The mansion’s air was thick — not with warmth, but with the sour stench of rot disguised by perfume and coin.

Inside, chandeliers flickered with arcane fire, casting long shadows on marble walls stained by secrets. Velvet curtains veiled the windows, choking the light from entering. At the grand dining table, half a dozen men and women sat comfortably in fine robes, sipping wine far too expensive for the crimes it paid for.

At the head of the table lounged Rhett Maddox, known in whispers as The Hollow King — the bastard son of a forgotten noble line who'd turned pain into profit. His empire sprawled across the underbelly of the capital — drugs, trafficking, forced labour, and worse.

He raised his glass.

“To expansion,” Rhett grinned, gold teeth flashing in the low light. “Three new ports, two new supply routes. Not even the Celestial Watch can touch us now.”

A man across the table chuckled. “Unstoppable, boss.”

Rhett leaned back in his chair, arms wide, basking in the illusion of security. “That’s exactly what we are.”

Then—

A voice.

Calm. Cold. Cutting through the room like a blade through silk.

“...You are not.”

Silence.

Chairs scraped. Faces turned.

“Who said that?!” Rhett barked, standing, hand already on his sidearm. “Show yourself!”

Then came the reply.

Soft. Measured. Deadly.

“We are the ones you chose to forget.”

The room dimmed unnaturally. Candlelight flickered. Shadows stretched… And from the far corners of the room, figures began to emerge.

First one.

Then three.

Then seven.

Each stepped from the darkness as if moulded from it — cloaked, silent, their faces obscured by masks or hoods, their eyes glowing faintly with prana.

Gasps. Screams. One guard fumbled for his weapon — too slow. A flash of steel, and he dropped without a sound.

Rhett stumbled back.

“Who the hell are you?!”

That’s when it began.

As one, the seven spoke — voices overlapping like a single soul fractured across many throats:

“We are those who are shackled.
We are those who fight for others.
Who condemns the wrong and restores the stolen light from this world.
We are called—”

Heavy footsteps echoed from the upper balcony, and two figures stepped forward from the staircase above, backlit by moonlight bleeding through the cracked stained glass. One wore a long dark coat with silver trimming, his hood low, face shadowed. The other moved with the silent dignity of a ghost.

And then, the second figure tilted his head up.

The mask glinted in the half-light — sleek and obsidian-black, covering both eyes, a single polished crimson stone hanging from the left side like a teardrop of righteousness.

Roy, The air around him felt like it cracked.

Beside him, Kieran pulled back his hood slightly — not enough to reveal his full face, but enough for the shadows beneath to curve with a grim smile.

his face hidden in shadow, aura simmering with still danger.

Roy raised his head and finished the vow:

“We are the Nova in Veil.”

And Kieran followed, voice low, yet laced with fire:

“We’ve come to liberate.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

But not for long.

Because the shadows had come not to speak — they had come to reclaim what was stolen.

The light that has been stolen from a lot of young women and men; they have returned their dignity and true justice, which is just blurred between the lines of what is right and wrong.