The one retrieved from The Void

The line went dead. Gerald didn't linger. He left the studio and walked with measured strides through the echoing halls of the Hek mansion. Ornate walls and priceless paintings passed him by unnoticed, his mind fixed on the grim task ahead. Finally, he arrived at the master bedroom.

On the balcony, beneath a velvet sky strewn with stars, Abigail reclined in the steaming waters of the jacuzzi. A glass of wine dangled loosely from her fingertips, the crimson liquid catching the faint light.

She looked up as Gerald entered, her lips curving into an amused smirk. "Oh, dear," she purred, the faintest trace of a lilt in her voice. "You should join me. The perks of retirement, remember?" She gestured lazily toward the water, as though inviting him into a world untouched by the troubles beyond their estate.

Gerald didn't respond. He began undressing with clinical efficiency, discarding his clothes one by one until he stepped into the jacuzzi. The water was hot, nearly scalding, but he barely noticed. He sank down, his massive frame rippling the surface.

Abigail tilted her head, studying him. "So?" she prompted, swirling the wine in her glass. "What happened?"

He didn't look at her as he spoke, his voice as steady as a heartbeat. "The Nu Prison has been breached."

Abigail's expression didn't change, though the air between them seemed to grow heavier. "How bad?"

"Bad," Gerald said flatly. "The fifth and sixth floors are gone. The landscape's been... altered somehow. And Vas is missing. So are Lily and Carmilla."

Abigail took a slow sip of wine, her gaze shifting to the horizon. "And now they want our help," she said softly.

Gerald's eyes flicked to hers, and for a moment, something ethereal passed between them—an unspoken understanding forged from years of partnership. "I'm going to help," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Not because they asked. Because Vas is there."

Abigail's eyes gleamed faintly, catching the starlight like two polished mirrors. "Are you sure that's what he would want?" she asked, her tone cool and measured.

"I don't know," Gerald admitted. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto hers. "But even if he doesn't, we're not sitting idly by. He's strong—stronger than I ever expected. But he's not ready for the seventh floor. Hell, he's not ready for the fifth or sixth."

Abigail set her glass aside and leaned forward to meet him, their faces inches apart. A faint, knowing smile tugged at her lips before she kissed him—slow, deliberate, and final. When she pulled back, her smile had grown sharp and wolfish.

"Well then," she whispered, "back to the battlefield, my dear."

Gerald allowed the ghost of a smile to touch his lips. "Off we go," he echoed.

Abigail stood, the water cascading off her like liquid silk, and stepped onto the balcony, her movements as fluid and deadly as a predator. Gerald followed, his resolve etched into every line of his face. Together, they strode into the mansion, the weight of the coming battle hanging over them like a stormcloud.

The Heks were returning to war.

Far in the expanse of the cosmos, the Sanctum of the Twelve loomed like a radiant sentinel. The structure resembled a twelve-pointed star, its metallic surface gleaming with an ethereal light as it floated silently in the void. This was no ordinary space station; it was the Sanctum of the Twelve, the sanctified meeting place of the High Conclave. At its core was the Grand Atrium, an awe-inspiring chamber where the domains of the gods were brought to life through shimmering holograms. Massive projections of celestial landscapes, shifting dimensions, and eternal flames danced in the air, each representing the divine realms. At the heart of the atrium spun a colossal, luminous sphere: the symbol of Amrita, pulsating faintly with an inner, otherworldly rhythm.

Seated beneath this celestial display was a tall, gaunt man with long silver hair, meticulously braided down his back. His sharp, gray eyes seemed to pierce through everything they beheld, though they were momentarily closed as he massaged his temples in measured circles. His simple robes of silver and black shimmered faintly in the ambient light, their modest appearance a sharp contrast to the weight of authority he exuded.

One by one, other figures began to materialize around him, their arrivals heralded by faint ripples in the air, as if reality itself bent to accommodate their presence.

