Chapter 15 – The Gathering Storm

POV: Bela Talbot

Power didn't just shift anymore.

It pressed against the edges of the world, like the tide leaning harder against a weakening shore.

And this time, it pressed back.

Silverhollow's tendrils reached further than anyone could have anticipated.

Within months, our influence ran through hunter networks, mystical black markets, and even academic institutions, unseen.

We didn't break the rules.

We rewrote them.

But success always comes with weight.

And the weight always shifts first at the weakest points.

The Vermont Incident – Field Test

Beth intercepted the case first.

Three children missing in a rural Vermont town.

No ransom demands.

No evidence of struggle.

Local law enforcement was baffled.

The only clue?

A series of strange "clown sightings" days before each disappearance.

My blood went cold at the word.

Clowns.

Rakshasa.

Briefing – War Room

We met in the estate's secured war room, warded with Void-forged sigils.

Projected above the table was the map: a cluster of modest homes around an abandoned, half-collapsing orphanage.

"They're hiding in plain sight," I said.

Owen frowned. "Rakshasa? Here?"

"Fits," I replied. "Slow feeders. Only need to eat every few decades. Clown glamour to get invitations. Prey on adults first."

Beth grimaced. "And the kids?"

"Stored. Fed on slowly."

I turned to the operatives:

Owen Marsh — tactical specialist.

Clara — Natural born with sight magic.

Imani — Borrower with combat glyph training.

Elias — Trained sniper with minor telekinesis.

"Objectives?" I asked.

"Rescue. Clean sweep. No exposure," Owen answered crisply.

I nodded.

"And remember," I added, voice cold and sharp, "only brass kills them."

They each wore knives forged specially for this hunt.

Not steel.

Not silver.

Brass.

The old ways mattered when monsters remembered.

Field Operation – At the Nest

The orphanage sagged at the edge of a decaying lot, windows like weeping eyes.

A thick glamour hung over it, masking its true state — layers of rot and death hidden beneath a haze of false cheer.

Beth dissolved the outer wards first, her hands moving in silent precision.

Smoke pellets laced with powdered salt and blessed ash were launched into the windows.

The air thickened.

The Rakshasa, invisible, made their move.

They thought we wouldn't see.

They thought wrong.

The first one appeared near Owen—moving like a blur, claws flashing.

It snarled—green cat-like eyes and a long, broken smile splitting its face.

Owen ducked the first strike, brass dagger flashing in the gloom.

He drove the blade into the creature's ribs.

It screamed—an awful, warping sound—and collapsed into ash.

The second Rakshasa was smarter.

It shaped itself into the image of a crying girl—mud-streaked, tearful, begging for help.

Elias almost hesitated.

Almost.

But Clara's sight magic pierced the illusion, revealing twisted joints and too-long teeth beneath the glamour.

She lunged, brass blade slicing the thing's throat before it could speak.

It dissolved into oily smoke.

Inside the orphanage, the children slept under heavy sedation spells, bound by crude sigils painted in decaying blood.

Imani and Elias worked fast, severing the bindings with sanctified iron scissors and wrapping the children in enchanted cloth to shield them.

They exited clean.

No alarms triggered.

No survivors left.

The final step?

Burn it all.

Clara set fire to the heart of the nest with an incantation older than the English tongue.

Flames devoured the structure, fed by the monsters' own decaying magic.

By dawn, the orphanage was nothing but ash and rumors.

And Silverhollow left without leaving even footprints behind.

Debrief and Reflection

In the secure chamber, I reviewed the mission files as Beth recited the final logs.

Three children—safe, relocated to protected magical families.

No hunter alerts.

No Men of Letters scans triggered.

Another perfect ghost operation.

Don clapped a hand lightly against the table.

"You're not building an army," he said. "You're building a legend."

I smiled slightly.

"No," I corrected. "I'm building inevitability."

Maggie laughed, low and rich. "Same thing, darling."

Subtle Emotional Layers – Bela's Thoughts

Later that night, when the reports were filed and the candles in the sanctum guttered low, I sat by the east balcony.

The autumn wind carried the scent of burned leaves and coming storms.

I should have been entirely focused on my growing empire.

But my mind drifted—to two figures half a continent away.

Sam — his open warmth, the way he looked at people like they were puzzles meant to be solved with kindness, not force.

Dean — the sharp angles of him, the way his gaze weighed you, the tension he wore like an invisible armor.

I'd told myself they were assets.

Part of the script I'd once studied from another world.

But the ache that flickered under my ribs when I thought of them?

That wasn't strategy.

That was longing.

And I hated how easily it slid beneath my skin.

I wasn't ready for them.

Not yet.

When I was strong enough—when the world bent the way I needed—it would be different.

But for now?

For now, they were the soft note in a symphony of sharpened steel.

Hidden.

Waiting.

World's Reaction

The Vermont operation didn't stay invisible for long—not in the whispered corners of the supernatural world.

Hunters grumbled about cases closed before they arrived.

Coven leaders murmured about relic thefts no witch could trace.

Rumors birthed theories.

Someone was moving through the cracks, unseen.

Someone who didn't play by old rules.

And they were right.

The Void Reaches Again

The pulse came late—softer than the last, but deeper.

A sensation like fingers tapping at the fabric of my soul.

The Void.

Or something born from it.

Not a threat.

Not a warning.

An invitation.

I didn't answer.

Not yet.

Instead, I layered fresh sigils across the estate's grounds—glyphs older than the civilizations history books remembered.

If the old powers wanted to see me?

Let them.

I wasn't a child anymore.

I was becoming the storm they forgot to prepare for.

And soon, not even Heaven or Hell would be able to ignore me.