resurrection was no longer a theory.
It was only a matter of time.