Chapter 67| Fewer Than Ten
The summons arrived without the usual bureaucratic preamble — a single, terse notice instructing Fallen Crown to report to a private conference wing within WHRIB headquarters, escorted personally by Inquisitor Reyes, whose usual composed professionalism carried an unmistakable undercurrent of nervous reverence.
"I should mention," she said as they walked, "that in eleven years of service, I have never personally been granted access to this particular wing. Whatever is about to happen, understand that it represents an honor considerably beyond standard protocol."
"That’s not ominous at all," Irene muttered, though her flippancy carried less conviction than usual.
The conference room itself proved surprisingly modest given the weight of its reputation — simple furnishings, a single long table, and one figure already seated at its head, whose presence nonetheless filled the room with a gravity that made Allen’s every instinct sharpen to immediate attention the moment he crossed the threshold.
She was smaller than Allen expected, silver-haired and unassuming, dressed in plain, practical clothing rather than any formal Inquisitor regalia. But her eyes, when they settled on him, carried a depth and weight that made the room’s temperature feel as though it had dropped several degrees.
"Vice Commander Ilse Farrow," Reyes introduced, voice carrying visible strain despite her professional composure. "I’ll leave you to the briefing."
She departed swiftly, leaving Fallen Crown alone with a woman whose reputation, Allen understood now with sudden, visceral clarity, had been vastly understated by Reyes’s earlier careful description.
"Sit," Farrow said, gesturing toward the table’s remaining chairs, her voice carrying quiet, unhurried authority that required no volume to command absolute attention. "I don’t often leave my usual duties for briefings this direct, Hunter Veton. I trust you understand what that indicates about the situation we’re about to discuss."
"I do," Allen said, settling into the offered seat, his wives arranging themselves around him with the same wary, focused attention he felt radiating from his own chest.
"Good." Farrow’s gaze swept across all five of them with slow, assessing precision. "I’ve read every report generated regarding your case — the Wasteland, the Devourer, your unusual power. I don’t often find myself genuinely surprised anymore, Hunter Veton. Your file managed it regardless."
"Is that a compliment?" Vivian asked carefully.
"An observation," Farrow corrected, though something almost like amusement flickered behind her ancient, weighted gaze. "I’ve served this organization for over forty years. I fought in the original Jenunl Island containment operation myself, as a considerably younger Hunter than I am now." Her expression darkened, old grief surfacing briefly before she carefully composed it away. "I watched considerably more capable Hunters than myself die that day, Allen. Nearly a third of everyone deployed never came home."
The weight of that admission settled heavily over the room, and Allen felt a fresh, sobering understanding of exactly how personal this crisis had become for the woman seated before them.
"I’m sorry," he said quietly.
"Don’t be," Farrow said. "Sympathy doesn’t undo old losses, and I’ve made my peace with that particular grief a long time ago." She leaned forward slightly. "What I need from you, Hunter Veton, is confirmation. Every report suggests your party possesses capabilities considerably beyond standard S-rank classification, yet you’ve never formally tested for that rank. Given what’s about to be asked of you, I require an accurate assessment before proceeding further."
Myria straightened immediately, sharp attention overtaking her earlier wariness. "You want to evaluate us directly."
"I do," Farrow confirmed. "Personally, rather than through standard Association channels. If Jenunl Island requires your party’s involvement, I need absolute certainty regarding exactly what you’re capable of before I authorize deploying you into what remains, even now, one of the most dangerous active threats this organization has ever confronted."
Allen absorbed the weight of that request carefully, glancing around at his wives — Myria’s sharp, calculating readiness, Irene’s fierce anticipation, Everlyn’s quiet steadiness, Vivian’s calm, watchful focus.
"Then evaluate us," he said. "We’ll show you exactly what we’re capable of."
Farrow’s expression shifted, something that might have been approval flickering behind her ancient, weathered composure. "Good," she said, rising from her seat with quiet, unhurried authority. "Follow me. And Hunter Veton — I would advise against holding anything back. I’ve evaluated considerably more Hunters than I can properly count across four decades of service. I will know immediately if you’re not showing me your genuine capability."
She led them from the conference room without further explanation, and Allen felt the weight of an evaluation considerably more consequential than any he’d faced before settling steadily across his shoulders — not because he doubted their strength, but because whatever Farrow ultimately witnessed would determine exactly how deeply Fallen Crown became entangled in a crisis that had already claimed a third of an entire operation’s worth of lives, decades before any of them had ever set foot in Hegeville.
The evaluation chamber Farrow led them toward proved considerably more advanced than anything the Association’s local offices had ever offered — a vast, reinforced arena buried deep beneath the WHRIB complex, its walls lined with monitoring equipment that hummed with quiet, watchful precision as they entered.
"Full combat assessment," Farrow said, standing at the arena’s edge. "Individual and combined. I want to see everything — bloodline output, ability range, coordination under pressure. Hold nothing back."
Myria stepped forward first, ice already gathering at her fingertips with Supreme-tier precision, and Farrow’s expression, though carefully neutral, flickered with something unmistakably impressed as frost spread rapidly across the arena’s reinforced flooring.
"Continue," Farrow said simply, and one by one, Fallen Crown demonstrated everything they’d built across a year of relentless growth — Irene’s controlled, devastating flame; Everlyn’s resonant, world-touched plantation magic; Vivian’s silent, lethal precision; Allen’s dragonfire-infused throws merging seamlessly with Shadow Transposition’s instantaneous, startling repositioning.
By the time the demonstration concluded, exhaustion settling comfortably rather than desperately across all five of them, Farrow stood in contemplative silence for a long moment, reviewing the arena’s detailed monitoring readouts with slow, careful consideration.
"S-rank, at minimum," she said finally. "Possibly approaching the earliest threshold of SS-rank classification, depending on how your growth continues trending." She looked up, meeting Allen’s gaze directly. "That confirms what I suspected from your reports alone. You may genuinely be capable of what Jenunl Island now requires."
"Then we’re going," Allen said, more statement than question.
"You’re going," Farrow confirmed. "Full briefing tomorrow morning. Rest well tonight, Hunter Veton. Whatever waits on that island will not offer you the courtesy of holding anything back, regardless of how thoroughly you’ve earned tonight’s assessment."
She departed the chamber without further ceremony, leaving Fallen Crown alone amid the arena’s fading frost and scorched earth, the weight of tomorrow’s briefing settling heavily but manageably across all of their shoulders.