The chamber was gilded like a cathedral, but dressed in modern excess—velvet curtains draped the high windows, golden chandeliers swayed from marble ceilings, and oil paintings of faceless men hung in judgment.
At the center, The Shepherd stood bare-chested before a tall mirror, as a small flock of silent maids buttoned him into his immaculate black suit. Their hands trembled slightly, never meeting his eyes.
Behind him, leaning with soldier's precision against the wall, was Black—The Hound, his personal Butler. Tall, scar-scarred, and brutal in posture, he adjusted the cuffs of his own suit as if preparing for battle.
Shepherd (quietly, watching his reflection):
"Why now, Black? For years, he watched me hunt. He let me bleed kingdoms dry. And only when I stood a breath away from Magnus... only now... does he stir."
Black:
"...I do not know, my Lord. The Father's will is not for us to question."
Shepherd's jaw tightened. The final clasp of his suit clicked shut, the dark fabric wrapping him like a crown of thorns.
Shepherd:
"Veyla has already been ordered to end him. Ren, the so-called Flame of Starborn. Stray Dawn will know their war is here. And Lithrium... will know despair."
The Shepherd's reflection smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He tilted his head, letting the golden chandelier light strike across his face.
The mask was gone.
His features were young—shockingly young. Barely eighteen. The smooth skin, the sharp cheekbones, the arrogant curve of his mouth—it all clashed violently with the weight of terror his name carried across kingdoms.
The maids bowed low and fled the chamber once their work was done, leaving silence.
Black stepped closer, voice lowered like a confession:
"My Lord... you had only one Key left. One step from Magnus. Why... did you return? Why come back home?"
The Shepherd's breath hitched. He didn't answer at first, eyes tracing the mirror until his own gaze blurred into shadow.
Then, finally—
Shepherd (voice low, tight):
"Because no one disobeys Father."
He spoke the word like a curse. Fear laced every syllable, hidden beneath his calm veneer.
Black's stone face betrayed nothing. But the smallest flicker in his gaze revealed what he already knew:
The Shepherd—terror of kingdoms, devourer of faith—was still just a child before him.
The one they called Father.
...
The mirror still held Shepherd's young face, that blend of arrogance and suppressed fear, when the chamber doors creaked open without a knock.
VEYLA slipped in, heels clacking like laughter. Draped in sleek black silk, cigarette holder dancing between her fingers though no smoke burned from it, she moved like a cat who knew she owned the room.
Veyla (sing-song):
"Time's up, little Sheppy. Daddy dearest has set the table. And guess what—"
She spun once, grinning too wide.
Veyla:
"Big Brothers and Big Sister will be there too~."
The Shepherd's smile faltered. His eyes sharpened into daggers.
Shepherd (coldly):
"...Why must I suffer the company of those unruly, self-centered, spoiled creatures?"
Veyla gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest.
Veyla:
"Oh, the venom! Careful, darling, you'll make me think you don't love family time."
Shepherd didn't answer, already adjusting his cuffs, face carved in stone. Black pushed off the wall, his presence filling the space like a looming executioner.
INT. MANSION HALLWAY – CONTINUOUS
The three stepped into the grand hallway, gilded with gold trim and lined with flickering lamps. The Shepherd walked at the center, Black a steady shadow to his right, and Veyla flitting playfully around them like a raven that had learned to dance.
Along the corridor, rows of men in black suits stood at attention. Scarred faces, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses, weapons concealed yet palpable in the air.
As the Shepherd passed, each bowed stiffly.
"M'Lord Shepherd, welcome home."
"It is an honor, my Lord."
"The House is whole again."
Their voices rose in unison, an eerie chorus of reverence.
The Shepherd barely acknowledged them, gaze fixed ahead, though his youth made the fear in their eyes feel all the heavier.
Veyla, meanwhile, pranced with glee, trailing her fingers along the polished walls.
Veyla:
"Ah, look at that, the prodigal son returns. Such love, such devotion. Makes me almost jealous."
