Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance
Nocticadia: Chapter 6

“Please don’t do this!” The Accused stood before the council, locked inside an enormous, gilded cage. “I’m begging you.”

The surrounding chamber was one of three ritual rooms in the catacombs of The Roost–a sprawling cathedral just outside of Dracadia University, owned by The Seven Rook Society. Or The Rooks, as we were more commonly referred. Gray concrete walls and floors added a sense of suffocation, like being buried alive inside a tomb. Fitting, really, given how utterly mind-numbing the ceremonies could be. Not even the multitude of flickering candles could brighten the cold and dreary crypt, at the center of which, etched in gold tiles, was the society’s emblem–two crossed medical canes, like those used during the plague, with a number seven. The same emblem that had been branded into my chest.

Outside of the cathedral walls, we were a rumor. A myth. A secret whispered amongst the student body. Fodder for conspiracies.

Never seen. Never heard.

Crossed in front of his body, The Accused’s arms shook like fragile branches ready to snap. He was the only one not wearing one of the signature plague doctor masks that concealed the face of every other member in the room, including me.

Deep black circles shadowed the Accused’s eyes, telling of little sleep, and the way he kept his gaze lowered, refusing to look at anyone, assured that he understood the severity of his crimes and what level of shit he was trudging.

After all, every member of The Rooks knew not to steal. It was in the fucking handbook given to us as fledgling freshmen and still clueless to the utmost serious manner in which the Society upheld its laws. Laws that were separate from those of the outside world.

Laws that had been in place for centuries and would continue to outlive every member in the room.

The man standing before the council had been a member for nearly a decade. Nearly a decade of privilege and unimaginable power, whittled down to the thread of hope he so desperately clung to right then. The single prayer that The Rooks would forgive his offenses.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Chairman Winthrop’s articulate voice remained entirely recognizable even slightly muffled behind his mask. His successor’s untimely death had promoted him nearly four years prior, and since then, he’d kept to his vow of cleaning house in the organization.

The Accused stepped forward, gripping the golden bars of his cage, and lowered his gaze. “Only that I know I’ve committed a grievous crime against my brothers. It was a moment of desperation and despair that inspired this unforgivable act. I beg your mercy. Grant me clemency, and I swear I will do whatever necessary to win your trust and your respect.”

I snorted a laugh and the sound echoed through the room, earning me the attention of a few masked faces, and a terrified glance from The Accused. Understandable, seeing as I happened to be the one from whom he’d stolen. Years of research that The Accused had nearly sold off to some pharmaceutical mogul. One that would’ve surely exploited the work I’d tirelessly committed myself to since having won back some modicum of respect after my father’s disastrous exit.

Fortunately, The Accused had gotten caught.

They always got caught.

His actual name was Paul Darrows, but that didn’t matter anymore. As I understood, Darrows had a wife and kids. Tragic, given the trajectory of his fate at that moment, but the man had witnessed enough executions to be well acquainted with the consequences of his actions. The Rooks were one of three most powerful secret societies in the world, comprised of former CIA, FBI, presidents, inventors, all of whom had once sat in this very room at some point. How he thought he could’ve outsmarted them was beyond me.

I’d only laughed at his earning trust and respect remark because the idiot had been caught with his pants down–literally pegged in the ass by his mistress, who’d probably wished she’d spent the night counting cracks in her ceiling instead of pounding the one that had undoubtedly made for a shitty night.

Darrows had likely been swept up without a wisp of suspicion. No one, aside from the men in this room, would ultimately know his fate. And no one would ever tell, lest they wanted to be in the same position as the poor bastard.

“Let us vote on the matter.” From his black, hooded robe, Winthrop removed the object pinned at his chest–what looked like a coin, about the size of a half-dollar, it bore The Seven Rook Society emblem. One side of the coin was gold, representing the brotherhood–safety, and loyalty. The other side was black. A death sentence.

Six other members removed their pins, as well. Conviction required seven votes altogether, and the majority, a simple plus one, determined whether or not Darrows lived or died.

One at a time, they lay their pins on the table before them. From my spot on the balcony, I watched a unanimous decision unravel–every pin, black side up.

The Rooks did not take kindly to thieves among us, after all.

Particularly since my research happened to be important not only to the members in the room, but the university and future of Dracadia.

“Brother Darrows, for the crimes of treachery, larceny, and the intended dispersal of confidential material, you are hereby deemed guilty.” Winthrop sat back in his chair and signaled to the right of him, where two other Rook members stood by.

“No!” An outcry reverberated off the walls, and the caged man twisted away from the council, slamming himself into the unforgiving iron bars. He rattled the barrier, screaming and pleading for his life.

There was no escape, though.

His ties with the brotherhood had been severed. He’d broken the sacred vows, the promise branded into his flesh–in all our flesh–the scar that bound all of us.

He was no longer worthy of our mercy.

Darrows made a hoarse plea, as if his executioners had any say over his fate. As if they would’ve dared to grant him mercy in the face of their superior brethren.

The member known as The Executioner stepped forward. Unlike the black masks worn by every other member but Darrows, his glistened a resplendent gold, the surface of which reflected the many flickering candles set about the room.

I caught a flash of gold in The Executioner’s palm–a remote. A click of the button, and a glass wall slid down from the top of the cage to surround the bars, enclosing Darrows inside. Two objects that looked like stage lights emerged from the floor within and snapped into place. A moment later, a sound, like running water, filled the room. The emitted gas was invisible, odorless and colorless. Unlike the masks used during the actual plague, the ones worn by the members effectively blocked out any fumes that might’ve seeped from the cage–a safety measure, in case the glass bore a crack, or gap.

Darrows covered his face with his hands and dropped to his knees. A futile attempt to stave off the deadly fumes that filled his enclosure. It didn’t matter anyway–the gas took hold, invading his lungs and his brain through the cracks in his fingers. It perfused his muscles, and he collapsed to the side, seizing. Moments later, his body went still.

The sound of scraping concrete erupted through the room as the tiled floor lowered, carrying the cage and Darrows’ lifeless body within to the lower level, where he’d be incinerated and forgotten. A second, unoccupied, tiled floor bearing the emblem rose up in its place, free of any evidence that Darrows had ever stood before the council. That he had existed, at all.

His name would never again be spoken.