CHAPTER

  08

  Faith danced in his palm.

  The day after Armand’s Del Tenebre demise, Minister Ruppert sat in a nondescript car tracing through Westland’s capital in silence. Outside, the streets hummed with ignorance. Inside, his thoughts clicked sharper than the turn signals. Luciano had sent a message: the name of a place paired with the word updates, and no further details.

  As the car slowed before a narrow alley, the skyscraper above threw its shadow across a steel door at its end. No sign. No handle. Just silence, where the city’s rhythm broke.

  Ruppert's nose flared, needing to steady his heartbeat. A part of him was eager to learn what the shadow had glimpsed; yet another dreaded the prospect of being toyed with like a puppet.

  Time was ticking. While his resistance was progressing, it was at a snail’s pace. Through interrogating a fellow named Steve, they managed to pinpoint the location of a warehouse in the mountains. In the coming days, a team will be assembled. But they would be stepping into the dark. He needed more information, and Luciano’s share was long overdue.

  Luciano bleeds like the rest of us, he affirmed as he stepped out.

  The night met him with a wet chill. He pulled his coat tighter, then glanced down the alley in reflex. Caution carved from experience made him scan the alley. The chill breeze brushed him with curiosity as if it too were gingerly investigating the updates.

  At the steel door, he pressed a grey metallic card onto its surface. The door clicked open.

  This was The Cave of Whispers, a place where oaths were violated. Where politicians and businessmen conferred in silence and silence kept tabs. A place he was unfortunately familiar with.

  A wooden staircase descended into a dim amber glow. The handrail, leather-wrapped and worn from scheming hands, tugged him deeper. Suave music drifted upward along whips of smoky cigar thread.

  As he entered the bar, a gush of heat warned him to brace against the murmur of voices blurred into wallpaper, glasses clinking with practiced rhythm. Here, the future listened and the past remembered. No one talked about the present.

  There, at the back booth, above which a chandelier spun lazily, sat Luciano Del Tenebre.

  Slouched like a man born to velvet. One hand draped over the booth’s lip, the other near a drink he hadn’t touched. The light seemed to bend away from him, as though afraid to dim The Shadow.

  The devil, Ruppert thought. Creator, anchor my soul, lest the shadow finds its shape in me. He prayed as though fearing the shadows or perhaps becoming one.

  Ruppert slid into the booth without ceremony, his coat creasing like armor. His stare landed hard on Luciano’s face, expecting the usual smirk. Instead, he was offered a cunning yet apologetic smile.

  “The intel,” Ruppert demanded, allowing no nonsense. “Now.”

  The devil raised an eyebrow.

  “Minister Ruppert,” he said, drawing out the title like an old melody. “You look... tense. Who's pulling your string tonight?”

  “Don’t.” Ruppert’s hand rose, dismissing the banter. “We had an agreement. You’ve delayed long enough. I know your people have been sniffing. Speak.”

  A twitch. Barely visible. Luciano’s smile cracked—not outwardly, but around the edges of his stillness.

  Damn it. Did he already see through my mask?

  Luciano leaned back slowly as if widening the space between them mattered more than answering.

  “My mice have been sniffing, yes,” he admitted as he reached for his glass but didn’t lift it. His gaze pierced Ruppert, and his expression soured.

  “One fell in a rather nasty trap.

  He lifted his glass as if offering a toast and added, “I’m out.”

  He drank from the cup as if sealing the deal

  “What?” Ruppert scoffed. His mind went blank, sucked in by the words.

  “I’m staying away from it,” Luciano stated, setting his empty glass down like a bad deal. “The project. The resistance. All of it. And if you value your life, then you should too.”

  The words landed oddly, too honest for a swindler such as him. The bar itself seemed to flinch. The clink of glasses dulled. The music twisted, faded, then staggered forward again like a drunk sobering up after waltzing off track.

  Ruppert sat dumbfounded. Was this still The Shadow

  “You’re warning me?” he said, the idea absurd on his tongue. “You, of all people?”

  Luciano didn’t answer. He looked up at the chandelier above their booth.

  “Armand saw something,” he declared. A thread of melancholy laced his tone. “Right before silence swallowed him. You are not ready for what’s coming. I.. was not ready.”

