The rain began before dawn. Cold. Relentless. It fell over the broken plains like a warning.
Elias stood beneath the twisted arch of an ancient bridge, cloak heavy with water. The road beyond led to the northern fortress — the place Imara called Sanctum Halvard. The stronghold of the new High Seeker. The fortress had once been a monastery, a place of light and peace. Now it burned each night like a forge of judgment.
Imara stood a few paces away, wings folded beneath her tattered cloak. Even wet and dimmed, she carried an air of impossible grace. Mira and Kael watched her warily, their trust thin as breath. The boy Taren dozed by the embers of a small fire, unaware of the storm's weight.
"Four hundred men guard the outer walls," Imara said. "A third are Faithguard — Inquisition knights trained to hunt your kind."
Elias glanced at her. "My kind?"
Her eyes, cold and bright, met his. "Marked. Cursed. Whatever name you prefer. They believe their work holy."
Kael spat into the mud. "Holy. That's what they called it when they burned children in the streets."
Imara did not answer. Her silence said enough.
Mira adjusted the strap of her satchel. "You said they carry the Heart of the Saint. Where?"
"In the upper sanctum," Imara said. "Locked within a reliquary of obsidian glass. It's fed by the blood of the Faithguard. Each drop keeps it sealed. You will not take it quietly."
Elias's voice was even. "Then we don't."
Kael turned toward him sharply. "You want a siege?"
"No," Elias said. "A reckoning."
Imara's expression was unreadable. "You are outnumbered. Outmatched. Even with what burns inside you."
"Then let them test it."
The words fell heavy. Even the rain seemed to pause.
They moved at dusk. The fortress rose against the horizon like a black mountain, its walls veined with firelight. Bells tolled faintly through the storm. The gates were iron, bound with the sigil of the Serpent — an old irony the Faithguard no longer recognized.
Elias drew his cloak tighter and spoke low. "Kael, take the outer yard. Silence the watchtowers. Mira, find the relic chambers. Burn what you cannot carry."
Mira hesitated. "And you?"
"I'll find the High Seeker."
Imara stepped closer. "He will not fall easily. His faith is older than your flame."
Elias looked at her, rain streaming down his face. "Then I'll burn his faith first."
The assault began with silence.
Kael slipped through the shadows, blade drawn. The first guard fell before he could cry out, blood mixing with rain. Arrows followed — swift, precise — each one finding its mark. Mira moved like smoke through the inner courtyards, her hands weaving symbols of ward and decay. Locks rusted. Doors crumbled.
Then came the alarm.
A horn split the storm. The gates shuddered open. From within poured armored men bearing the sigil of the burning sun — the mark of the Inquisition reborn.
Elias walked forward to meet them.
His eyes glowed faintly beneath his hood. His hand rose. The mark across his chest flared with living fire.
The first arrow never reached him. It melted mid-flight. The second struck air — the heat bending its path aside. Then came the charge.
Elias stepped into them. His blade, once dull steel, now blazed white. He cut through armor as through parchment. The fire clung to the men, burning through shield and flesh. They screamed, but their cries were lost in the storm.
Kael joined him — a shadow at his side, his blade flashing red. "You've drawn every damned soul in the fortress!"
"Then none will be left to hunt us," Elias said.
Imara descended from the walls, her torn wing trailing sparks. Her voice rose like thunder: "Fall back to the chapel! The relic lies there!"
They fought their way inward, through halls of ash and broken marble. Statues of saints watched them with hollow eyes. Blood streaked the floors where once prayers had been whispered.
Mira reached the reliquary first. It stood at the center of the chapel — a glass coffin filled with light so bright it burned the eyes. Inside, suspended above a pool of blood, pulsed a single heart.
"It's alive," she whispered.
Imara landed beside her. "Alive, and dying. Every moment it remains here, the Faith drains its light."
Elias entered, dragging his blade through the floor. The mark on his skin burned brighter than the relic. "How do we take it?"
"You don't," said a voice.
They turned.
The High Seeker stood at the far end of the chapel. His armor was blackened steel, engraved with the words Dei Voluntas. His helm was off, revealing a face carved by years of faith and fire. His eyes burned not with hatred, but conviction.
"Elias," he said. "The heretic who would call himself chosen."
Elias raised his blade. "I've been called worse."
"You've been called damned," the Seeker said. "And rightly so. You bear the Serpent's gift and the angel's sin. You are an offense to creation itself."
Imara stepped forward. "He is what your gods made him."
The Seeker sneered. "And what are you, fallen one? Proof that Heaven bleeds when it grows weak?"
Her wings flared once, sparks scattering. "Proof that Heaven lied."
The Seeker drew his sword. The edge burned with holy fire — pure, untainted. "Then let your proof die with you."
He moved faster than sight. His blade met Elias's with a crack of thunder. Sparks filled the air. Flame against flame. Light against shadow.
The walls shook. Stained glass shattered. Mira shielded the boy behind a broken altar as heat rolled through the hall.
Elias struck low, then high, each blow met with equal fury. The Seeker's faith was armor — his conviction, unbreakable.
"You burned the cities!" Elias shouted. "You called it salvation!"
"They begged for death!" the Seeker roared. "Better ash than corruption!"
Elias's blade flared, brighter, hotter. "You call me damned — but it was you who lit the pyres!"
The mark upon his chest burst open in light. Flame crawled up his neck, across his face. His voice deepened, touched by something inhuman.
Imara's eyes widened. "Elias— stop!"
He did not hear her.
The fire consumed his arm, his blade, the air itself. When he struck again, the Seeker's sword shattered. The holy man fell to his knees, gasping.
Elias raised his burning sword for the final blow.
"Do it," the Seeker hissed. "Prove you are the monster we made you."
Elias's hand trembled. The flames flickered. For a heartbeat, the boy's voice — Taren's voice — cut through the storm. "Elias, stop! Please!"
The words struck him harder than any blade. He looked at the Seeker — broken, defiant — then at his own hands. They glowed like molten iron. The mark pulsed faster, hungrier.
He lowered the sword.
The fire recoiled. The light dimmed.
Imara stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She touched the reliquary. The glass cracked beneath her fingers. The heart inside glowed once — bright as the sun — then went still.
The fortress trembled.
Mira shouted, "We have to go!"
They fled through collapsing corridors, the walls bleeding fire. Behind them, the Seeker's voice echoed — not in rage, but in prayer.
When they reached the outer gate, the rain had turned to ash. The fortress burned from within, towers crumbling into the earth.
Kael dragged Taren ahead. Mira coughed blood but kept running. Imara walked last, her gaze fixed on Elias.
"You spared him," she said quietly.
"I saw what mercy costs," he answered.
She looked toward the burning fortress. "And what did it cost you?"
Elias stared at his hand. The fire still burned beneath his skin — but colder now. Faint.
"Something I cannot name," he said. "But I feel the loss."
They stood upon the hill as Sanctum Halvard fell behind them, the last of its towers breaking like bones.
In the distance, thunder rolled again.
Imara's eyes turned north. "They will know you live. Heaven will not stay silent forever."
Elias looked toward the dark horizon, where fire met sky. "Then neither will I."
And as they turned away from the ruins, a single feather — black and burning at the edges — drifted down from the storm, landing in the mud beside the road.