"We don't change all at once. We swap, piece by piece of ourselves—until we don't see our reflection in the mirror anymore."
A Flashback, between Lucas and Varos.
The man across the table was a wreck.
Sunken eyes. Lips split and trembling. One shoulder slumped grotesquely out of place. His fingers twitched against the wood grain, grasping for something that wasn't there. Rope burns flared red along his wrists. Fresh, furious, and unignorable.
Varos had once been composed. Calm, in the way only the damned could afford to be. He thought he understood the dark.
Now?
He wasn't just broken.
He was honest,
and honesty, in the dark, meant something had snapped.
"CAINNN—ah!" he laughed, sharp and hoarse, choking on the tail end of it. "You don't have to… not again. I'll talk." His breath hitched. "It's broken. Whatever kept me from spilling, gone. I'll talk."
Lucas said nothing.
He didn't need to.
The way he sat—silent, still—told Varos everything:
I'm listening.
Varos looked up for a heartbeat. Then flinched.
It wasn't the stillness. Not the scars.
It was what looked at him.
Something that saw through flesh. Past thought. Beyond soul.
Something true.
"They kept him not far," Varos whispered, licking a cracked lip. "Someplace rotting. Off Bleecker. Near the wires. The boy….he's close. Close to being one of them."
Lucas tilted his head slightly.
"Define one of them."
Varos tried to laugh again. It came out broken and wet.
"Greater… better than you humans. They're just waiting. Waiting for him to break completely. When the hunger settles… they'll own him."
Lucas leaned forward, just enough to make Varos recoil.
"Is that so?"
A beat.
"...yeah," Varos coughed.
"You'd better be right, then."
Lucas stood. His coat swept low as he turned.
The door shut behind him like a coffin lid sealing.
The Office
Victor Cross's office was clean. Controlled. Which only made the fury louder.
Victor stood near the window, jaw tight. The desk lamp cast a warm circle across polished wood and paperwork soaked in shadow.
"I want the truth," he said. "No riddles. No allegory. Who are the ones born of the black?"
His voice dipped.
"Is Caleb even alive?"
Lucas didn't rise to the tension.
He sat, effortless, as if the storm wasn't worth bracing for.
He lit a cigar. The flare painted his face in orange and gold.
"They're called Nyxborne," he said, exhaling.
"Born of trade. A soul offered. Power given in return. Night-bound, also called Born of the Black. It's not bloodlines that make them. It's hunger. Despair. Desperation."
A pause.
"They don't feed like wolves. They infect like rot. One breaks, and others follow."
Victor's gaze locked on the ember at the cigar's tip.
"So Caleb…"
Lucas didn't answer. Not directly.
His eyes drifted past Victor to the family crest on the wall—carved into old oak, faded, but not forgotten.
"You ever heard of anyone in your family dealing with wards?" he asked. "Old ones. Meant to keep things out?"
Victor blinked. "No… why?"
Lucas didn't answer. But something shifted behind his eyes.
A subtraction. A piece falling into place.
A call was made. Not a quick command. This one took time.
Lucas contacted someone outside his usual circle.
But not a stranger.
She arrived cloaked in the scent of burnt wax and seawater. Her coat dripped incense. Her fingers twitched like they remembered other lives.
Jessica White.
"You're late," Lucas said.
Jessica smiled. The kind of smile therapists give before saying something that hurts.
"Be honest, Cain. You missed me."
Her voice was British. Calm. Thoughtful. Not cold but professionally detached, like someone used to navigating madness with tea and a notepad.
Victor studied her. "Who is she?"
"Geomancer. Expert in old maps and older sins etched into stone, street, and soil. She can track your brother, if there's still something of him grounded enough to follow."
He handed her Caleb's file.
Jessica's demeanor shifted as she read. Calm curiosity turned to quiet gravity. Her thumb paused over a rot pattern drawn in charcoal.
"Hmmm," she murmured. "Nyxborne?"
Lucas nodded.
"They're quiet feeders," she said. "Drawn to warmth, not blood. Places where light pools—joy, routine, family. They slip in when you stop looking."
She flipped to a photo. A ruined face. Caleb's.
A pause. Long enough to feel like mourning.
"But Caleb…" she exhaled, just once. "He's not where they feed. He's where they change."
"They need silence. Isolation. A place that's been emotionally evicted."
She looked at Victor, gently, but directly.
"I'll need something personal. Something tied to his identity. Something that mattered to him."
Victor nodded to an aide, who returned with Caleb's ring. Worn smooth at the edges.
Jessica took it.
She unrolled a stitched geomantic chart—threaded with dirt-dyed patterns, frayed like rope that remembered storms.
She kissed the ring once, whispered words not meant for the living, and set it at the map's center.
The ring moved.
"What the hell…" Victor muttered.
Jessica didn't look up.
"Corner unit. Bleecker Street. Boarded windows. The walls will smell… like something's growing inside them."
"His light's dimming. Fast. I can't mark the exact room….but he's there."
Victor looked to Lucas.
"His light…?"
Jessica finally looked at him.
Not cruel. Not kind. Just honest.
"Call it soul, essence—whatever makes him him. They weren't hiding him. They were waiting. For him to stop being yours…"
She glanced at Lucas.
"…and start being theirs."
Lucas didn't speak.
But Victor saw it, that shift in the jaw. The clenched silence that meant the job had changed.
"Marked, hmm?" Lucas muttered.
Jessica's smile returned. But this one had edges.
"Bingo."
A beat.
"And now the fee—Cain."
She unwrapped the Oathnail. It glimmered like frozen breath, colder than death.
"One favor," she said. "Wherever I demand. No refusals. You know how this works."
Lucas took the nail and drove it into the oak board she handed him.
