The cathedral had no name.
It stood buried beneath the oldest quarter of the city, older than the empire itself. The air was heavy with dust and incense; candle smoke curled upward like ghostly fingers tracing the ribs of the vaulted ceiling.

Thanos Thane Royale descended the spiral stairway alone, his footsteps echoing off the stone. The deeper he went, the more the noise of the world above—cars, voices, rain—faded into a low, distant hum.

He had been summoned.
Not invited.

At the base of the stair waited two figures in masks of burnished gold. Neither spoke. They pushed open a great iron door, and the scent of wax and blood rolled out. Inside, a dozen hooded silhouettes circled a black marble altar carved with runes. In the flickering light, the walls seemed to breathe.

At the head of the circle stood the High Shade, the leader of the Order. His mask was plain—an unmarked sheet of silver. It was the kind of simplicity that only true power could afford.

“Thanos Royale,” the High Shade intoned, voice hollow beneath the mask. “You’ve been careless.”

Thanos bowed slightly, more out of habit than respect. “Careless? I delivered chaos. The Royales are bleeding. The Council is hunting ghosts while the Order moves unseen.”

A low murmur passed among the cloaked figures. The High Shade raised a hand. Silence returned.

“You delivered chaos,” he said, “but not control. Your son lives.”

Thanos’s jaw tightened. “He’s a boy.”

“He’s a symbol,” another voice hissed from the shadows. “The people whisper his name. Symbols grow teeth.”

The candles flared, though there was no wind. Somewhere behind the altar, chains rattled. The sound was almost human.

Thanos stepped closer. “You wanted the Royales weakened. They are. The Vigilante Clan is tearing itself apart. You wanted the trade routes—we’re expanding them under your cover. So what more do you want from me?”

The High Shade tilted his head. “Loyalty. Proven, not promised.”

He gestured to the side. Two masked attendants dragged something forward—a body bag, slick with rainwater. When they unzipped it, Thanos’s expression didn’t change, but his pulse quickened.

Inside lay a man he recognized: Councilor Morien, one of Leslie Royale’s oldest allies. His throat had been opened cleanly, like a signature.

“Your silence bought his life,” said the High Shade. “Your hesitation cost it.”

Thanos’s fingers curled into fists. “You don’t command me.”

The High Shade’s voice turned quiet, almost kind. “You misunderstand. You are not commanded. You are bound.”

He reached across the altar and placed a dagger there—obsidian, gleaming, carved with the same sigils that crawled across the marble floor. “You made a covenant, Thanos. Blood for blood. Power for obedience. You asked for the throne, and we granted it.”

Thanos stared at the blade. Its hilt was still warm.
He remembered the night of the agreement—the chant, the wine that wasn’t wine, the promise that power would cost him everything but his ambition.

“And what if I refuse?” he said softly.

The High Shade’s head tilted back, revealing nothing beneath the mask but darkness. “Then you will watch your house burn from within. Your wife’s silence, your father-in-law’s wrath, your son’s awakening. It has already begun.”

The candles flickered again. One by one, the masked figures began to hum—a low, bone-deep resonance that crawled under the skin. The sound wasn’t human. It was old.

Thanos swallowed, forcing composure. “What do you want me to do?”

The High Shade leaned close enough that Thanos could see his reflection in the silver mask.
“Break your bloodline. The heir must fall. When the boy dies, your crown will be complete.”

Thanos stared at the floor. For a heartbeat, the candlelight caught in his eyes—anger, fear, something darker. Then, slowly, he reached out and took the dagger.

“I’ll do what must be done.”

The humming stopped. The room exhaled.

As he turned to leave, one of the hooded figures spoke—a woman’s voice, brittle and cold.
“Even kings kneel in the dark.”

Thanos didn’t answer. He only climbed the stairs, each step echoing like a verdict.

Above ground, the rain had stopped. The city lights blinked through the fog. Thanos stepped into his car, the dagger still hidden beneath his coat.

In the distance, thunder rolled—not from the sky, but from something deeper, as if the city itself had started to remember the cost of power.