+***
The Council of Ra convened once more, their sanctum a cold labyrinth of shadow and secrecy. The air in the chamber was heavy with unease, the usual whispers replaced by open arguments. The once-unified Council had splintered, fear and doubt clawing at their ranks like a feral beast.
The Smeller sat at the head of the table, cloaked in their customary black robes. The carved obsidian mask they wore hid their face, but their presence alone demanded attention. Around them, twelve others bickered, their voices growing sharper and more desperate with every word.
“He’s killing us one by one!” a voice snarled. “The Weaver, the Handler, the Stalker—all gone! And you tell us to stay calm?”
“Calm is the only thing that will keep us alive,” the Smeller replied, their voice measured. “Panic feeds him. It’s his weapon, and you are all giving him exactly what he wants.”
“What he wants,” another hissed, “is to see us dead. And unless you have a solution, Smeller, that’s exactly what will happen.”
From the far end of the room, the Watcher stepped into the light. Unlike the rest of the Council, the Watcher bore no ceremonial mask. Their face was obscured only by a featureless, polished steel mask, reflecting the room like a distorted mirror.
“Perhaps the problem isn’t the rogue,” the Watcher said, their voice calm yet biting. “Perhaps the problem is you, Smeller.”
Before anyone could react, the Watcher moved. A gleaming blade appeared in their hand, seemingly conjured from the air itself. They were a blur of motion, a shadow given form, as they closed the distance between themselves and the Smeller.
The Smeller raised an arm to block, but the blade sliced through flesh and bone with surgical precision. Blood sprayed across the table as the Smeller’s hand fell to the floor, twitching like a dying insect.
The Council erupted in chaos, several members rising from their seats, but the Watcher’s focus never wavered. They drove the blade into the Smeller’s chest, twisting it with a sickening crunch.
“You’ve clung to power for too long,” the Watcher whispered.
The Smeller gasped, blood bubbling from their lips as they fell to their knees. But the Watcher wasn’t finished.
With a feral strength that belied their calm demeanor, the Watcher slammed the Smeller’s head onto the table. They produced a second blade, smaller but no less deadly, and began to carve into the Smeller’s face.
The room was filled with the wet, sickening sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking. Blood pooled on the table, dripping onto the floor in a steady rhythm. When the Watcher finally stepped back, the Smeller’s mask was gone, replaced by a grotesque mosaic of blood and exposed muscle.
But it wasn’t enough.
The Watcher grabbed a ceremonial scepter from the table—a heavy, gold-encrusted relic—and brought it down on the Smeller’s skull. Again. And again. The sound of bone shattering echoed through the chamber until there was nothing left of the Smeller’s head but a pulpy ruin.
The Council members watched in stunned silence, too horrified to move.
***
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