  Ruppert leaned in, pressing his palm heavily on the table.

  “You may have lost whatever little faith you have in your soul, Shadow, but don’t think for one moment that I have.”

  Luciano’s jaw tightened. He stood up.

  “Our collaboration ends here, Minister. Consider our ‘deal’ concluded.”

  Ruppert flared through his nose. The devil was about to escape like a thief. Who knew where he would run with his knowledge of the resistance?

  He slammed his palm on the table and jabbed a finger in Luciano’s direction.

  “The deal is done when say it is!” Ruppert barked, fuming.

  “You do not have such authority over me, Minister.”

  Luciano’s infuriating smirk was back, taunting him.

  “Think of black holes, Minister, Some darkness feast on lights and this one will feast on your faith before you can blink.”

  And with that, Luciano sauntered off, leaving Ruppert half fuming, half confused. He could not restrain his rage.

  He wanted to scream. His lips parted, but the words stayed silent, unsure if they were for himself, the bar, or Luciano.

  The chandelier dimmed another notch. The bar’s voices had vanished into hush. Their booth drew the bar's attention. Ruppert stiffened, and a crack had opened in his consciousness, with flickers of...

  and

  He crushed it. Faith had no room for doubt.

  Luciano was silk hiding a coward wrapped in sophistry.

  Soon, everything would change. Luciano had been wrong about one thing: His faith would not be consumed. Not by shadows, Nor by heresy.

  Yusuf and Cohen would strike with mighty righteousness, Luciano’s cowardice forgotten, buried in the dust of history along with the RHU project.

  #

  Ruppert’s hand flexed against his thigh as the car slowed. The world outside his window was too serene, oblivious to the impending doom poised to engulf Westland, held back by nothing more than a paper-thin front line of faith. He stepped out into a comfortable, warm breeze that caressed his skin. It felt alien. Before him, an old wooden signboard read:

  He hated the name.

  He didn’t trust places that tried to please everyone. It sat between the Cathedral of the Creator and the Bayt al-Mutawakkilin Temple, like a neutral prayer. A restaurant whose blue doors caught the last blush of light like stained glass. Pretending to ignore both branches of faith.

  It seemed to lie.

  Adjusting his coat, he inhaled air scented with cinnamon pastry and coffee, mixed with summer blossoms and warm lies. It stuck to his throat like bile.

  Twelve hours. That’s all they had before the strike. The intel was in. The path was set. Yet his skin itched like a nerve struck too many times.

  He stepped into the establishment with a grim face, one that softened into neutrality for the briefest of moments. The warm, inviting air seemed to whisper:

  Everything inside, from the soft lighting and the low hum of conversation to the gentle clink of porcelain, conspired to soothe. The chairs and tables beckoned to sit and surrender. To indulge in the illusion of peace. To forget his woe, if only for an afternoon.

  A waiter whose smile read like a warm hug approached him.

  “A coffee of creation,” Ruppert said dully, still lulled by the promises lingering in the air.

  The phrase was acrid in his mouth. Preposterous. How far had Westland’s faith fallen, if this was now the required passphrase?

  His order wiped the smile from the waiter’s face, replacing it with a grim expression, banishing the lull that had seized Ruppert, reinstating purpose in his vein.

  He was guided to a back room, passing crowded tables where amicable men smiled and nodded at him. But he saw the truth in those meaningless smiles. These were sheep, grazing on comfort, blind to the storm.

  At the storage area, stale air laced with the smell of wet stone and old musk seeped through the floorboards, mixing with the establishment’s warm fragrance and earthy sweetness, refreshing his grim expression.

  The waiter opened a trapdoor, and a waft of old air exhaled as if stretching after a long confinement. It was a dark descent, repulsive, yet oddly familiar. Somehow, it made him feel at home. Ruppert descended without ceremony.

  Wood creaked behind him as the waiter shut the trapdoor, snuffing out the peace above as if it were a mirage. The last wooden steps moaned beneath his shoes before giving way to stone, slick in places.

