Chapter 165: The Council of Directorates
Chapter 165: The Council of Directorates
A/N: All the pictures of Directors are on Discord. Feel free to check them out.
...
Inside one of the rooms in the Medical Ward, Alaric was lying on a medical bed. There were several healing arrays circling beneath him, their pale light rising and falling with every breath he took. Thin silver seals were placed across his chest, shoulders, ribs, spine, and arms. Some were already dim, others still glowed faintly, working through the last traces of damage left in his body.
There were fifteen fractures in his body, three of which were severe.
He needed urgent care.
And now, with Enclave Healers working on him tirelessly for about five hours, he had finally recovered and opened his eyes.
For a few seconds, he only stared at the ceiling, recollecting everything that had happened. Then, his eyes turned cold as he remembered something and sat up.
The healing arrays beneath him brightened in warning, but he ignored them. The seals across his body flickered, reacting to the sudden movement, but the moment Alaric stopped moving, they became steady.
Just then, the door opened and Claire Voss, who had been waiting for him to wake up, stepped inside.
"You alright?"
She questioned, her eyes observing his condition.
"Healed."
Claire stared at him for a moment, then she sighed.
"It wouldn’t kill you to not talk like a robot every once in a while."
Alaric didn’t say anything and that made Claire sigh even more.
"I won’t ask you to rest since I know you won’t listen."
Again, Alaric stayed silent. That was his way of saying Claire was right. Claire stared at him for a few seconds, then, she showed her ’work face’ as well.
"So what happened?"
She questioned, her expression turning cold like usual.
"I have pieces, emergency reports from your team, damaged footage, and statements from the public, but I still need a full report from you."
Alaric didn’t answer. Instead, he stood up.
The healing arrays flashed again, but this time, he simply silenced them by shutting the machine off.
"Alaric."
Claire called out.
He wasn’t supposed to do that.
Alaric did not care.
Instead, he picked up his coat that was folded beside his bed and placed it over his shoulders.
"Call the Council."
He instructed.
"...what?"
Claire’s expression changed.
At her reaction, Alaric wore his coat, straightened his back, then, he looked right into Claire’s eyes and—
"As Heir of the Ashcroft Family, current representative of the Old Families, I, Alaric Ashcroft, call the Council of Directorates."
He spoke in a cold, formal tone and Claire—
"I’ll arrange everything."
She nodded.
And with that, the arrangements began.
The Council of Directorates was the highest table in Enclave.
The Council of people with the strongest influence, people who made Enclave what it was. People who could singlehandedly decide the fate of Enclave and all of humankind.
This was the power these people held.
And obviously, the Council of Directorates was not called regularly.
After all, the Enclave was too large, old, and divided for every decision to rise to its highest table. Most matters ended in branch offices, regional command rooms, field reports, sealed archives, or quiet conversations between people whose names never appeared on paper.
The Directorates usually gathered once every year to discuss all important changes, that was until someone with the required authority called for an Emergency Directorate Gathering.
Like Alaric had done today.
The meeting chamber was located beneath the central wing of Enclave Headquarters, far below the medical floors, training halls, containment rooms, and administrative offices.
The chamber had black stone walls, a circular floor, and ten high-backed seats arranged around a wide obsidian table.
Each seat had a different symbol carved into the stone behind it.
A sword.
A blank mask.
An open book.
A burning anvil.
An eye.
A sealed box.
Two clasped hands.
A black door.
A bloodline tree.
A compass.
These were the symbols of the ten sectors.
The ten powers that made the Enclave what it was.
And one by one, these seats filled.
The first one who entered was Director Garrick Vale.
The sword behind him glowed faintly as he sat down.
Garrick was an old man with a broad build. He had more than a few scars on his face, he had short grey hair, and one side of his jaw had a deep white line. It was a leftover mark from an attack that had nearly taken his head thirty years ago.
Garrick did not look like someone trained for politics. He seemed more like a war veteran.
He was the Warden Seat.
The Wardens represented field operations, hunters, combat teams, and active threat response. They were the Enclave’s direct and aggressive response to threats.
The branch that bled first.
This was the reason Garrick, as the Seat of his branch, had very little patience for people who spoke too long.
A few seats away, Director Marcelline Voss, the Cleaner Seat, sat beneath the blank mask.
She wore a perfect black suit, her hair tied smoothly behind her head. She represented cover-ups, public records, witness control, police influence, media management, and aftermath containment.
To most hunters, a mission ended when the enemy died. For the Cleaners, that was the beginning. They were the ones who made sure cameras showed nothing, witnesses remembered less, the police reports made sense, and the world went back to sleep thinking everything was normal.
Marcelline’s gaze briefly moved to Claire, who stood near one of the side walls with several files in hand. Claire gave her a small bow, greeting her Family Head respectfully. Marcelline did not react.
After Marcelline, another man walked in and sat beneath the open book.
He was the Archivist Seat, Director Losef Ardent, a thin, old, and quiet man with white hair and round glasses. A stack of leather-bound files and black tablets were placed neatly before him. His eyes moved slowly across the room, stopping on every person for exactly one second before moving on.
The Archivists represented records, histories that the world did not know about, old treaties, True Demon names that the Enclave knew, spirit anchors, bloodline disasters—
They were what the Enclave could not afford to lose.
Then came Director Helena Draven, the Crucible Seat. She sat beneath the burning anvil. Director Helena Draven was a lean, sharp-eyed woman with copper-brown hair tied back.
The Crucible represented training, evaluations, altered humans, dangerous recruits, combat development, and controlled breaking and rebuilding of people who wanted to stand against monsters.