The week crawled by beneath the weight of fear. The city's pulse slowed, its noise replaced by the murmur of surrender.
For the first time in centuries, the royal banners were taken down—not in disgrace, but in quiet resignation. Behind closed doors, beneath the frescoed ceilings of Buckingham Palace, the surviving members of the crown and their advisers gathered for the last time. The air was heavy with perfume and panic.
An old historian whispered what everyone already knew but couldn't say aloud: "When kings cling to dying empires, families die with them."
And so, in the cold light of dawn, the royal family chose mercy over legacy.
An emergency broadcast went live across every channel, every screen. The royal spokesman appeared, pale and trembling, his voice low but steady.
> "We, the remnants of the Crown, have decided to step down peacefully. We will not let our people bleed for a title. The transfer of authority to William Lex Webb will begin immediately. The official ceremony will be held on March 1st. There will be no more war between king and commoner. Let there be peace."
For a moment after the broadcast, London fell silent. No cheers, no protests—only silence. The kind of silence that happens when a thousand years of history vanish in a breath.
But peace, as always, was only a mask.
---
In the gleaming tower that now served as the new seat of power, William Lex Webb stood before the digital map of London. The city below him pulsed like a living organism, veins of light flowing through the dark.
He leaned on his desk, fingers tracing the crescent-shaped scar carved into the wood—a relic from the night of the Big Ben explosion.
"Three days," he muttered to himself. "Three days left of the stars' favor, and still I've done nothing with it."
He laughed softly. The sound carried no mirth, only the exhaustion of someone who had stared at infinity and found it smaller than his ambition.
"Juarez thought the stars were destiny," he said to the empty room. "He died for that belief. I see now—they're only symbols. Pretty lies the heavens whisper to those desperate enough to listen."
He picked up his ring, kissed it, and set it down beside a stack of documents—peace treaties, declarations, lists of surrendered territories. They were giving him everything, but even victory felt hollow.
The stars shimmered faintly outside the glass, their light dimming as the favor waned.
For the first time since he'd bound himself to Tzitzimimeh, William felt something new. Not fear. Not guilt. Emptiness.
He turned away from the stars. "Favors fade," he said softly. "But power endures."
---
Above the Earth, in the shadowed expanse of the cosmos, something ancient stirred.
Tzitzimimeh—devourer of suns, god of eclipses—watched his chosen vessel from the black throne of the void. His form was both smoke and geometry, eyes like dying stars, wings made of hunger.
In the old tongue of the Aztecs, he spoke, his voice echoing across realities.
> "You disappoint me, child of man. I gave you fire, and you burn incense. I gave you darkness, and you built cities of glass."
His words crawled through dimensions, burning through the fabric of existence until they reached Earth. The air around William trembled for a heartbeat, but he felt nothing. He had learned to ignore the voice of gods.
And that infuriated Tzitzimimeh.
> "Then I will remind you why mortals bow."
The god's fury rippled through his mortal servants. Across the city, those who bore the mark of the black ring felt their hearts tremble, their blood boil. And in one small, dark room near the docks, a man screamed.
---
Diego had been awake for three days.
He hadn't eaten, hadn't slept. His flesh crawled with whispers, his blood itched with divine rot. The candlelight in his room bent around him, as if afraid.
He stood before the cracked mirror, breathing hard, staring at the man he no longer was.
The voice came—not from outside, but from inside his bones. "Why do you resist what you are? Your brother accepted the sun. You are the shadow that eats it."
Diego clenched his fists. His reflection shifted—his eyes gleaming with green fire, his skin crawling as black veins surfaced beneath it.
"I'm not like them," he whispered. "I'm smarter. I remember what they forget."
> "Then prove it. Be not man, but messenger."
His nails tore through skin as he gripped his face. The flesh peeled, falling away in wet sheets. The sound was obscene—like silk ripping underwater. He screamed, not in pain but release. Beneath the human mask, the demon emerged:
Skin of ash and veins of molten iron. Teeth that shimmered with faint blue fire. His ribcage glowed faintly, the shape of a heart beating inside a cage of light.
He looked into the mirror again, and this time, the reflection smiled back.
"I see now," he whispered. "This is who I am."
When he arrived at the meeting later that night, the guards at the door almost fled. His new form shimmered between states—half-man, half-nightmare—his shadow trailing a second too late behind him.
The chamber fell silent. Even Rafael and Salvatore, his brothers, took a step back.
William, however, smiled.
"My Diego," he said. "Finally, you've stopped pretending."
Diego knelt, his voice a low growl. "Master. I will bring Moonveil into the open. But I can't promise to win. I can only promise to bring him."
William's smile widened. "That's all I ask."
Salvatore stepped forward. "Let us go with you—"
But Diego's snarl silenced him. His eyes burned with ancient fire. "No. This is my hunt. My brother's death is my debt to settle."
William nodded approvingly. "Then go. Let the moon see what real darkness looks like."
---
That night, the city trembled again.
The moon was thin, pale, almost gone. The streets felt hollow. Marc moved through them as Moonveil once more, following the last trail of riddles Diego had left—a scavenger hunt written in blood and sin.
He found him at the old shipyard, where the Thames met the skeletons of forgotten ships.
The tide was low, the air thick with salt and rust.
Diego was waiting.
He stood atop a rusted container, his body flickering like flame in the dark. His voice echoed through the empty port.
"I know you better than you think, Velo de Luna."
Moonveil's boots touched the ground with quiet purpose. "Then you know how this ends."
Diego tilted his head. "You think you're chosen. But I've seen your god. I've seen him afraid."
The wind shifted, bringing the faint smell of burning salt.
"I don't fear you," Marc said.
"You should."
Diego stepped into the light—and the horror of what he had become filled the space between them. His skin shimmered like broken glass. His eyes were pits of green fire. Where his mouth should have been was a grin too wide, too human to be human at all.
He spread his arms. "Do you see it now? I stopped hiding. I became what Juarez wanted to be. What William could never be. What you pretend to be."
The ground shivered beneath their feet as the air rippled with a strange hum—the sound of two divine forces meeting.
Moonveil's hand went to his hood, pulling it tighter, his voice low. "Then let's end the pretending."
The two stood in silence for a heartbeat.
Above them, the moon dimmed.
And the Age of Shadows began.
---