The rain drummed steadily against the roof of the dark sedan, a constant, muted rhythm that filled the silence between words. Inside, shadows pooled along the floor mats and under the seats, stirred only by the occasional flicker of passing streetlights outside. The city of Axon blurred by beyond the rain-smeared windows—pale storefronts, shuttered homes, and flickering neon signs melting into distorted ribbons of color.
Andrew sat in the backseat, foot tapping anxiously against the carpeted floor, the motion growing more agitated with each passing minute. He glanced outside. The droplets running down the glass warped the world beyond, but he could still see enough—narrow streets twisting through the old city, slick with water and almost empty. They were close to home now. Just an hour from Nimerath. Two days of driving through cities and vast forests, past border checkpoints and through Aegis League waystations, had left them weary but tense.
He leaned his head back with a sigh, dragging a hand through his damp hair, fingers pausing as if caught in thought.
On the seat beside him, Camael lay reclined, small limbs stretched out like a cat, eyes half-lidded but still alert beneath heavy lashes.
"It's going to be fine," Camael murmured, his voice calm, almost sleepy—as if he could sense the storm roiling in Andrew's chest without needing to look.
Andrew didn't reply right away. The words barely registered before a darker current rose to the surface.
"What if it won't be?" he muttered, voice sharp, raw with frustration. "One of our longest-serving operatives—dead. Murdered. And the only thing we've got is a name. Not even a full one. Just a damn title. 'Oblivion Syndicate.' That's all."
He slammed his fist down on the armrest with a loud crack, splitting it clean through. The broken plastic creaked under the force.
"Hey, I'm just as pissed about all this as the next guy," came a dry voice from the driver's seat. "But could you not wreck the car? You know Luna's going to skin you alive if she finds out."
Andrew let out a long breath. "Sorry, George. I'm just—"
"Pissed. Yeah. Believe me, I get it," George replied without turning. The hum of the engine filled the momentary lull. "But anger doesn't get us anywhere right now. What are we supposed to do? March into the Syndicate's den without intel and hope they hand us an address?"
Andrew's jaw clenched. "That's what pisses me off the most. Luna wants us to sit on our hands while these people butcher our operatives. No—our friends. Gregory wasn't just some pawn on a board. He had a family. He trained half our new recruits. And we just let his killers vanish into the dark."
"You're not wrong," Camael murmured, finally sitting upright. His silver eyes reflected faint streetlight. "But we follow orders. That's the structure. That's what's kept the Aegis League standing this long. You know what happens when people go rogue. You've seen it."
Andrew looked at him, biting back another retort. He had. Too many times.
"Well, now you're the voice of reason?" George chuckled. "What happened to the good old days when you were the first one to leap out of a moving car if it meant chasing a lead?"
Camael huffed, arms folding over his chest. "I've matured. Deal with it."
Andrew gave a hollow laugh, but his expression didn't soften. "I can't stop thinking about him. Gregory. And the kid."
"Andrew has recently adopted a young boy named Caspian," Camael said with a smirk, earning a groan from Andrew."Family life—now that's the last thing I thought you'd be in," George chuckled, eyes flicking to the mirror."But seriously, is the kid alright?" he asked after a beat, tone softening.
Andrew hesitated, then muttered, "I don't know… and that's what bothers me."
Andrew nodded slowly. "He saw it happen. He saw Gregory die. The body. He hasn't even been with us for more than a few weeks, and he's already knee-deep in blood."
"He didn't seem too shaken, honestly," Camael said. "Quiet. Focused. Like someone who's seen worse."
"That's just speculation," Andrew muttered.
"Maybe," Camael conceded. "But it's a feeling. There's a weight in that kid. Doesn't speak much, but when he does—it's like he already knows how bad people can be."
"Still," Andrew said, his voice low, "he's young. And if the Oblivion Syndicate is involved, then things are going to get worse. We've seen nothing yet."
Silence settled for a moment. Only the rain spoke, whispering against the windshield in soft, endless conversation.
"I don't like being this helpless," Andrew said finally. "I've always known what to do—always had orders, options, action. Now it's like we're blindfolded, walking toward a cliff."
George turned the wheel slightly, guiding the sedan around a wide curve. "Then maybe it's time we take off the blindfold."
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "You suggesting we ignore Luna?"
"I'm saying," George replied carefully, "that Luna may be playing a long game. She always is. All we can do now is trust her like we always have"
Back in Nimerath
Caspian jolted upright in bed, heart racing, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin. For a moment, he couldn't breathe—still half-drowned in the whispering halls of the Library, where books bled secrets and nightmares walked like men. The remnants of the dream clung to him like cobwebs, reluctant to let go.
He looked around the room. It was just as he had left it the night before: the desk by the window cluttered with old files and scraps of paper, a cracked coffee mug half-full with cold tea, and the faint amber glow of a lamp he'd forgotten to turn off. The walls, covered in peeling paint and stray chalk markings, seemed to lean closer in the early light. Sunlight pierced through the drapes in narrow shafts, harsh and sterile—too bright for Nimerath, a city that wore shadows like a second skin.
"So, you're finally up. How was the dream?" a voice called lazily from above.
