LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — THRESHOLD HALLS, MAIN ATRIUM
Lucan returned through the veil of shadows like a ghost that hadn't been buried deep enough.
The Hollow Creed's base pulsed low with whispering runes and torchlight that never flickered right. Eyes followed him—not out of kinship, but calculation. A weapon had returned. Still sharp, but possibly... unstable.
He walked alone.
Ezekar Nythe and the Umbra Seat had already vanished, back to Shadereach—their obsidian fortress nestled in the cliffs beyond mortal reach. No fanfare. No farewell.
Only a message, passed by ravenstone and sealed with ash:
> "He's not yours. But I'll watch what he becomes."
It echoed in Lucan's mind louder than most things dared to lately.
The Creed didn't welcome him like a hero. There were no cheers. No shared drinks. No clasped arms. Just nods from masked sentinels and the quiet, reverent way they stepped aside—as if unsure whether he still bled.
He noticed Verrick was absent.
Good.
He wasn't ready to lie just yet.
A few Creed acolytes bowed, stiff and quick. The same ones who'd spoken of him as a Ritebreaker. Now? They avoided his eyes.
Even the walls seemed colder.
Lucan walked deeper into the atrium halls, cloak dragging ash in his wake. His system hovered in the corner of his vision, silent but burning. The glyph behind his eyes still faintly pulsed.
He was back.
But he wasn't theirs anymore.
And somehow, they knew it.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — INNER WAR ROOM, SECOND LEVEL
Whispers moved faster than orders.
Lucan's return sparked unease, not celebration. And when word spread that Ezekar Nythe himself had fought beside him—shoulder to shoulder in blood and shadow—the Creed fractured along old fault lines.
"He stood with the Umbra Seat," one acolyte muttered.
"Or the Umbra Seat stood with him," another whispered back.
In the war room, maps lay untouched as arguments simmered beneath the surface.
Some of the Inner Circle—those who still bore scars from Lucan's earlier insubordination—voiced concerns: Was he still Hollow Creed? Or had the Umbra branded him something else? Something darker?
Others—fewer, but louder—insisted that anyone who could make Ezekar Nythe pause... anyone who could survive the Rite, break a divine trap, and return stronger...
He was too valuable to doubt.
Too dangerous to cage.
Rivenna sat at the edge of the chamber, back straight, eyes sharp as cut obsidian. She said nothing. Offered no defense. No loyalty. No betrayal.
Just watched.
Measured.
Her silence was heavier than any accusation.
When one of the commanders turned to her—"What do you say, Rivenna? You were there"—she looked at him like he'd asked her to predict the end of the world.
"I say nothing," she replied.
"Because nothing is safe to say?"
"No," she said. "Because he's still changing."
The room fell into uneasy quiet.
Outside, Lucan stood at the threshold of the chamber, hearing every word.
He didn't step in.
He didn't need to.
Let them wonder.
Let them fear what he might become.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — TRAINING CHAMBER, MONTHS AGO
The clang of metal against metal echoed beneath stone arches, mixing with the rasp of breath and the low hum of Creed chants in distant halls.
Lucan stumbled.
Blood smeared his lip. His system had just glitched—again—and the trial overseers didn't care.
"Get up," the instructor barked.
Lucan's hand clenched around the training blade, his limbs shaking from three hours of relentless sparring. Every move felt borrowed. Every breath, taxed.
The other Creed initiates kept their distance.
All but one.
A hand extended into Lucan's line of sight—calloused, bruised, open.
"You're either going to fall again," Jareth Solen said, smirking, "or you're going to prove me right."
Lucan blinked. "Right about what?"
"That you're not a ghost. You're a hammer that forgot what metal feels like."
Lucan took the hand.
That was the first time anyone in the Creed helped him up.
---
Later, during a punishment trial—when Lucan's rage had nearly gotten another recruit killed—he was dragged before the Hall of Censure, barely conscious.
Most called for exile.
But Jareth stood before them, defiant.
"If he dies now," he said, eyes burning, "we don't lose a mistake. We lose something bigger than a recruit. We lose the only one in this rot who hasn't bowed to a throne or Creed."
Silence followed.
And the sentence was reduced to scars.
---
Back in the present—Lucan stood in a shadowed corridor outside the Inner War Room, heart unreadable. Eyes colder.
He didn't know yet.
Didn't know what Verrick had planned.
Didn't know who Verrick would send.
But the memory flickered through him like a dying star.
Jareth.
The one person he'd called brother here.
And the only one who might still get close enough to kill him.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — COUNCIL CHAMBER, ECHO HALL
The chamber reeked of old iron and older grudges.
Seven figures sat in a crescent—each a voice of authority, masked or veiled, watching Lucan like he was both prophecy and plague. The Umbra Seat was gone, the banner of Shadereach removed from the wall. No more safety net. No more allies outside this room.
Lucan stood alone before the Council dais.
The charges weren't spoken aloud—because they weren't real.
But the implication was clear:
"Is he still one of us?"
Verrick, ever the statesman, stood in the half-light beside the center podium.
"We ask not for judgment," he said smoothly, "only clarity. Power has shifted. Ranks have bent. And some among us—" his gaze flicked to Lucan, "—grow faster than reason allows."
Lucan said nothing.
The silence wasn't surrender.
It was strategy.
"We propose an observation period," Verrick continued. "No condemnation. No exile. Just... accountability."
Murmurs. Hesitant nods.
Rivenna shifted against the stone railing above, arms folded, gaze sharp. She said nothing—but her silence wasn't neutral. It was loaded.
Too loaded.
Lucan caught her eye.
And then—
A voice from the side: "I'll observe him."
Jareth Solen stepped forward.
Cloaked. Calm. Convincing.
"The Creed trusts me. Lucan once did too."
Lucan blinked.
Just once.
Then nodded, slowly.
"Fine."
Rivenna didn't react outwardly. But her jaw tightened. Just enough.
She didn't trust this. Neither did Lucan.
But sometimes, the best way to kill a lie... is to let it think it's winning.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — INNER SANCTUM, BELOW THE VEILED HALL
The sanctum stank of old rites and older blood.
Verrick stood beneath a rusted sigil of the Hollow—its eye cracked, its edges sharpened.
Jareth knelt before him, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade—not as threat, but promise.
Verrick didn't pace. He didn't shout.
He whispered.
"He trusts you."
A beat.
"That's what makes you perfect."
He stepped into the circle of shadow between them, eyes catching only the faintest torchlight.
"No warnings this time. No politics. No trials."
He leaned in.
"Kill him."
The words cut colder than any blade.
Jareth didn't flinch.
Verrick placed something in his palm—a sigil coin, bearing the glyph of the Rite, cracked down the middle.
"When it's done… burn this."
Jareth rose in silence.
And walked into the dark.