Black shot her a glance but said nothing. Instead, he addressed the Shepherd in a low voice:
Black:
"My Lord, I must advise caution. Your words about your elder siblings... restrain them. They are older than you. They hold their own influence with the Father."
The Shepherd's lips curled into a faint smirk.
Shepherd (flatly):
"I will treat them as elders the day they act like it."
Veyla burst into a laugh, clapping her hands as though delighted by the rebellion.
The massive double doors of the dining chamber loomed ahead, tall as titans, carved in black oak and gilded with serpentine patterns of gold. The muffled clink of silverware and low voices echoed from within.
The Shepherd stopped. For the briefest moment, his hand lingered on the cuff of his sleeve, tightening it, a quiet ritual before stepping into the lion's den.
The three of them stood before the door.
The doors groaned open, spilling light into the hallway. The Shepherd stepped in first, his face young yet carved with shadows far older than his years. Black trailed silently beside him, Veyla spinning through the doorway with a mocking curtsy.
Inside, the dining chamber stretched vast and cathedral-like, a cathedral to decadence. Crystal chandeliers dripped with golden light. Velvet curtains sagged heavy with shadow. The great dining table stretched across the room like a battlefield—its surface polished black, laid with silver goblets, golden plates, and steaming dishes too rich to touch.
And at its head, seated beneath a canopy of crimson drapes, was The Father.
He was the picture of impossible youth, his skin smooth, his hair slicked back in a shining black cascade, his jaw lined sharp enough to cut glass. His suit was immaculate—black silk with gold chains dangling like serpents at his cuffs and collar. A single ruby gleamed at his tie pin, pulsing faintly like a beating heart.
He looked wholesome, almost gentle, swirling his glass of deep red "wine" as though nothing in the world pressed upon him. But his eyes betrayed the fa?ade. Ancient. Patient. Eternal. Eyes that had watched centuries burn.
He smiled warmly as Shepherd entered.
The Father (soft, smooth):
"Ah, my children... the flock is whole again."
The words spread across the chamber, wrapping around each of the gathered siblings like silk—and like a noose.
Carmilla, The Rose, lounged across her chair to the left of the Father, her red dress slit high to the thigh, her cigarette holder balanced loosely between painted fingers. Smoke curled lazily around her, perfumed with roses and poison.
She puffed delicately, then leaned across the table toward her brother.
Carmilla (drawling):
"Matthias, darling, you're slicing your steak too thin again. No wonder your contracts are always binding people to starvation. You cut everything so... cheap."
She giggled, a laugh that dripped like syrup and venom both.
At her side loomed Gallo the Bull, massive arms crossed, brass-knuckled fists glinting in the light. Behind him, Rinaldo the Snake leaned in to whisper something in her ear, making her smirk.
Across from her, Matthias, The Gentleman, straightened his pristine black suit. His golden cufflinks caught the light as he lifted his glass, posture flawless, every movement rehearsed elegance. His smile was razor-thin.
Matthias (smoothly):
"My dear sister, even a rose loses its fragrance when it wilts. Might I suggest... less wine before dinner? It keeps your tongue from withering."
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Carmilla (mock-gasping):
"Oh, heavens, did my boring brother just attempt wit? What a rare bloom indeed!"
She leaned over, flicking ash from her cigarette into his untouched soup, grinning wide as Matthias's jaw twitched.
Behind him, Nerezza the Velvet whispered encouragement with a silky smirk, while Ciro the Ace flipped a silver coin casually between his fingers, already taking bets with himself on who would snap first.
Matthias's eyes burned gold with irritation, but he kept smiling.
Matthias (strained):
"One day, Carmilla, your games will cost you dearly. Pray it isn't tonight."
Carmilla (mock-pouting):
"Ooh, how very scary. Tell me, brother, will you stab me with your contracts?"
Her laugh rang again, high and grating.
To the Father's right sat Silvano, The Ghost, hunched quietly, his silver hair falling like a veil over his pale face. He did not speak, only sat in awkward silence, shoulders slightly slumped.
