Deep beneath the Masquerade’s Hidden Court, past enchanted vaults and sealed catacombs, a passage led to a chamber untouched by time. 

It was here that the Harbingers waited. 

They were not rulers. They were not politicians. They were executioners—silent phantoms who moved when the Masquerade deemed a threat too great for subtlety. The world whispered their names in fear, but no one had ever lived to confirm their existence. 

Tonight, the silence was broken. 

The heavy stone doors groaned as they swung open. 

Lady Ilvara entered first, her black silk trailing over the ancient floor. Behind her, Lord Aldrith’s pale figure moved like a specter, and Grand Magister Veyne’s ember-lit eyes burned beneath his mask. 

At the center of the chamber, kneeling in perfect stillness, were the Four Harbingers. 

Each one had forsaken their past. Their names had been erased, their souls bound to a single purpose. And now, that purpose was spoken aloud. 

The High Arbiter’s voice echoed through the chamber, cold as the grave. 

"Let everyone think Sioux is the enemy. Eradicate the Blood Omen. Eliminate that filthy bloodline." 

The Harbingers did not move at first. 

Then, one by one, they rose. 

—

The First Harbinger: The Hound

A massive figure stepped forward, armored from head to toe in runic plating, his movements slow and deliberate. His helmet bore no eye slits, only the intricate carving of a snarling wolf’s maw. 

They called him The Hound. 

He was a living fortress, an unstoppable force. In battle, he did not dodge—he devoured. Once he had his target, nothing, no one, could make him yield. 

"Blood Omen," he rumbled, his voice distorted through the helm. "How fitting. I'll drown them in it." 

—

The Second Harbinger: The Widow 

Beside him, a slender figure shifted. The dim torchlight caught the edge of a serrated dagger, twirled absently between long, gloved fingers. Her mask was delicate, shaped like a black widow’s face, but the eyes behind it were empty. 

The Widow did not waste words. She did not waste anything.

When she moved, it was never alone. The poison she wielded was a slow, insidious thing—so subtle her victims often didn’t realize they were dying until they dropped to their knees. 

She exhaled softly. "They won’t see me coming." 

—

The Third Harbinger: The Revenant

A rasping breath filled the chamber. The Revenant was already looking beyond the room, as if seeing something no one else could. His presence was wrong—shadows clung to him unnaturally, as if his body had forgotten how to remain solid. 

He had died once. Or perhaps more than once. 

He had been brought back with magic that should never have existed. 

"Sioux is already dead," he murmured, tilting his head unnaturally. "They just don’t know it yet." 

—

The Fourth Harbinger: The Ashen Saint 

The last Harbinger did not wear armor. 

He did not carry weapons. 

He did not need them. 

He stood apart from the others, a man wrapped in white ceremonial robes, his bare feet touching the cold stone. His mask was smooth, pristine—a saint’s visage, expressionless, divine. 

But his presence burned.

The Ashen Saint was no warrior. He was a force of purification. 

His power did not kill. It erased. 

He raised a single hand. Flames licked at his fingertips, hungry, eager. 

"The bloodline will burn," he whispered. 

—

The High Arbiter stepped forward, regarding them one last time. Then she nodded. 

"The Masquerade will control the narrative," she said. "Sioux will be branded a heretic, a terrorist, an enemy of the people. The world will turn against them before they even have a chance to speak." 

Ilvara’s lips curled into a smile. "They will have nowhere to run." 

The High Arbiter raised her hand. The sigil’s glowing pulse filled the chamber once more. 

And with it—the Harbingers vanished. 

The hunt had begun.