Lord of the Mysteries: Catalyst of Shadows

The sun dipped below the jagged horizon as General Nivlek disembarked from the steamer onto the bustling docks of Azan Port, the Intis colony city nestled at the edge of West Balam's dense jungles. The humid air clung to his uniform, carrying the faint scents of brine, sweat, and something darker—an undercurrent of fear masked by the facade of colonial order. The cries of gulls overhead blended with the cacophony of dockworkers shouting commands, crates thudding against wooden planks, and the steady creak of mooring ropes tightening against the tide.

Colonial officials greeted him with stiff salutes and rehearsed smiles. "General Nivlek, welcome to Azan Port," said Governor Marcel with an overly polite bow, his voice strained under the weight of rehearsed diplomacy. Marcel's uniform was immaculate, a stark contrast to the sweat glistening on his forehead. "We trust your journey was smooth?"

"Efficient," Nivlek replied curtly, his piercing gray eyes scanning the bustling port beyond the governor's shoulder. His sharp gaze caught subtle details—a soldier with a twitching eye gripping his rifle too tightly, dockworkers casting wary glances, and locals avoiding the colonial guards altogether. Children peeked from alleyways, their eyes reflecting both curiosity and fear.

As they stepped off the docks, the entourage made their way towards the heart of the colony, weaving through the narrow, winding streets lined with colonial architecture—buildings that were grand yet bore the wear of conflict. Soldiers patrolled every major intersection, their uniforms neat but their expressions weary. The colony was holding on, but barely.

The city hall loomed ahead, a stark, imposing structure with reinforced walls and a line of guards stationed at its entrance. The air grew heavier as they entered, the scent of parchment, ink, and sweat thick in the confined corridors. Nivlek followed Marcel through a series of halls until they arrived at the governor's office—a grand yet cluttered room, its walls lined with maps, reports, and notices pinned in a desperate attempt to keep control.

Seated around a broad oak table were several key figures of the colony's administration: Captain Elias, the local officer with tired eyes; Quartermaster Rennard, a wiry man flipping through a stack of logistics reports; and Magistrate Lorvin, the colony's legal authority, his fingers nervously tapping the armrest of his chair.

Marcel gestured for Nivlek to take a seat before lowering himself into his own chair at the head of the table. "General, we'll get straight to business. You requested a full update on the situation here—what you received in the capital was, shall we say, a measured account."

Nivlek leaned forward, hands clasped together. "Then give me an unmeasured account. I need to know exactly what's happening here."

A tense silence followed before Captain Elias cleared his throat and unrolled a map of the colony and its surrounding territories. "The situation is as follows, General. The colony's supply routes have been under constant attack for the past two months. We initially believed these to be the work of disorganized rebel groups, but that assessment was wrong. We are dealing with coordinated assaults, each targeting key supply lines at the most vulnerable points."

He pointed to several locations on the map, each marked with red ink. "These supply routes are our lifeline, ensuring we receive food, medicine, and ammunition from the capital. If they continue to be disrupted, we will reach a point where sustaining both the military and the colony will become impossible. We can defend ourselves, but we lack the manpower and resources to launch an effective counteroffensive."

Nivlek's eyes narrowed as he studied the map. "Who's responsible for these attacks?"

Elias exchanged glances with the others before speaking. "We believe multiple factions are involved. There are remnants of local rebel forces, but they are merely opportunistic. The real problem comes from organized groups with external support. Intelligence suggests that Rose School of Thought members have been sighted in the deeper jungle, while members of the Andariel Family have been infiltrating the slums and outskirts, spreading dissent and fear."

Marcel exhaled sharply. "We've tried to keep things contained, but the truth is, we are losing ground slowly. The enemy is weakening us by degrees. They don't need to launch a full assault if they can simply bleed us dry."

Nivlek drummed his fingers on the table. "What measures have been taken to counter this?"