At his side, Lucetta the Songbird cut his food with tender precision, feeding him forkfuls like he were a child. She dabbed his mouth delicately with a napkin when soup dribbled down his lip, her humming voice so soft it almost melted into the background.
Silvano blinked, shifting uncomfortably, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on his siblings, haunted, cautious—like a stray dog at a feast.
Behind him stood Tomaso the Undertaker, silent as a gravestone, his gloved hands resting atop the shovel-scythe like a priest awaiting confession.
The Shepherd approached, shoulders squared. The room stilled for just a heartbeat.
Carmilla leaned back, blowing smoke rings in his direction.
Carmilla (mocking):
"Oh, look, the little lamb has returned. I thought you'd still be off chasing fairy tales and failing spectacularly."
Matthias cut her off, voice sharp.
Matthias:
"Enough, Carmilla. He's our brother. You will show respect."
Carmilla (laughing):
"Respect? For the boy who thinks himself a prophet? Please, Matthias, you waste your manners on sheep."
The Shepherd's eyes flickered coldly, his youthful face shadowed by something far older. Black leaned close behind him, silent, watchful. Veyla grinned from his side, as if delighting in the chaos already brewing.
The Shepherd said nothing, simply moving toward his chair at the opposite end of the table, his gaze never leaving his Father's.
At last, The Father raised his hand. The room silenced instantly—smoke stilled, coin froze mid-air, forks paused before lips.
The Father smiled warmly, almost indulgent, his voice a soothing balm.
The Father:
"My beautiful children. Each of you, a jewel in my crown. Each of you, a thread in the tapestry of our empire. I see... quarrels, yes. Sparks of envy. Flames of pride. And yet..."
He lifted his glass, the red liquid swirling, catching the golden light like blood in fire.
The Father (softly, with terrible weight):
"...I would not have it any other way."
He drank deeply, setting the glass down with a soft clink.
The Father (calm, warm, deadly):
"Tonight, the table is whole. The Shepherd has returned. The war begins anew. And this time... we will not simply burn the world. We will own it."
The Butlers bowed in perfect unison. Carmilla smirked, Matthias's smile sharpened, Silvano shrank further into his seat, and the Shepherd's jaw tightened.
The laughter and chatter at the long mahogany table almost felt surreal, as though it belonged to a family dinner in another world—one untouched by blood, steel, and shadow. The Father, the so-called lord of the underworld, leaned back in his high-backed chair, fingers drumming idly on the table as he tossed out his words with careless ease.
Father: "Just kidding, I've never been the type to do some formal speeches."
The words broke the stiff silence that had held the younger ones in tension when they first sat down. His voice carried the kind of careless amusement that stripped away the veil of menace. He was not the looming tyrant, not the whispered devil in dark alleys—he was a man who, in this moment, acted more like the mischievous eldest sibling than the patriarch of an empire. His grin widened as he leaned forward, eyes bright with boyish curiosity.
Father: "So, tell me, what have my beautiful children been up to? Don't hold back. I want all the juicy details."
The warmth in his tone disarmed even the butlers standing in their stations. For once, their faces softened, heads dipping as though they, too, were reminded of the odd, fractured normalcy of being part of this family.
Matthias adjusted his cuffs, clearing his throat with that performative nobility he clung to like armor. His smile—sharp, serpentlike—barely wavered as he answered, though his sister's rolling eyes made it twitch.
Matthias: "As always, Father, I've been ensuring our networks remain... profitable. A few contracts in the East Quarter, some debts collected in the docks. Smooth negotiations, no bloodshed necessary."
The Father clapped his hands together in delight, his laugh bursting out like a crack of thunder.
Father: "Ah, Matthias! My Gentleman. Always so polished, so poised. The perfect silk glove over the iron fist." He leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes twinkling. "And did you smile when you took their coin, eh? That snake-oil grin of yours?"
Matthias faltered, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks, but his composure snapped back quickly.