The chime was soft. But final.
The air pulled inward—like something old had inhaled.
Jessica exhaled slowly. Reverent.
"You always make things feel permanent."
She turned to Victor.
This time her voice was gentle. Almost.
"He's not gone. Not yet. Just… closer to the edge than most come back from."
She waited for Victor to absorb what she explained. Then,
She left without another word. Smoke and wax trailing like memory.
Victor looked at Lucas.
"What the hell was that nail?"
"An agreement. A token for favor."
"And now what the hell is Marked?"
Lucas's gaze was ice.
"What. And who."
—
Victor's office was crowded with tension.
Area maps littered the table, layered with blacklight runes that shimmered when you looked too long. The fog outside pressed against the glass like a hand that hadn't decided to knock yet.
James stood beside Victor. His right hand, always.
"Last building on Bleecker," James said. "Used to be a textile mill. Now it's abandoned. Are we sure this is the one? Looks like nothing."
"Not nothing," Lucas said. Calm. Cold. "It's claimed."
By what, he didn't say—not yet.
James flicked a glance to Victor. "So what do we do?"
Lucas tapped the building on the map.
"Nyxborne made a nest here. A place for the becoming. The kind that doesn't feed—they make things in silence."
Victor repeated his previous question. "What the hell is a Marked?"
He looked at Victor.
"Lesser than Nightsworn. Not as corrupted. But harder to predict. And harder to save."
Lucas's voice darkened.
"They retain something. Memories. Attachments. But it twists—until it turns against you."
Victor stares. "You mean there's more than one kind?"
"Two. One barely remembers being human. The other forgot on purpose."
The room chilled.
"We circle with 3 squads. Their weapons won't kill them, not like they are now, but I'll give you the item you may need. Light-sigils and salt can slow them. I go in first."
James frowned. "And if we reach Caleb before you?"
"You call me. What else?" Lucas said, dry as bone.
He pulled a curved blade from beneath his coat—Voidsteel Kukri.
It shimmered like moonlight on oil. Dark. Olden. Hungry.
"Voidsteel," he said. "Not the knife—the metal. And silver, Everything else just annoys them."
Victor stepped forward. "I'm going with you."
"No," Lucas said.
"That's my brother. Missing three days. I'm going."
Lucas stared.
He saw a wounded wolf. Desperate to protect what he still believed was family.
"That doesn't mean you're ready."
Victor stood taller. "Do you have a brother, Cain? Because mine's trapped with something not even human. They're taking whatever soul he had left. I'm going."
Silence stretched.
Then Lucas gave a nod. Slow. Reluctant.
"Then listen. Don't speak inside. If a shadow moves before you do, shoot. If the air smells sweet, cover your mouth. Don't trust your ears."
"Why?"
"Because they wear what you miss," Lucas said. "And they want to be let in."
Lucas scanned them one final time—Victor, James, and the six remaining operators, eyes hard beneath their gear.
Lucas: "Make your men understand the rules. All of them."
James nodded. No one spoke.
Lucas turned and left. The silence he left behind felt like a warning still echoing.
—
They geared up in silence.
Lucas returned. Moved like a surgeon—precise, detached.
He handed each soldier a linen pouch. Stained. Stiff.
"Grave ash. Mixed with salt," he said. "Won't stop them. But it'll make you smell… not like food."
One soldier unwrapped his and gagged. The scent was sharp—rotting lilies and wet copper.
"The smell's the point," Lucas added. "They feed on what you like. Joy. Safety. This tells them you've got nothing left."
Victor took his without flinching.
"Smelling like a corpse might buy you time," Lucas said. "But if they reach you—hope your weapon is able to bleed them back."
Lucas placed a silver flask on the table.
Pale liquid swirled inside, thick and almost pulsing.
Lucas: "If they still reach you....this might help. Not kill. Just hurt. Maybe slow them down."
He produced a second bundle—wrapped tight in cloth.
Ash, black as sin. Charred bark. Glass vials.
Lucas: "Ritual's called Interim Halt. It makes your weapon deliver death."
They stared.
Lucas continued, flat and precise:
Submerge the weapon in holy water. New Moon blessed.
Rub with ash from Rowan burned in silence.
Add a drop of your blood to the grip.
Lucas: "You won't know what you're fighting, so don't whisper any names. Without the name, it won't kill them. But it'll make them feel something mortal."
A soldier, older, skeptical—spoke up.
Soldier: "You said this won't kill them. Why bother?"
Lucas (measured): "Because if you can't run…you gotta do something to survive."
Another soldier: "Where'd you even get this?"
Lucas (lighting a cigar): "Won it off a demon with a gambling problem."
That shut them up.
One by one, they began.
Holy water hissed on steel. Blood smeared across grips. Ash stuck under fingernails.
But one of them, Gerrard, youngest in the batch, faked the last part.
He pricked his finger, but never let the blood touch the grip.
Instead, he smeared a bit of ash to cover the lie.
Just walked on.
A beat later, Gerrard let out a shaky breath.
Happy, he got away with it.
Somewhere, the Whispered smiled.
They stepped into the fog.
The rot clung to them now—a message in the dark:
We're not yours. Not yet.
—
The streets were dead. The city watched. Fog licked at their boots with a sour taste.
Outside the building, they stopped. It was a mill. Abandoned, naturally.
It rose above them—hunched and breathing in silence.
A pale shape moved behind a third-floor window.
Too long.
Too still.
Watching.
Then it was gone.
Victor started to speak.
Lucas's hand cut the air—no sound.
The scent of roses drifted from a nearby sewer grate.
No wind.
No roses.
And from the mill came the faint sound of footsteps—
Walking backward.
Lucas stepped forward.
And the night opened its mouth.
END OF CHAPTER 6.