Quartermaster Rennard interjected, his tone edged with frustration. "We've increased escort details for supply convoys, but that only makes them bigger targets. We've attempted rerouting supplies through alternative paths, but the enemy adapts quickly. Every move we make, they anticipate. It's as if they know our strategies before we implement them."

"Which means," Nivlek murmured, "that there is a leak. Someone within the colony is feeding them information."

A heavy silence fell upon the room. Nivlek closed his eyes for a brief moment, then activated Chain of Command.

A subtle yet potent wave of power radiated from him, unseen but unmistakable. In an instant, every individual in the room was connected to his army. The resonance was immediate—his mind now tethered to theirs, and more importantly, their thoughts now available for him to sift through.

The sensation was overwhelming for them at first. Marcel visibly stiffened, his hands gripping the table. Elias let out a shuddering breath. Lorvin flinched, and Rennard's fingers twitched as if resisting an unseen force. None of them had ever been part of such a vast mental network before.

Nivlek remained silent, methodically weaving through their surface thoughts like a specter. He wasn't looking for words—he was searching for guilt, for intent, for hesitation. The mental defenses of ordinary men were laughably weak against an Angel of War.

Then he found it.

A thought, barely restrained, flared in panic—They know too much. I need to act fast.

Nivlek's piercing gaze remained fixed on Rennard, the silence between them stretching, suffocating. Every muscle in the quartermaster's body tensed, his breath coming in uneven draws as the weight of the accusation settled over him like a lead shroud.

"That's—That's ridiculous," Rennard finally sputtered, his voice cracking under the pressure. "General, you can't just throw around accusations like that! I've served loyally under—"

"Loyalty?" Nivlek's voice remained steady, smooth, dissecting the word with quiet derision. "Then tell me, Quartermaster, why do I see the trails of your betrayal woven into our supply chains? Why do I see whispers exchanged in the dark, orders sent under the guise of routine adjustments that leave our forces exposed while filling the pockets of those who seek our downfall?"

Rennard paled, his fingers twitching at his sides. "This—this has to be some kind of mistake," he insisted, shaking his head as if trying to physically ward off the damning words. "I've only followed orders—every directive I've sent was by protocol—!"

Nivlek simply watched him, allowing the man to flounder. "He" remained silent, waiting.

Rennard's throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. His eyes flickered between the officers in the room, searching for any sign of support, for even a shadow of doubt in Nivlek's words. There was none.

His breath hitched.

"You can't prove anything," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "No hard evidence, no signed confessions—just speculation and paranoia." He straightened slightly, grasping at whatever control he still thought he had. "With all due respect, General, if you intend to make such heavy accusations, you better have something more than just a hunch."

A slow smirk pulled at Nivlek's lips.

"You want proof?" "He" mused, tone almost amused. "Very well."

Then, like a chain being yanked taut, the connection snapped into place.

The air in the room became heavy, an unseen force pressing down on everyone present. In that instant, every officer bore witness—not through mere words or paper trails, but through the undeniable force of truth itself.

The images came in flashes.

Rennard slipped coded messages to a courier in the dead of night, his movements careful, rehearsed. A subtle redirection of supply lines, making shipments arrive just late enough to weaken critical positions. Meetings in shadowed alleys, whispers exchanged with figures whose pockets were already lined with blood money. The silent exchange of a bribe—a price placed on the lives of men who would never know who had doomed them.

Marcel's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. Elias reached for his sidearm, his face unreadable.

Rennard took a step back. "No—" he breathed, eyes wild as he stared at Nivlek. "You're—You're manipulating this! This—This isn't real!"

He turned abruptly, looking to Marcel, then to Elias, then to anyone whose face wasn't carved from stone. "You can't just believe this!" he pleaded. "You—You don't know if any of that is true—"

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The gathered officers—men who had fought alongside Rennard, who had entrusted him with their logistics, their lifelines—stared at him, their faces frozen in a mixture of disbelief, anger, and grim realization.

