Page 7 of Hallow’s Crown

It’s a similar structure that applied to Westpoint. Before it was burned to the ground. The Board was weak, but the Custodians are not and everything we do, we do with purpose.

The “Hunter” protocol sits at the bottom of the screen. I hover my finger over the selector. The moment stretches. Some of the older staff glance my way, as if waiting for a benediction.

My job is to assign one of the Custodians to hunt Samuel. There are seven names interested and yet I’ll be the one taking this hunt. I want to feel him break underneath me and claim him as my own. Something about the way he is simultaneously a little rabbit and also a wolf intrigues me.

I press the box. The system chirps, then populates the event with Samuel’s ID and timestamp. The new overlay pulses red: “HUNTER ASSIGNED.”

The room shifts. I sense it even in the silence. Now every action is ritual. No one moves without cause. The techs check and recheck their stations. The digital clock clicks down: 05:27:22.

I stand, brushing invisible lint from my lapel. “Monitor at all times. No interventions unless I approve. This subject is on trial, ensure all live feeds are up and ready for the Houses to view. Is that understood?”

A chorus of “Yes, sir.”

On the screen, Samuel finally steps out of his truck. The cold hits him, makes him hunch, but he doesn’t hesitate. He looks up at the nearest camera, straight into it. For a second, I think he sees me.

I lean close to the screen. “Let’s see what you are,” I whisper, and the room resumes its low, relentless hum.

The why of it all is supposed to stay buried, but down here, in the inner sanctum, I have the freedom to be honest. Samuel was not chosen at random, nor was he the best candidate by objective measure. There are men more violent, more cunning, better at hiding from the world. But none of them survived their last trials with so little left on the inside.

I wanted to know: is survival an art, or just an accident of biology? Is there grace in enduring, or only the dull ache of lasting longer than your enemies? The Ministry of Acquisition is my domain. I am to scour our assets and find suitable recruits for The Silent. But I still believe in process. That’s why I run these trials myself. That’s why I never let the software handle selection.

Samuel circles the driveway, eyes tracing the fence line. He tests the callbox twice, then moves on. He checks every window, every possible egress. He doesn’t waste time or energy on fantasy—there is no panic in his motions. Instead, he maps the perimeter the way a trained animal maps the limits of a new cage.

I nod, pleased.

The timer ticks down. I feel the old thrill, the thing my father told me was weakness but which I now understand as clarity. The moment before the test is the only time anything can truly change.

The day has not yet begun, but the hunt is already in progress.

Samuel disappears behind the shadow of the main building. The external cameras follow, tracking him as he moves along the north annex, then back to the staff entrance. He is methodical, as I expected.

In the control center, the air shifts again. There is a scent, almost metallic, that always arrives before the first break. My hands feel light, as if I could lift the whole building and turn it inside out. The Ministry says we must not interfere, but I know the urge to do so is the reason I was chosen for this role. Some men want to watch the world burn. I only want to know if the flame is alive.

Finally, the sun breaks the horizon. The thermal cameras white out for two seconds, then correct. Samuel is at the back fence, crouched, staring at a thin crack in the concrete slab.

I know that crack. I made sure it was there.

He leans closer. Fingers at the edge, pries a little. Nothing happens. He scans the ground, stands, and resumes the circuit. When he reaches the main entrance, he stops and looks again at the house. At the door, at the small white markers. This time, he hesitates. He knows a ritual when he sees one, even if he doesn’t understand it.

He steps over the threshold, careful not to touch the markers. The moment he is inside, every sensor in the house comes alive.

The system logs the entry.

Subject: SAMUEL RICHARDS

Event: CROWN TRIAL INITIATED

Time of Entry: 06:49:12

In the control center, all screens update. The trial has begun.

I stand, take a breath, and let the pressure find its home in my bones.

“Continue monitoring,” I say. “Alert me to deviation. I’ll be observing from the gallery.”

The head tech nods. “Understood, sir.”

I take the private tunnel to the viewing gallery, a glass-walled room with only two chairs and a cluster of screens. Here, I can watch every angle without distraction, without the clutter of staff or noise. The chair is softer than the others, and when I sit, it conforms instantly.