The room had no windows.
No symbols.
No candles.
No theatrics.
Just darkness—thick, deliberate—pressed against black stone walls that absorbed sound instead of reflecting it.
Twelve figures sat along a long obsidian table.
White robes. Immaculate. Untouched.
Hoods drawn low enough to hide faces, but not posture—each of them rigid, alert, restrained.
At the far end of the chamber, opposite a massive black screen embedded into the wall, stood an empty chair.
No one sat near it.
No one looked at it.
The air itself felt… expectant.
One of the white-robed figures finally broke the silence.
"The summoning was compromised."
Another answered immediately.
"A werewolf awakened during the ritual."
A pause.
"without a Full moon," a third added. "Unexpected event but. A true awakening."
Murmurs rippled across the table—controlled, but uneasy.
"And the massacre?" one asked quietly.
The answer came colder.
"Our finest operatives were eliminated."
"By a single wolf."
Silence fell again—this time heavier.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Measured.
Each step carried weight, not volume.
The door at the far end of the chamber opened.
A figure entered.
Unlike the others, his robe was black—not dyed, not stitched, but absorbing light. The fabric seemed older than the room itself, hanging with unnatural stillness.
Every white-robed figure rose instantly.
Chairs scraped back in perfect unison.
They bowed.
Deep. Absolute.
The black-robed figure did not acknowledge them until he reached the empty chair.
He sat.
Only then did he speak.
His voice was ancient—not loud, not harsh—but layered, as if time itself echoed behind every word.
"Gentlemen,"
"please… take your seats."
Chairs slid back. Robes settled.
No one dared speak first.
The black-robed figure leaned back slightly, fingers resting on the arm of the chair.
"Let us dispense with pleasantries," he said calmly.
"Report."
One of the white-robed figures inclined his head.
"As you anticipated, sir—the summoning ritual was a success."
"In fact… more successful than projected."
The black-robed figure leaned forward.
"Oh?"
"Do enlighten me."
The robed figure continued, careful with every word.
"The entity we summoned confirmed that the Veil was stripped of its physical anchor."
"The act was performed by an angel."
The room shifted.
Not panic.
Not disbelief.
Calculation.
The black-robed figure's fingers tightened slightly.
"An angel," he repeated.
"Intervening directly in the human plane."
A pause.
"The last time that occurred," he said quietly,
"was nearly a millennium ago."
He tilted his head.
"What compelled such interference?"
Another white-robed figure spoke.
"The summoned entity claimed the Veil was breached—from the other side."
"When we pressed for specifics… it refused to elaborate."
A murmur this time—uncontrolled.
The black-robed figure exhaled slowly.
"Curious."
He tapped one finger against the chair's arm.
"Demons do not withhold information that promises escalation."
"And they certainly do not decline chaos willingly."
His voice lowered.
"This was not a matter of insufficient offerings."
Silence confirmed agreement.
"Nevertheless," he continued,
"the breach remains unresolved."
He leaned forward again.
"And whoever crossed the Veil is still here."
A third robed figure straightened.
"We investigated immediately, sir."
The black-robed figure gestured once.
"Proceed."
"When the angel severed the Veil's physical anchor," the figure said,
"the anchor revealed itself."
The massive screen at the far end of the chamber flickered to life.
Grainy footage filled the darkness.
An aerial view of the Russian Sea.
Then—
An island.
Appearing out of nothing.
Rock. Ruins. Twisted geography that didn't obey perspective.
The footage ended.
Another robed figure said "There is more sir"
The screen came alive again.
This footage was different.
Clinical.
Sterile white walls. Harsh lights. Observation glass.
A man restrained on a reinforced table—barely conscious, chest rising slowly.
Scientists surrounded him. Not witches.
Doctors. Surgeons. Men who believed in instruments, not ritual.
The footage fast-forwarded.
A scalpel pressed into skin.
No reaction.
The blade cut deeper.
The wound closed.
Seamlessly.
A limb—severed.
The body convulsed once.
Then—
Regeneration.
Bone knit. Flesh returned. Skin smoothed as if nothing had been taken.
The room remained silent.
Fire followed.
Controlled. Calculated.
The man burned.
Charred.
Motionless.
Then—again—
regeneration.
The black-robed figure let out a quiet sound.
Not laughter.
Interest.
"Oh," he murmured.
"Where is he?"
A white-robed figure hesitated.
"Sir… there is another recording you should see."
The footage changed.
Same facility.
Same man.
This time—
He stood.
Bare feet on blood-streaked tile.
Eyes open.
Aware.
The restraints lay twisted behind him.
What followed was chaos.
Not elegant.
Not ritualistic.
Savage.
He moved through the room like an animal that had learned cruelty late and fast—too fast for cameras to track properly.
People ran.
They didn't make it.
The footage cut abruptly.
Static.
Silence.
The black-robed figure leaned back.
A slow, satisfied smirk curved beneath the hood.
"Excellent."
One of the white-robed figures spoke carefully.
"We have been unable to locate him since."
"No sightings. No bodies. No magical residue."
The black-robed figure tilted his head.
"When was this recorded?"
"Approximately eighteen… perhaps nineteen months ago, sir."
Meanwhile
Back at the school inside the principal office.
Harvy sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes moving between Mark and Clara like he was deciding which headache would kill him first.
"A meeting?" he said flatly.
"You don't just announce a meeting and expect the world to rearrange itself. And for the record—"
he leaned back, unimpressed,
"—I don't believe in witches, magic, or whatever supernatural explanation you're about to offer."
Mark didn't flinch.
"That's fine," he said.
"We can prove it right now."
He glanced sideways.
"Clara. Do your thing."
Clara stared at him.
Long. Flat. Unamused.
"Are you and Simon related," she asked,
"or do all wolves share the same lack of self-preservation?"
Mark opened his mouth.
She didn't wait.
Clara raised her hand.
A flame bloomed above her palm—silent, steady, floating.
No fuel. No spark. No trick.
Just fire.
Harvy froze.
The color drained from his face.
" Whoa! What.....How is that—"
Mark cut in immediately.
"Sir, please. Lunch is almost over."
Harvy stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice—then turned back, frustration boiling over.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
"I already have a city, a school, and eight royal families breathing down my neck—and now this."
He stopped in front of them.
"You're asking me to contact the All Alpha," he said sharply,
"and inform the other eight families. That alone takes time. Formal notice. Preparation."
He exhaled.
"And don't even get me started on convincing the Hunters."
Clara extinguished the flame without ceremony.
"That's fine," she said calmly.
"Just inform me when the formalities are complete."
"We'll be ready."
Mark rubbed his face.
"Great," he muttered under his breath.
"Another banquet."
Harvy studied them both for a long moment.
Then, reluctantly—
"I'll see what I can do."
The bell rang in the distance.
Lunch was over.
And nothing about the world felt normal anymore.