Marcel, usually composed and steady, had a rare look of disgust shadowing his face and an unsteady demeanour. His fingers, which had been loosely clasped on the table, tightened, the leather of his gloves creaking. Elias, the ever-pragmatic one, kept his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm, his thumb idly brushing against the safety. His eyes flicked between Rennard and Nivlek, waiting. 

Others in the room shifted uneasily, some pale with the weight of the revelation, others visibly seething, their knuckles white from clenched fists. Quartermasters were supposed to be reliable, men who ensured that the gears of war turned smoothly. To betray that trust, to knowingly sabotage their own… the gravity of it sank in like lead into their chests.

One officer, a younger lieutenant, swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. His gaze darted from Rennard to Nivlek, then down to the floor, as though he had suddenly realized the kind of war they were truly fighting—one where the enemies weren't just outside the walls.

Rennard, desperate, searched their faces, looking for anything—any trace of sympathy, of doubt, of someone willing to stand in his defense. But all he found was cold, unrelenting judgment. No one spoke. No one moved to help him.

A flicker of true fear crossed his eyes.

Rennard's entire body jerked at the finality in "His" tone. His breathing was ragged now, panic clawing its way up his throat. His mind was scrambling, searching desperately for an escape, for a way to turn the tables.

"If—If I was involved—If—I was being coerced," he switched tactics instantly, his voice now dripping with feigned helplessness. "If someone forced my hand, General—you understand, don't you? I didn't have a choice!"

"You had every choice," Nivlek corrected, "and you made the wrong one."

The quartermaster's face contorted, something between desperation and defiance flashing across his features. "I was protecting myself!" he suddenly snapped, voice breaking under the weight of his unraveling composure. "You don't get it—you think you're untouchable, General, but they—they have reach! You have no idea what you're up against! If I hadn't cooperated, I'd be dead! What was I supposed to do?!"

"Your duty," Nivlek said simply.

Rennard let out a bitter, humorless laugh, hysteria creeping into his expression. "Duty?!" he spat. "And what did duty ever do for the men who followed orders only to be sent to die in some gods-forsaken hellhole because someone like you decided it was necessary?! I did what I had to do to survive!"

"And now you will do what is necessary to pay for it," Nivlek responded coolly.

The room had become deathly still.

Then, in a blur, Nivlek moved.

"His" hand shot forward, seizing Rennard by the throat in a vice-like grip. The impact sent the man stumbling backward, his back slamming against the wall.

The air shifted.

It wasn't just the act of being held that rendered Rennard immobile—it was the sheer pressure radiating from Nivlek, a presence that turned his limbs to stone and stole the breath from his lungs. It was the suffocating knowledge that the man before him held absolute authority, that there would be no room for negotiation, no deals to be made.

Rennard trembled in "His" grasp, his hands weakly clawing at the iron grip around his throat. No words came. There was nothing left to say.

Marcel stepped forward, his face impassive. "What do you propose we do, General?"

Nivlek's eyes never left Rennard's.

"Execution."

With a swift motion, his grip tightened around Rennard's throat. A sickening crack filled the room as bone and cartilage gave way. The Quartermaster's body twitched once before going limp, his lifeless form slumping in Nivlek's grasp. 

Elias exhaled slowly, his fingers flexing over the handle of his sidearm before settling at his side once more. Marcel's jaw was set, his eyes dark, unreadable—though a flicker of something crossed his face. The other officers exchanged looks, their expressions taut, but no one spoke against what had just transpired. There was no room for doubt, no question of justice. Only the finality of Nivlek's decision.

Without hesitation, Nivlek raised his hand, swirling the air with an unseen force. The weight of the atmosphere thickened as Rennard's lingering soul was pulled from the husk of his body.

The spectral form hovered before them—expressionless, hollow-eyed, stripped of human fear and desire. It existed in a detached state, answering only when called upon.

Nivlek's voice was sharp. "Where are their operations based?"

"…Jungle encampments… Deep west of the colony… Old ruins…"

A muscle in Marcel's jaw twitched. Elias shot him a glance but said nothing, the tension between them unspoken.