First came a striking woman with short, platinum-blonde hair that framed her glowing, iridescent blue eyes. Her robes seemed alive, adorned with shifting patterns that hinted at infinite possibilities. Next, a robust man strode forward, his presence radiating raw power. His full, fiery red beard framed a face that seemed carved from molten rock, and his robes, blazing in hues of orange and gold, reflected the boundless energy that burned within him.

A wiry man followed, his dark skin illuminated by the silver streaks in his close-cropped hair. His eyes carried the weight of eons, ageless and inscrutable, and his robes bore intricate designs of celestial gears and endless time. Then came a graceful woman whose long, flowing black hair was streaked with silver. Her gaze was warm yet sharp, her robes decorated with symbols of understanding and enlightenment that seemed to shimmer like living ink.

A man with a lean, athletic frame appeared next, his short-cropped black hair and dark green eyes lending him an air of restless momentum. His sleek robes, adorned with dynamic patterns, seemed always in motion, embodying the essence of progress. Close behind him, a kind-faced woman emerged, her tanned skin glowing softly. Her wavy brown hair, streaked with gray, flowed freely over robes adorned with floral and natural motifs, exuding harmony and quiet strength.

More figures appeared in sequence: a tall man with glowing amber eyes, his very presence radiating warmth as if he carried a sun within; a mysterious woman whose dark, flowing hair and pale violet eyes held the secrets of dreams and illusions; a solemn man with a chiseled face and steely blue eyes, his robes etched with symbols of time's inexorable passage.

Finally, three more arrived: a regal woman with sharp, piercing blue eyes, her silver hair perfectly cut to frame her calculating gaze, her robes a testament to strategy and foresight; a muscular man with a battle-worn face, his scarred cheek a testament to countless conflicts, his robes displaying the heraldry of war; and last, the silver-haired man at the center.

These twelve were the High Conclave, the supreme council entrusted with interpreting the divine will and safeguarding the balance decreed by the Twelve Gods. Together, they bore the unimaginable weight of judgment and action in matters that could shake the cosmos.

It was the first to speak—a woman's voice, lively and sharp with energy. "Well, it seems we didn't need to call this meeting ourselves. Let me guess: everyone received a revelation from their bonded god?"

A second voice answered, stern and cutting. "Go to the Nu Prison. Kill all the students."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence, the casual finality of them chilling even in this sacred space.

Another voice broke the silence, this one dispassionate and aloof. "It is rare, isn't it? The gods rarely agree on anything, but this time, they're unanimous. Kill all the students."

"There's a problem," a new voice interjected abruptly, the words brimming with tension. "The Heks have confirmed their involvement. They're sending assistance to Nu."

"So?" A voice, smooth and dismissive, countered. "The Heks won't care if we explain the nature of the revelation. They rarely interfere."

"Perhaps," said another, this voice colder, more calculating. "But if they're going because a member of their family is involved, then our hands will be tied. Worse still if it's one of the students they're after."

"That's true," the kind-faced woman murmured, her voice heavy with unease. "But can we ignore a revelation of this magnitude?"

"We cannot," said the man with amber eyes, his tone resolute. "If we do, we risk disobeying the gods themselves. We send the knights, we fulfill the revelations. But we tread carefully. Let us hope we don't cross paths with those two."

A palpable silence filled the room. Even the gods' chosen representatives dared not voice what everyone was thinking: a confrontation with the Heks, legends in their own right, could unravel everything.

"Then it's settled," the regal woman declared, her voice unshakable. "We proceed as commanded, but with caution. Pray that we complete this task without invoking their wrath."

As the council concluded, the light from the Amrita sphere dimmed momentarily, casting long shadows over the faces of the High Conclave. 

The Eidolon Spiral, Kadmon's central base, loomed like a phantom above the storm-wracked skies of Caelum, concealed within the planet's volatile exosphere. Its vast, cloaked expanse served as the beating heart of Kadmon's clandestine operations, a station hidden from the prying eyes of the galaxy. The planet's chaotic weather patterns and constantly shifting electromagnetic fields rendered the station almost mythological—a structure whispered about but seldom seen.