He isn’t wondering if I can do this.
He isn’t hoping.
Heknows.
And somehow, knowing that, makes me believe it too.
And that certainty, coming from a being who’s survived millennia of darkness, death, and endless nights, it steadies me more than any training ever could.
The lights, even the emergency ones, flicker and die as the power goes out.
Then suddenly, Hex’s computer screens die.
Allof them.
Every monitor, every laptop, every device in the clubhouse stops. The sudden silence where there used to be electronic humming is deafening. The warlock’s eyes go wide, glowing blue with technomancy as he reaches out frantically, trying to reconnect to the digital web that’s become second nature to him.
But there’s nothing to connect to.
No signals.
No data.
No digital presence whatsoever.
“What the fuck?” He stares at his dead screens in horror, his hands hovering over keyboards that might aswell be paperweights now. “Everything’s down. Not just ours, everything in a five-block radius. Cell towers, Wi-Fi, radio signals, even the fucking power grid. It’s as if technology itself decided to stop w-working.” His voice cracks slightly on the last word, and I realize with a jolt that Hex isterrified. His technomancy isn’t just a power, it’s part of who he is. Cutting him off from technology is the equivalent of blinding someone who’s had perfect vision their entire life.
“It’s the Coven,” Oracle says quietly, his phoenix flames dimming to barely more than embers. The fire that usually dances across his shoulders, that burns eternal, no matter what happens, isshrinking. Even the First Flame, the eternal fire that’s burned through death and rebirth for five centuries, bows to the Night Eternal. “Their presence disrupts the natural order. Technology, magic, even fundamental forces like gravity and time, everything bends around them. Khaos the First, especially. He’s so old, so fundamental to reality, that modern concepts like electricity and digital signals just… stop making sense in his presence.”
“How long?” Hex demands, still trying frantically to reconnect. “How long until—”
“Dawn,” Oracle interrupts gently. “Or until they leave. Whichever comes first.”
Hex slumps in his chair, and for the first time since I’ve met him, the cocky warlock looks defeated.
Hades moves to the center of the room, and I watch through my Crimson Sight as his connection to death flickers and fails. It’s like watching someone try to grasp smoke. His necromancy reaches out, searching for the familiar presence of the dead, and finds nothing but empty air. His white eyes go dark for a moment, then snap back to consciousness with a gasp that sounds suspiciously like panic.
“I can’t sense the dead anymore,” he says, and his voice carries genuine fear for the first time since I’ve known him. “Not a single echo. Not a whisper. The veil between life and death, I… I can’t even find it. It’s like…” He struggles for words. “It’s as if death itself is hiding. Even the dead are afraid to exist near the Coven.”
The clubhouse suddenly feels smaller. Almost claustrophobic, as though the walls are closing in while reality itself recoils from the entities watching us from outside normal perception.
Eden’s humming grows louder, more insistent, taking on an edge of hysteria. Her banshee gift is screaming warnings about death approaching, but it’s chaotic and unfocused. Too many possible deaths to count. Too many futures where people she cares about cease to exist.
“I can hear them,” she whispers, her purple eyes unfocused. “The names. Backward, like always, but there are so many. Crave, Rogue, Scorch, you, Sloane, me, all of us. Every possible death happening at once, overlapping, echoing through tomorrow, a symphony of ending.”
“Eden.” Seraphine’s hand finds the Banshee’s shoulder, her siren’s song shifting to something soothing, calming. “Come back. You’re spiraling.”
“We’re all going to die,” Eden says flatly. “That’s what I hear. That’s what’s coming at dawn. Not just defeat. Not just failure.Erasure.”
Before anyone can respond, Crave clears his throat.
Everyone turns to look at their president.
He’s paler than usual, though that shouldn’t be possible for someone whose skin is already corpse-white. He’s moving with less of his characteristic predatory grace, each step measured, careful, as if he’s relearning how to walk in a body that’s suddenly, impossibly weaker. But despite the diminishment,despite the Binding that’s carved away his Original power, his silver eyes are steady.
Determined.
Unbroken.