"How do they move supplies?" Nivlek pressed, his tone unwavering.

The spirit flickered, as if struggling against the compulsion, but resistance was meaningless.

"…Hidden carts… Disguised traders… Port smuggling…"

One of the officers let out a quiet curse under his breath. The implications were clear—this wasn't the work of a mere back-alley syndicate. It was organized, calculated and layered in deception.

Nivlek's eyes darkened, his voice dropping an octave.

"Who else is involved?"

A shudder passed through the spirit. For a moment, it almost seemed to hesitate—but hesitation was not an option.

"…Governor Marcel… Handlers… 'Hound'…"

The room turned to ice.

A sharp breath from one of the officers. A tightening grip on a holster. Elias's expression turned stony, his jaw clenched.

Marcel's fingers twitched against his coat, but his face betrayed nothing. His posture remained firm, unreadable.

Nivlek's gaze flicked to Marcel, whose face remained carefully neutral. A flicker of tension passed through the governor's features, barely perceptible, but enough.

The weight of the moment pressed down like a storm building on the horizon. The chamber was deathly silent, the kind of silence that only came before something irreversible. The officers stationed around the room remained still, their breaths measured, their hands twitching near their holsters, waiting. Watching.

Nivlek's gaze settled on Marcel, the flickering candlelight catching the sharp angles of "His" face. The unspoken command in "His" expression was enough to turn the room into a prison of its own.

"Kneel," Nivlek ordered, "His" voice laced with an authority that was absolute.

Marcel's knees buckled as though the very force of the words had severed his strings. He collapsed onto the cold stone floor with a sharp exhale, hands clenched into fists. A thin layer of sweat glistened on his brow, his breath coming faster, more erratic. His head lowered, but it was not in deference—it was in calculation.

His mind raced. I need to deny and stall as much as I can! Even if only for a few minutes.

"I… I am loyal—" His voice barely broke the silence before Nivlek cut him off.

"You are a traitor."

Marcel winced. The words struck deeper than any accusation. He lifted his gaze slightly, looking past Nivlek toward the others in the room. Elias, Lorvin. The gathered officers. None of them moved to defend him. None of them so much as shifted at the accusation.

He swallowed. He was alone.

A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. Damn it.

Nivlek stepped forward, the boots against the stone floor punctuating the silence. The shadow of "His" form loomed over the kneeling man. There was no room for evasion, no escape from the weight pressing upon him.

"Who do you answer to?" Nivlek's voice was as cold and unrelenting as the steel of a blade.

Marcel remained silent. Think. If I give them something, I can still—

The moment stretched too long.

A flick of Nivlek's fingers, and the air around Marcel thickened, pressing down on him like an unseen hand forcing submission. The pressure snaked around his lungs, his ribs, his thoughts—crushing. A strangled gasp escaped his lips as his body trembled under the force.

Nivlek watched him struggle, unreadable. "You will talk," "He" said simply, as if it were a foregone conclusion.

Marcel's mind spiraled, Bastard. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head slightly as if the motion could dispel the overwhelming grip around his body. He fought against it, but resistance was futile. His own body was betraying him, his breath coming shallower, his muscles burning under the unseen weight.

"Where is Hound?"

Marcel's lips parted involuntarily. The words clawed their way from his throat, stolen from the depths of his mind against his will.

"…Beyond the jungle… Near the black marshes… A ruined temple…"

The moment the words left him, he clenched his jaw, furious at himself.

Nivlek's eyes narrowed slightly. Too easy.

"He's lying," Elias muttered under his breath, arms crossed over his chest.

"No," Nivlek said, "He's omitting something."

The grip tightened. Marcel shuddered, his mind writhing under the weight of compulsion.

"Who else is involved?" Nivlek pushed further.

Marcel felt his mind being pried apart like a rusted lock forced open. The suffocating pressure around him made it impossible to resist, no matter how much he wanted to.

"…Operatives… Embedded in the colony…" His teeth gnashed against each other, his fingers twitching at his sides. "…Merchants… Dock workers… Even within the patrol units…"

A sharp inhale from one of the officers. The implications were damning.