Matthias: "Naturally."
Across the table, Carmilla exhaled dramatically, smoke curling from the tip of her cigarette holder.
Carmilla: "God, must we always talk business at the table? Contracts, debts, blood money—so dreary. Father, you'll adore this—there's this new hair product I imported from the Northern Isles. Absolutely exquisite. Silk in a jar, I swear."
She flipped her hair with a theatrical toss, the jeweled clips glittering like fireflies.
The Father's eyes lit up as though she had just confessed to conquering a city.
Father: "Now that! That's what I call good news! My Rose, always blooming with elegance. You must let me try it, eh? What's the point of ruling the underworld if I can't have hair as fine as yours?"
Carmilla giggled, cheeks flushed pink as though she were still a teenager being complimented by her favorite teacher.
The room felt almost... absurd. Like a masquerade where killers pretended to be a normal family, and for once, the masks almost fit.
Then Father's gaze slid toward Silvano. The boy—silent as ever—sat hunched slightly, eyes lowered as Lucetta gracefully sliced his meat and placed it delicately on his plate. She dabbed his cheek with a napkin, the way a mother might with a child.
Father: "And my Ghost..." His tone softened, affectionate but laced with a bite. "You'll vanish into shadows to slit throats without hesitation, but here at the table you act like a baby bird. Let Lucetta feed you, will you?"
Silvano froze mid-bite, cheeks burning faintly red. His lips pressed together, no retort, no sound. His hand, pale and hesitant, tightened around the fork.
Father leaned back, tilting his head. Then, with sudden authority, he snapped his fingers.
Father: "Lucetta. Tie his hair. Let us see those eyes."
The Songbird moved without hesitation, rising gracefully. Her hands moved with practiced gentleness, brushing back Silvano's raven strands and binding them loosely at the nape of his neck. When his face was fully revealed, the table stilled.
Silvano's eyes, large and luminous, glimmered like glass under candlelight—unguarded, fragile, almost innocent. It was the kind of beauty that could almost make one forget his hands were drenched in unseen blood.
Father's smile softened.
Father: "There. Look at that. My Ghost is handsome, is he not? No wonder the shadows love him."
The tension broke into ripples of laughter, light and disarming. Even Carmilla giggled behind her cigarette holder, and Matthias allowed a reluctant chuckle. The butlers exchanged subtle glances, their stern masks wavering for the briefest heartbeat.
The dinner felt warm. Wholesome, even. The clatter of silverware, the scent of rich roasted meat, the occasional banter that bounced like sparks across the table—none of it matched the reputation of this blood-soaked dynasty. For a moment, it was only a family. A strange, broken, but genuine family.
The Shepherd, however, had remained silent through it all. His gaze had wandered, observing each of them—their quirks, their facades, their warmth. But the weight inside his chest pressed harder with each passing second.
Finally, he set down his fork, his voice low but steady.
Shepherd: "Father..."
The table stilled, the laughter dying at once, as though even the walls leaned in closer. His words cut through the air sharper than any blade.
Shepherd: "Why now? Why have you decided to make your move?"
The question hung in the air, trembling like a drawn bowstring.
The Father's smile did not falter. If anything, it widened—easy, boyish, deceptively carefree. But behind his eyes, the shadows deepened.
And in that silence, the warmth of the table flickered, fragile as a candle flame caught in the wind.
The Shepherd's voice was measured, but beneath it ran a tremor of something sharper—resentment, confusion, even fear.
Shepherd: "I was already one key away... one step from unsealing Magnus. And now this? Father, why force my return? Why make your move now? Why order Veyla to hunt down someone as insignificant as Ren? He's nothing—just a speck of dust in our path."
Carmilla leaned back in her chair with a roll of her eyes, smoke trailing lazily from her cigarette holder.
Carmilla: "Ugh, there you go again with your obsession. Keys, prophecies, Magnus—honestly, little brother, do you even hear yourself sometimes? Always brooding, always chasing some cryptic riddle. Tiresome."
