Primordial Heir: Nine Stars-Chapter 366: Domain 1

While Nero held Khione in his arms in that quiet inn room, letting the warmth of their connection push back the shadows of the day, a very different kind of meeting was taking place somewhere far removed from the peaceful outer city.

The location was unknown. Unmarked on any map. Unreachable by any normal means.

It was a place shrouded in absolute darkness. Not the gentle darkness of night, but a thick, living blackness that seemed to breathe, to watch, to hunger. The only sources of light were a few scattered candles placed along a long, massive table. Their flames did not burn orange or yellow. They burned a sickly, ghostly green, casting pale, shifting shadows that danced like restless spirits against the unseen walls.

The air itself was wrong. It was cold, but not the clean cold of winter. It was a damp, clinging cold that seeped into the bones and carried a faint, underlying stench—the reek of old blood, of decay, of rituals best left forgotten. It was the smell of ominousness, of places where terrible things had happened and worse things were planned.

The hall was vast. Its true size was impossible to gauge in the green gloom, but the echoes of even the smallest sounds suggested cavernous proportions. At its center stood the table. It was made of a dark, polished wood that seemed to drink the green light rather than reflect it. Deep grooves and carvings covered its surface—symbols and runes in languages long dead, patterns that hurt the eyes if stared at too long.

Around this table were arranged ten chairs.

At the head of the table, dominating the space, was the largest chair. It was a throne, really—tall-backed, carved from what looked like blackened bone, adorned with metal fittings that gleamed dully in the ghostly light. This seat was raised slightly above the others, a physical reminder of the hierarchy. This was the seat of the Pope. The absolute ruler of the organization. The voice of their dark faith.

Flanking the Pope’s throne, two slightly smaller but still imposing chairs sat to either side. These were the seats of the Archbishops. The second-highest rank, the direct instruments of the Pope’s will, the commanders of the organization’s darkest works.

Beyond these three central seats, arranged in a semi-circle along the table’s length, were seven more chairs. These were simpler in design but still carried an aura of authority. They belonged to the Cardinals—the Apostles, as they were sometimes called. The enforcers, the high-level agents, the leaders of the organization’s most critical missions.

Ten chairs. Ten rulers of a shadow empire that stretched across continents, that pulled strings in kingdoms, that conducted experiments on living souls in pursuit of godhood.

But tonight, only three were occupied.

The Pope’s throne was filled. The figure there was shrouded in heavy robes that absorbed what little light there was, revealing nothing of form or feature. Only a pair of hands rested on the armrests—pale, long-fingered, unnaturally still.

To the Pope’s right, one of the Archbishop seats was occupied. This figure was also robed, but their posture was different—leaning forward slightly, as if eager, impatient.

To the Pope’s left, the other Archbishop sat in perfect stillness, a mirror of patience.

The other seven chairs—the seats of the Cardinals—stood empty. Waiting. The absence was loud, a statement in itself. Some were likely on missions. Some were... elsewhere. But the emptiness of those seats spoke of the organization’s reach, of its members scattered across the world, doing its work in shadows.

The green flames flickered. The darkness pressed close. And in the silence, something was being decided.

One of the Archbishops spoke, their voice a dry rasp that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"The Wind Breaker has fallen."

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Subject #009. The Storm Mage. One of their most promising creations. Gone.

The other Archbishop stirred, a sound like rustling silk. "The target exceeded all projections. Dual laws were known. But this... this was beyond."

Silence again. Then, from the Pope’s throne, a voice emerged. It was not loud. It was not deep. It was soft, almost gentle—and utterly, terrifyingly calm.

"The boy is more valuable than we knew."

A pause. The green flames seemed to dim, as if even they were holding their breath.

"We will not send another agent after him. Not yet."

The Archbishops waited, understanding that more was coming.

The Pope’s pale fingers tapped once on the armrest. The sound was like a nail being driven into a coffin.

"Let him grow. Let him gather his allies. Let him believe he is safe." A whisper of movement as the shrouded figure leaned forward slightly. "When he is at his peak, when his value is at its maximum... we will take everything. His power. His laws. His very soul."

The darkness seemed to pulse with anticipation.

"For now, watch. Wait. And prepare."

The meeting was over. The green flames guttered.

The inn was quiet. The city outside had settled into the deep, breathing silence of late night. Only the occasional distant sound—a dog barking, a cart rolling over cobblestones somewhere far away—broke the stillness.

Nero lay in the warm bed, Khione’s soft breathing a steady rhythm beside him. She was deeply asleep, her face peaceful, her white hair spread across the pillow like moonlight. He watched her for a long moment, a rare, tender smile touching his lips. Then, carefully, slowly, he slipped out from under the covers.

His feet touched the cool floor. He moved silently, gathering his shirt and pulling it on. A glance back at the bed—she hadn’t stirred. Good.

He left the room, closing the door with a soft click, and made his way up the narrow stairs to the roof. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

The night air hit him, cool and clean. The rooftop of the inn was a simple, flat space, covered in weathered tiles. A low wall ran around the edge. Above, the sky was a vast, dark canvas painted with thousands of stars, so clear and sharp they seemed close enough to touch.