Marcel felt the shift in the room—the barely-contained disgust, the realization that the rot had spread further than any of them had assumed.

Nivlek's grip did not falter. "How deep does this go?"

Marcel's body spasmed as though something inside him was fighting back. He tried to hold his tongue, to will himself into silence, but it was like his own mind was tearing itself apart.

"…The colony was meant to fall," he forced out, his voice hoarse and ragged. "We weaken it… piece by piece… so that when the time comes, there is nothing left to defend."

A heavy silence followed.

Lorvin's expression darkened, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. Elias remained still, unreadable, but his gaze burned.

Nivlek did not blink. "And Hound? What is his purpose? What is he?"

Something flickered in Marcel's gaze. No. 

This was where he had to hold the line. If he spoke, it was over.

But the pressure was unbearable. He could feel his consciousness slipping, his own mind betraying him, dragging the truth from the depths of his being.

His lips moved against his will.

"…Blatherer…"

Nivlek's gaze sharpened.

The officers exchanged quick glances, the weight of the word settling in the air like a death sentence.

So it is connected to that Huttle debacle, Nivlek mused.

"What does he want?" "He" pressed.

Marcel was shaking now, his entire body trembling like a man on the verge of collapse. His vision blurred, black spots creeping into his sight.

"…Chaos… Unrest… Fuel for something larger…" His voice cracked, the last remnants of defiance bleeding from him.

A pause. Nivlek's expression remained unreadable.

"The trafficking," "He" said flatly. "What is its purpose?"

Marcel let out a ragged breath. No. No, no, no—

But the answer was ripped from him.

"…Not just trade… A ritual…" His pupils dilated, as if recalling something far worse than he had let on. "…They are offerings… sacrifices to their god… The ones taken are never seen again… only their screams remain."

A breathless silence.

Elias shifted, his jaw tightening. Lorvin's fists trembled slightly. A ripple of unease passed through the officers.

Nivlek absorbed the information in silence. This is beyond smuggling. This is preparation for something else. Be it a descent ritual or related to "Her" transaction, it's all within expectations until now.

Marcel exhaled a broken, desperate laugh. His body slumped forward slightly, his muscles twitching from the toll. His breath was ragged, uneven.

"You can't stop it, General…" His voice was hoarse, hollow. "Even if you kill me… The pieces are already in motion."

Nivlek observed him, quiet. He believes that. He believes that so deeply that he's not afraid to die.

"But you," Nivlek said softly, "won't be around to see it."

The sentence hung for only a moment before Marcel's world snapped to black.

A sharp crack echoed through the chamber.

His body crumpled.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Nivlek wasted no time. He raised his hand, and the air shivered as Marcel's soul was drawn forth, flickering like a dying ember.

His voice, now weightless and detached, drifted from the spectral form. "…Did you leave anything unsaid?"

The remnants of Marcel's consciousness quivered, then spoke in hollow finality.

"…Watch the ruins, General… Watch what they awaken…"

Nivlek's expression remained unreadable, but "His" mind churned with the weight of Marcel's final words. Watch the ruins… Watch what they awaken…

A warning? Or merely the last flicker of a man clinging to relevance, desperate to leave behind a shadow of doubt?

Nivlek doubted it was meaningless. Marcel had already broken under compulsion, forced to speak against his will. If there was deception, it was likely from his own ignorance rather than intent. That meant there was truth buried within his final words—truth wrapped in the unknown.

Ruins. That matched the earlier intelligence. Something is there. Something worth hiding. Worth protecting. Worth sacrificing lives for.

Nivlek's fingers twitched slightly before "He" exhaled slowly, steadying the thought. There was no need to rush conclusions. This only confirmed what "He" had already suspected: the trafficking was not an end in itself. 

The pieces were fitting together, but the full picture remained elusive.

And that, more than anything, irritated "Him."

He turned to Elias. "Gather the men. We're hunting Hound."