"Now," Elder Oriod said, eyes traveling across the room. "We were saying?"

For the next few hours, the council chamber remained steeped in strategy, calculation, and a tension so thick it seemed to settle into the stone itself. Maps were shifted across the scarred oak table, pins were moved, and borders were marked again and again in fresh ink.

Reports arrived in waves from messengers stationed at the northern and eastern ridges, each one carrying grimmer news than the last.

From what Vaeron could tell, Malachi seemed to move in a thoroughly similar pattern, which should be satisfying to know, but terribly concerning. He didn’t seem to hide his tracks, but somehow allowed them to be traced.

"The northern watchtowers will require double reinforcement," Lord Lucerion said, one pale hand pressed against the map where the Frostviel cliffs curved like a blade across the continent. "If Deathhill has truly been compromised, then the crypt-lines are no longer secure."

He was talking about the Umbrathallas. Ever since then, Vaeron had neither spotted them nor heard any news regarding their whereabouts. After eliminating the one that attacked them that day, there was no sign of them again.

As though they were... gone.

"Then fortify them," Lord Zorathiel replied, voice dark and clipped. "Triple the dragon-fire wards and place sentries at every pass,"

Vaeloria gave a sharp, humorless laugh from where she stood near the pillar. "And if the breach came from within?"

That quieted the room.

Her eyes swept over them all, cool and cutting.

"You can pile wards upon wards until the cliffs glow with dragon flame, but if someone inside our borders is feeding them passage routes, then all you are doing is strengthening the illusion of safety."

An uncomfortable murmur followed across the room because she was right.

Rheonara leaned over the table, one hand braced against the wood. "The eastern ridges are worse," she said. "Three villages reported movement before dawn. No attacks yet, but the scouts found tracks."

"Tracks of what?" one of the lords asked.

Her jaw tightened. "Nothing human. I propose the Phantoms,"

Silence followed.

Pride stepped forward, gaze fixed on the map. Old scars ran across his throat and jaw, a cruel notch splitting his lower lip, faint crosshatching along his cheekbones. "They are testing our borders," His tone was calm, almost too calm. "Deathhill. Regharon. The eastern quarter. None of these were random. They are pressing at the edges, looking for weakness."

Greed’s expression had long since cooled from mockery into something sharper. "Forces don’t move this precisely without command," his amber eyes flicked toward the Elder. "Malachi."

The name settled like frost, and this time, no one denied it.

"So we all are now certain this was also part of him?" Gluttony asked, his dark hair glistening like charcoal.

"All hands are pointing towards his direction. Though he hadn’t made an appearance yet, we cannot entirely ignore the signs before us." Lord Zorathiel said.

Elder Acheron lowered his staff against the stone. "Then all outer wards are to be doubled by sunset," he said. His gaze moved to the gathered lords. "Send word to the western fortresses. Increase aerial patrol. No district is to be left unguarded."

Lord Aurelion nodded once. "It will be done."

Another Elder, adjusted the map toward the southern routes. "The trade roads must also remain open," he said. "If panic spreads through the lower districts, we risk collapse from within before any army reaches our gates."

Vaeloria’s smile was razor-thin. "Then perhaps inform the people without informing them." She suggested, and several eyes turned to her. She lifted one shoulder and continued, saying, "Tell them the borders are being strengthened as a precaution. Mention increased phantom activity in the Bleak Reaches," Her gaze sharpened when she added, "Do not mention breached wards."

Because if the people learned that Blackvale’s ancient protections had failed, fear would do the rest. If mortals are being attacked, and the gods are too, it would mean something, something they couldn’t name.

Lord Acheron gave a slow nod. "Agreed."

"Speaking of which, there have also been disturbing cases in the mortal world. Creatures after the werewolves’ essence, leaving a corrupt body. Isn’t Veximoor your role to avoid the Walkers from extensive feeding beyond the Gate, Lust?"

Vaeron shifted, hands folded in his chest, and eyes fixed on the map. "Veximoor was chosen as their feeding site. After the breach that transpired at Deathhill, creating access to the wards across the northern lands, the Walkers became more stable to trespass, feeding upon bodies of wolves. To stabilize them, they need to feed at the expense of lives."

Lord Acheron ’Mm’ed in response. "Have we been able to stabilize them so far?"

"Apparently, they seem to be growing worse each day," he responded. "Since humans are fragile, they reject their essence like plagues. Werewolves are the strongest and compatible with their feeding capacity, but the rate at which their hunger depletes is close to zero,"

"Some cannot handle the starvation, thereby turning their vessels corrupted," Rheonara completed, the reasoning making more sense.

"Just like parasitism. From what I’ve also gathered, the rate at which these mortals adapt to them is as high as what we expected. As though they have been... corrupted before being fully corrupted." Vaeron concluded.

"What do you mean?" Wrath questioned, brows furrowed in confusion. His scars were like the others: old, deep, and greatly intimidating. Unlike Vaeron who had fresh scars, the rest were aged.

"What I’ve been trying to find out," he replied, unfolding those hands as he rested them at the sides of the table, torchlight illuminating against the sharp lines of his face. "The Walkers assemble from the Trinity, a seer against foretold events. If they hunt for food beyond the Gates and affect their host, then these Walkers had been exploited thoroughly for such demand," he informed. "There’s no such thing as extensive feeding."

"Are you trying to imply that the Walkers have partially eroded at the Gate before feeding?" One of the Elders asked.

"It took me a moment to discover a distinction between both of them, and I have a concrete theory. One seemed to feed naturally while the other drained. It happens when the body has been utilized, leaving behind a sickish appetite for food. The vessel hereby becomes corrupted, adapting quickly to the toxin in its body,"

A deep silence ensued across the room, caused by the weight of such revelation. Lord Lucerion’s gaze turned darker, a sign that whatever this was was as precarious as what lay before them.

"As absurd as this looks, what could corrupt the Walkers from the Gate? We are looking at a higher stake on the ground. There’s no way Malachi can trespass into the Trinity," Gluttony spoke.

"But that doesn’t mean he cannot use a vessel as bait," Vaeloria reasoned out loud, and several heads turned towards her direction. Those eyes looked ahead, intensity wild in them. "He’s using the Walkers," The revelation settled over like frost, contorting the atmosphere, tensed and suffocating.