Thorne | Meeting

Hours later, I’m driving aimlessly, the city blurring around me. My office is a fucking prison, every surface reeks of her scent, every breath reminds me of how close she was. The hours between then and now have been a blur of pacing, futile attempts at focus, and the slow, gnawing realisation that tonight’s meeting might not just be another mundane gathering of egos.

The car’s clock reads 11:50. I’m five minutes out. I cut the wheel sharply, taking the left turn toward The Noctis Assembly. The council chambers lie nestled in the city’s oldest district, buried among crumbling stone facades and ivy-choked archways. The entrance is hidden, a secret woven into the fabric of reality itself. Humans pass it every day without a second glance, their eyes sliding off it like water over glass. Wards. Ancient, intricate magic designed to bend light, thought, and memory. To the unworthy, it’s nothing but a forgotten shadow of the city’s past.

But to those with blood bound to power, it’s a gateway.

My boots echo against the uneven cobblestones, the sound swallowed by the weight of magic in the air. The crackle of it skates over my skin, sharp and electric, as if the city itself is watching. Down a narrow alleyway, an archway looms at the end, its edges flickering like a mirage, shimmering with an oily sheen that defies logic.

I step forward, the air thickening as I draw closer, each step carving through the wards like a blade through silk. As I pass through the arch, the world bends. Reality ripples, the very fabric of existence twisting around me. A faint hum builds at the base of my skull, rising to a sharp crescendo as I cross the threshold.

And then I’m through.

The first thing that hits me is the air, it’s neither warm nor cool but perfectly balanced, charged with a weight that presses against my skin. This place doesn’t exist in the way humans understand reality. It’s a nexus, suspended between realms, with foundations laced in magic older than memory. The energy here hums, alive and unyielding.

Massive stone walls loom overhead, their surfaces carved with intricate symbols that pulse faintly, an otherworldly heartbeat. Light spills from chandeliers crafted of twisted black iron and shimmering crystal, their flickering glow casting shifting shadows across an obsidian floor polished to a mirror finish. The scent of ancient stone mingles with parchment and something electric, ozone, a sharp tang that lingers in the back of my throat.

This particular archway leads directly into the council chambers, but there are countless others scattered across Embervale and beyond. Portals hidden in plain sight, tying the magical world to this one. Threads of power woven so seamlessly into the fabric of existence that most will never even notice.

At the centre of the cavernous space lies the council table. A monolithic slab of dark marble, raw and jagged at the edges, as if it was torn violently from the earth itself. Its veins shimmer faintly, shifting through impossible hues, burnished gold, forest green, a violet so deep it feels like staring into infinity. Carved into its surface is the Crest of The Noctis Assembly, the supernatural council. The same crest that marks my skin.

Black and silver, with veins of iridescent green and gold running through it, the crest shifts subtly like oil on water. A crescent moon cradled by the faint outline of wings, one feathered and angelic, the other skeletal and decayed. Then a ring of intertwining elements, a coiling serpent biting its own tail, vines tipped with thorns, and a twisting plume of shadow and flame. Around the perimeter, ancient symbols etched in a spiral, each one representing a dominant supernatural faction, wolves, vampires, witches, fae, and others.

The chairs surrounding the table are as unique as their occupants. Each one a reflection of its owner, shaped to accommodate not just their form but their essence. No one knows how they appear, they simply exist, perfect and immutable, summoned by the will of the universe itself.

I stride toward the head of the table, where my chair looms like a dark throne, demanding reverence. It’s massive, not just built for my size but forged as a symbol of dominance and authority. The high back curves upward, stretching toward the vaulted ceiling. Crafted from obsidian wood, its surface gleams faintly, catching the flickering light of the chandeliers. Intricate wolf motifs prowl across the polished surface, snarling faces locked in eternal rage, teeth bared and claws tearing into the arms.

The legs resemble thick, muscled limbs, each ending in claws that dig into the stone floor beneath it. The seat is vast, wide enough for my frame but designed to make anyone else feel dwarfed and insignificant.

Among the chaos of the wolves and claw marks, a single carving always pulls my focus. On the backrest, delicate and understated, is a crescent moon cradling a lone star. It doesn’t belong, it’s softer, almost tender. It’s not part of any known symbol, not pack, not council, nothing. I’ve spent years staring at it, trying to make sense of why it’s there, why it feels like it’s watching me.

Lowering myself into the seat, I let the weight of the room settle. The gathered council members are already watching me, their gazes sharp, assessing.

Adriel, the Vampire Regent, perches closest to my left. His seat, crafted from dark ebony veined with crimson, seems to pulse with a life of its own. He’s a creature carved from death itself, pale as bone, his silver hair a ghostly shimmer falling perfectly around his angular face. Crimson eyes, as sharp as any blade, meet mine with predatory calculation. His tailored suit, black, flawless, and impossibly elegant, feels stitched from shadows, the faint metallic tang of blood clinging to him like a second skin.

Adriel has been on this council longer than any of us, and his entire being radiates the weight of that fact. Superiority rolls off him in waves, and if he had a weakness, I’d gladly rip it open and watch him bleed.

Next to him, Lyra, the Fae Envoy, drapes herself in her chair like she’s perched on a throne spun from another realm. The chair itself is an otherworldly masterpiece, its frame twisting upward as if grown directly from the stone floor. Gnarled silver roots curl and spiral, entwined with leaves that shimmer like polished opals, catching light in ways that defy natural logic. The faint glimmer of bones woven into the design adds a quiet menace, while golden sigils pulse faintly along the armrests, alive with magic older than memory.

Lyra is no less mesmerising. She’s a shifting vision, her very presence hard to pin down. Golden eyes pierce through the room with a light that feels too sharp, cutting through every mask and shield with surgical precision. Her hair flows in a cascade of liquid sunlight, a blinding contrast to the dark silk of her gown that clings to her like shadows in physical form.

Her faint smile as our gazes lock carries no warmth, only the promise of secrets and silent threats. Lyra never says more than she needs to; her presence alone is enough to remind everyone in the room of the dangerous whimsy that defines the Fae.

On my right, Malachi, the Demon Representative, leans forward, his very presence heavy and suffocating. His chair is an extension of his essence, a throne of restless smoke that never fully takes shape. Tendrils of black vapor curl and twist around its jagged silhouette, hissing softly as if the chair itself is alive, hungering for something just out of reach.

Malachi’s appearance is no less commanding. His skin, a deep obsidian, glistens faintly, intricate runes etched across its surface. They pulse dimly, shifting like molten lava beneath the surface. His horns arch back from his brow in smooth, gleaming curves. Golden eyes blaze beneath, twin infernos that pierce the room with a feral intensity.

Eris, the Witch Emissary, occupies the farthest seat at the table, her presence as unshakable as the ancient magic she represents. Her chair, while the simplest, carries a weight that transcends its unadorned appearance. High-backed and carved from pale ash wood, its etched with runes, binding and eternal.

Eris herself is a study in quiet authority. Draped in a dark robe that whispers against the floor as she moves, her demeanour is serene. But her dark eyes, honed by centuries, flicker with a power that makes even the bravest hesitate. She smells faintly of sage and lavender, a grounding presence in the tension-heavy room. Her face is unreadable, but her stillness is deceptive; every tilt of her head, every narrowing of her gaze, is calculated, dissecting the room with precision.

None of their stares weigh on me the way Cade’s does.