TRIANGLE CONCLAVE

TRIANGLE CONCLAVE

“That which watches from the shadows never blinks, never sleeps, and never forgets.”

—From the Book of Harmonics, classified Holtfaction files, Page 66

The photograph, retrieved from a burned-out embassy safehouse in Montenegro, had been thought to be a myth—an artist’s rendering from fringe conspiracy forums. But Evan Love Riot knew better. This was no painting. No digital fantasy. This was documentation.

The scene depicted a massive chamber—dim, smoke-laced, cavernous—with a vaulted ceiling that resonated like the inside of a cathedral. A circle of men in finely tailored suits sat at a polished obsidian table, their faces lit only by the soft, infernal glow of a great triangular monolith rising at the room’s center. And on that pyramid: the Eye.

The Eye of Providence, yes, but this was no symbol. This was a living mechanism. A construct. And behind it, the ancient power that had watched the world long before nations, before time. A sentient observer known in CIA lore as Project Luxor.

OPERATION: TRIANGLE CONCLAVE

Back in 2019, when Veda Viral and Evan were stationed undercover in Vienna, Virginia, posing as stylists for Slavic-run salons, they began intercepting static pulses from HAM radio frequencies. But these weren’t ordinary military codes—they were sonic glyphs, resonant frequencies that spelled out Enochian syllables when converted into waveforms. The source: an underground transmission node located beneath the old Masonic Temple off Chain Bridge Road.

After decoding the signal, the coordinates led them here—this room, this photograph, and this moment lost in time. The Conclave of 33, a shadow council believed to be defunct since 1983, was shown in full attendance. Except they weren’t aging. Their outlines blurred at the edges, as if reality had failed to fully anchor them.

“They’re not men,” Veda whispered when Evan first showed her the photograph. “They’re time-locked custodians. Anchors in the simulation.”

THE AWAKENING RITUAL

Unknown to most, Holtfaction’s early recordings weren’t simply music. They were ritual keys. Each track laid the groundwork for the reactivation of an ancient harmonic gate. By the time “Black Static Eden” hit underground servers, it had already triggered minor seismic anomalies across the Appalachian fault lines—marking the stirrings of something buried beneath the D.C. corridor.

But it wasn’t until Veda played a stripped-down percussive version of “Triangle Pulse” on an aluminum drum rigged with resonant quartz crystals that the photo began to animate—on its own. Evan watched, horrified, as the Eye blinked.

The image was no longer still. The men began to move, slightly at first, their heads nodding in sync with the rhythm like some ancient metronome waking from stasis.

And then the room they sat in—their room—began to resonate with the exact frequency of Holtfaction’s live set from their Vienna basement show.

THE MESSAGE

From the photograph’s surface, scrawled in spectral ink just below the Eye, appeared a phrase neither Evan nor Veda had ever seen written—only heard in dreams:

“Vocem Luxor. Invocare Per Sonum.”

(Speak to Luxor. Call through Sound.)

That night, Veda refused to sleep. She circled the room, burning sigils into the air with a silver wand inherited from a Romanian cell of defected KGB mystics. Evan layered guitars through seven reversed pedals, sending feedback loops through a transistor radio, searching for a reply.

When it came, it wasn’t words.

It was a heartbeat.

Not theirs. Not human. But familiar. Like it had been there all along—beneath the songs, the streets, the silence between notes. Waiting.

The photograph now sits in a locked, hexed compartment in their rehearsal space—protected by mirrors and deadbolts that only respond to whispered code. But the Conclave… they’re not done.

And Holtfaction isn’t a band anymore.

It’s a counter-signal.

A rebellion pulsing in real time through sound, frequency, and forgotten bloodlines.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Would