The Father chuckled softly, the sound oddly playful, and wagged a finger at her like a parent indulging a brat.
Father: "Now, now, Carmilla. Don't be like that. Support your brother's dream. He carries weight on his shoulders you don't understand. Each of you does, in your own way."
The Shepherd stiffened at the words, unsettled by the kindness. It wasn't an answer. It never was. His fingers tightened on his wine glass, jaw set, until finally he spoke again, voice harder.
Shepherd: "No riddles, Father. Why now? What is your reason? Why Ren? Why war? Was it truly necessary to snuff out someone so small?"
Matthias' silver tongue snapped like a whip across the table. His smile was tight, the kind that hid anger under civility.
Matthias: "Watch your tone, Shepherd. Do not question Father's will. You shame yourself by doubting. Why is it so difficult for you to simply accept what you cannot yet grasp?"
The air grew taut, like silk stretched too thin, but the Father broke it with a lazy laugh. He waved his hand dismissively, eyes twinkling with something no one could quite read.
Father: "Now, now, don't fight, my sons. The Gentleman, ever the loyal protector of my pride... and Sheppy here, sharp enough to cut through the veil. Both have their place at this table."
He lifted his glass, the red wine glinting like spilled blood, and took a slow, deliberate sip. When he lowered it again, the smile still played on his lips, but his gaze had hardened, as though shadows had settled behind his eyes.
Father: "But to answer your question, Sheppy... let me ask you first: what happened to the Seven Aequinox?"
The words fell like stones in still water. The Shepherd froze. Everyone at the table knew the answer. The silence was heavy with it, with the memory of seven titans—warriors so feared they were said to topple kingdoms alone—slain. By one man. By Ren.
The Shepherd's knuckles whitened around his glass. His throat worked, but no words came. He didn't need to say it. The truth had already filled the air.
The Father smiled faintly, savoring the silence before breaking it.
Father: "And there you have it. Why now? Because God has made His move."
The words struck like thunder, shaking the walls of the room without raising his voice.
Father: "Ren... that boy, that speck as you call him, is no accident. He is a piece placed upon the board by hands higher than ours. The Aequinox fell not because of weakness, but because a power beyond this world chose him as its vessel. Do you understand now? When the divine shifts, so must we. To delay is to invite ruin."
The table erupted in murmurs—Carmilla's brows furrowed, Matthias' mask of composure cracking just slightly, Silvano's fork slipping from his fingers. Even the Black Suits exchanged wary glances, unease flickering across their cold faces.
The Shepherd felt his stomach turn. His chest tightened.
Shepherd: "A... higher being?"
Father nodded, his expression softening again, almost whimsical, but his eyes glowed with something ancient, something alien.
Father: "Stray Dawn are not of this world, my son. Their powers are the fingerprints of something greater. You sense it too, don't you? The way they bend the order of things, as if they were never bound by our world's rules. Do you think chance alone birthed such strength?"
He leaned back, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the entire table, the entire world.
Father: "I know this, because I myself... was sent here. Not born, not shaped by this soil, but sent. Just as they were. And if God's pieces are moving, then so must mine. That, Shepherd, is why I act now. Not for dust, not for pride—but because the heavens themselves have declared the game begun."
The Father's words lingered in the silence that followed, vast and suffocating. The Shepherd's heart thundered in his chest, torn between fear and awe. He had thought himself nearing his destiny, one key away from unsealing Magnus. Yet now, sitting at the table of his family, staring at the man he feared most, he felt the ground beneath his ambition shift.
For the first time, the Shepherd realized—his prophecy, his keys, his Magnus—might all be only fragments of a much larger design. A design shaped not by his will, but by something far greater.
And Father was smiling. Always smiling.
He’s a move.
Not crowned by destiny.
But placed—deliberately—by something higher.
“Can Ren stop them?”
It’s:
Only pieces realizing they’re on a board.
They’ll be deadlier.
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— Rein Silvers ??