Chapter 11: The Only Path Forward

  I couldn’t help but feel sick as Moore stood in the middle of the round table, his gaze slicing through the council like a blade. His voice, laced with grand confidence, filled the cavern.

  “If I die today in this very place,” he said, “it won’t matter. The plan to destroy the Fallen is already in motion.”

  His words hit me like a hammer to the chest.

  And I knew—deep down, I knew—I could have stopped this. If only I’d written his name in the Book when I had the chance. If only I’d had the courage.

  Moore stepped closer to the edge of the round table, his tone growing more intense. “We are reaching a point,” he continued, “where blood will begin to resemble the color of glory.”

  Justus shot up from his seat with fury in his eyes. “Whatever crooked plan you’ve concocted, it won’t succeed, Moore!”

  Daggers flew from his hands—one, two, three—hurling across the table toward Moore.

  “I always knew something was wrong with you,” Justus shouted. “You were never truly one of us!”

  Moore moved like water—effortless, calm. He twisted, ducked, sidestepped. Every dagger missed. And then he laughed—a dry, bitter thing.

  “I find it amusing,” Moore said, straightening. “You, of all people, want to lecture me? You, Justus, who barely understands what it means to be Fallen. To be hated. To be nameless. To look in the mirror and see no reflection until you earn your seat at this table.”

  Justus responded with more steel—two more blades flicked from his fingers with pinpoint precision.

  Moore caught one mid-air, and in a fluid motion, hurled it into the others, pinning all three into the surface of the round table. They trembled from the force of impact, sunk halfway into the wood.

  “And what did you sacrifice, Justus?” Moore asked, voice low now, nearly tender. “You—revered, beloved, treated like royalty. You, the priest, the spy, the murderer dressed in robes of forgiveness.”

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  Justus growled, fists clenched. “We all sacrificed. Each and every one of us at this table. Don’t pretend you’re the only one who’s suffered.”

  “But your suffering had comfort,” Moore snapped. “You got to choose your name. Your path. Your sins. Marquette and I? We inherited ours.”

  He let the words linger, then suddenly pulled a final dagger from his belt and hurled it directly at Justus.

  Justus ducked, but it scraped his shoulder. Blood bloomed crimson against his robes.

  “Now that he won’t be talking for a while,” Moore said, turning back to us, “let me finish.”

  A pause.

  “The only path forward,” he said, “is painted in blood. It’s narrow. It moves in one direction—away. It winds through enemies… and brothers.”

  His voice cracked just slightly. “And it will take some of you. Without apology. Without mercy. Into the hands of death.”

  He drew a breath.

  “For that, I am sorry. Truly. But I have made peace with it.”

  I wanted to say something. To scream. To reach out to him—to Moore, the boy who once sat beside me in silence as we studied the laws we now tear apart.

  But my voice wouldn’t come.

  Maybe it was fear. Or maybe it was the truth catching up to me.

  Then—he spoke the incantation.

  Ancient words, spoken in a dialect older than the Book itself.

  The ceiling above us cracked. A tremor rippled through the cavern.

  And then it shattered.

  A great roar followed—a tidal surge as water crashed through the stone, flooding the chamber in seconds.

  Chairs toppled. Candles died. Screams became gurgles.

  And just as I began to slip under, as the weight of the flood dragged me down…

  I felt a hand.

  Cold. Strong.

  Morbius.

  He pulled me through the chaos without a word, his eyes glowing faint red in the watery dark.

  As my vision blurred, as stone and shadow became waves and silence…

  One last thought struck me—

  Moore was right.

  And that terrified me more than the drowning ever could.

  [Private Entry – Marquette, Late Evening After the Flooding of the Cavern]

  Filed Under: Unrecorded Reflections (Not for the Book)

  I should have written his name.

  I should have ended it before it began. Before the words. Before the water. Before everything fell apart.

  But I didn’t.

  And now I can’t stop thinking about Moore’s voice—echoing off the stone, proud and resolute. It wasn’t just a speech. It was a funeral dirge. For the Fallen. For us. Maybe even for me.

  He looked at all of us and saw rot. I wonder now if he was wrong.

  Justus nearly killed him. Daggers flew like curses, but Moore—he didn’t even flinch. He caught one. Threw it back into the table like he was pinning down the truth.

  And when he spoke, it wasn’t anger I heard.

  It was sorrow.

  Conviction.

  Love, maybe—not for us, but for something better he believes in. Something he’s willing to kill for. Die for.

  Would I do the same?

  …No. No, I hide behind duty. Behind ink and tradition. I call myself Keeper, but all I do is preserve rot under glass. Moore wants to break it. Burn it. Set fire to the bones we worship.

  And part of me…

  Part of me wants to help him.

  What does that make me?

  I’m terrified. Not of Moore. Not even of death.

  I’m terrified that he’s right. That the only path forward is blood. And I’ve already waded too far in to turn back clean.

  When the ceiling broke, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg for help.

  I just waited.

  And Morbius—he was the one who pulled me out. Again. As always.

  How many more times will I stand still while others move? How many more floods must I survive before I learn how to swim?

  Moore said some of us will walk into death without shame.

  I’m not sure which path I’m on anymore.

  But I know this: I can’t stay where I am.

  Not anymore.

  — Marquette