Caspian turned his head slowly, still shaking the weight of sleep. Zach was hanging upside-down from the railing of the loft, his head perfectly aligned with Caspian's as if gravity obeyed him out of habit. His wild white hair swung freely toward the floor, and the old, faded graphic tee he wore had twisted with the motion, revealing a torso laced with scars—some thin as threads, others jagged like lightning frozen mid-strike.
"It was… interesting," Caspian murmured, voice distant. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat still for a moment, collecting his thoughts.
"I thought you said it would be personal. You told me to prepare for something from my own life. But it wasn't. It was the Library. Just like Nathan said it would be."
Zach grinned, unapologetic. "Well, consider it a white lie."
With a fluid motion, he flipped down from the loft and landed in a crouch, rising with unnatural grace. The scars across his chest caught the morning light briefly before the shirt settled back into place.
"If I'd told you the truth," he continued, brushing his hair from his face, "you might've walked in there unguarded. Thought you could reason with it. That kind of mistake gets people killed, Caspian. The Library isn't just memory—it's menace. You had to treat it like a threat."
Caspian stood and crossed the room to the window. He drew the curtains wider, letting in more of the light he instinctively hated. Below, Nimerath stirred—a city yawning in shadows, its spires bent under the weight of fog. Rooftops shimmered faintly with dew, and far below, the trolleys had begun to move. Shopkeepers lifted metal shutters with practiced weariness. The city looked alive—but something in its stillness felt false.
A sudden shift in Zach's voice broke the quiet.
"Speaking of threats… who the hell is that?"
Caspian turned sharply.
In the velvet chair across the room sat Cain. His posture was relaxed, arms folded behind his head, feet resting on the side table with absolute indifference. His eyes—red as spilled wine—glinted in the light. He wore a simple black shirt now, paired with slacks, but even dressed down he looked like a sword waiting to be unsheathed.
"You brought that thing here?" Zach asked. The air had changed. His voice was no longer casual—it was sharp and cold, stripped of all the easy humor it usually carried.
"He's with me," Caspian said immediately.
Zach stared, unblinking. "That's a Nightmare, Caspian. Not a stray. Not some cursed toy you drag home to see if it purrs."
Cain raised an eyebrow. "The hell did you just call me?"
The blade appeared in Zach's hand like breath misting from cold air—thin, silver, impossibly sharp. He held it at a slight angle, every part of him ready to strike.
Cain rose, his expression unreadable. The temperature in the room plummeted. Shadows coiled faintly at his back, alive and moving without light. His eyes flickered like embers in wind.
"You want to try it?" he growled.
"Enough!" Caspian's voice cracked through the tension like a whip.
Both froze.
Caspian stepped between them, every muscle taut. His heart thudded once—hard.
Zach turned to him, incredulous. "You're protecting it?"
"He works for me now," Caspian said. "We struck a deal. He's not a threat unless you make him one."
Zach didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on Cain, who stood utterly still, watching.
"He's a Nightmare, Caspian. That means he is a threat. It's in his nature."
"And I've dealt with worse," Caspian said quietly. "He's my asset now. My problem. Not yours."
The two stared at each other for a long, tense moment.
Finally, Zach exhaled sharply and let the blade dissolve into vapor. It shimmered once and vanished.
"Fine," he muttered. "But if he makes one wrong move—"
"I'll kill you myself," Cain interrupted, smiling faintly as he sat back down.
"Great," Zach muttered. "We're all friends now."
The room had gone quiet after their near-fight, the air thick with tension no one dared acknowledge. Zach turned on the TV, feigning interest in the local news while casting occasional glances at the others. Cain had dozed off in the armchair, arms folded, shadows curling faintly around him as he slept. Caspian sat by the window with a book open in his lap, eyes barely scanning the page. None of them spoke. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was strained, like a string pulled too tight. Each kept to their own corner, retreating inward, waiting for something to break the stillness.
Caspian abruptly closed the book in his hands, the sound sharp in the tense silence. He stood, pulled on his shoes, and without a word, made his way to the door. His expression was unreadable, his movements deliberate.
Zach glanced up just as the door creaked open.
"Hey, where are you going?" he called out.
But Caspian didn't respond. The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Zach let out a long, irritated sigh and slumped back onto the couch, grabbing the remote again.
"I blame you entirely," he muttered, glaring at Cain.
"What did I do?" Cain snapped, sitting up from where he'd been lounging. "He's the one who walked out."
"You fought with me and made him leave!" Zach retorted, tossing the remote onto the cushions.
"What are you talking about? You fought with me!" Cain fired back, rising to his feet.
They both stood for a moment, shoulders squared, eyes locked—tension rising like a second storm.
Then Zach exhaled and dropped back down onto the couch with a weary grunt. "You're not worth my time, little Nightmare," he said, smirking.
Cain scoffed. "Who the hell are you calling little, geezer? You were a famous Devourer trainer, and then—poof—you vanished. You're old news."
Zach narrowed his eyes. "How do you even know that?"
Cain grinned smugly. "Us Nightmares stay informed. Especially when it comes to the Devourers."
"At least I was famous," Zach shot back. "You're just a third-rate Nightmare Caspian decided not to kill."
The argument devolved quickly, filled with sharp jabs and increasingly petty insults. They went back and forth for nearly half an hour, neither giving ground.
Eventually, Zach leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Let's just agree to disagree."
"Fine," Cain muttered, crossing his arms. "For the kid's sake."
"For the kid's sake," Zach echoed, quieter this time.