  A draft met his face like a pushy passerby, damp, cold and prickly, trailing with it the ghost of Luciano’s warning:

  Every other lamp flickered awake as he moved forward. Those that stayed dark, or blinked with hesitation, plagued him with memories of the spiritual leaders: bystanders who failed to stand with the light against the encroaching dark. Even the old tunnel, dug before Westland was a nation, seemed to ward him from his path.

  Water dripped from an unseen pipe, challenging the rhythm of his heartbeat. But he did not falter. The goal was pure: in the Creator’s name, Westland’s faith must endure.

  A puddle broke beneath his sole, just as inconsequential as his moral, under the momentum of a faith no one asked him to carry.

  Six days of meticulous planning and twelve hours from now, faith would finally carve a wound into sacrilege.

  #

  A distinct whimper, like a mouse caught in a trap, trembled between the rustle of parchment and the low murmur of strategy, brushing past Ruppert’s ears like the breath of a corrupted prayer.

  Then, the open door came into view. It stood wide as if waiting, silent and expectant. He wanted to believe it welcomed. But the light that spilled through was indecent as it grazed the polished stone floor, scattering across surfaces that still whispered with the voices of those who had once sought shelter here. Refugees. Their prayers for peace clung to the dust, fragile and lingering. Some of it rose to meet him, catching on his suit and shoes, eager to flee the dark the rest had long surrendered to.

  Ruppert pushed the door open and took in the scene inside. He should have laughed. Priests and cardinals hunched over maps like generals in relics, waging holy war with nothing but faith and zeal. But the absurdity culminated at the end of the room: a confessional crime scene.

  Cardinal Jared’s shadow swelled behind a bound man, engulfing what remained of the prisoner’s shape. He hovered like a carrion bird, his hands caked in layers of dried sweat, old blood, and fresh streaks, drifting above a workbench littered with gruesome tools. His eyes gleamed like rubies. Ruppert shivered. Even the dim light in the room shrank away.

  Yusuf Al-Hakim stood before the prisoner, the Holy One himself, bent forward like a question mark, repeating inquiries with the futility of a broken record, vainly trying to extract a different flavor from the prisoner’s gargled reply.

  The sight curled Ruppert’s lips. He growled.

  “Is that necessary?”

  It cut through the murmurs. Heads turned. He was met with respect, fear, expectation, and from Yusuf, a flicker of disdain, like a child afraid his toy was about to be taken. That scowl vanished, smoothed into a mask of mock benevolence as Yusuf laid a firm hand on the man's shoulder, sealing his fate with a gesture that drew another whimper.

  Ruppert’s mind concluded.

  “This man came from the lair of Shaitan,” Yusuf murmured, his voice dripping like acid laced with scripture.

  “He is tainted. And through his repentance, he will be reborn.”

  Steve quivered before Ruppert, his gaze searching.

  They seemed to beg, tentative and flickering.

  Uncertain if he stood before a savior… or another tormentor.

  Ruppert ignored Yusuf for now, unwilling to condone his ally’s methods, but lacking the conviction to oppose them. Not after letting Luciano walk away with the truth, leaving him clutching only threads of doubt.

  He ignored Steve too, afraid that what little compassion he had left would interfere with what the resistance needed most: answers.

  Instead, he focused on the unholy Jared, who smiled.

  And on it, Ruppert glimpsed the inverse of faith, not a man devoted to the Creator, but one who thrived on misery. Had he sanctioned the release of a demon upon innocent souls?

  “This is the Creator’s will,” Yusuf whispered, leaning gently toward Steve’s ear.

  The prisoner gave a resigned sob, a dread that he might not leave this room alive, slowly smothered what little hope he had left.

  Ruppert prayed silently.

  He shook his head, denying Steve his solace and denying Yusuf his claim. Then he turned away from the altar of suffering toward the table where Westland’s fate was etched on the surface of a map.

  Ruppert winced, knowing ink and strategy wouldn’t be enough to hold Westland’s faith together.

  His stomach clenched at the sight of Cohen, practically folded over the map, sleeves rolled, drenched in sweat, his face pale with guilt. Unlikely from the task at hand and more likely from enduring Yusuf and Jared’s ecstatic questioning.

  After all, it was Cohen who had offered Steve as tribute.

  his conscience taunted.

  He retorted vehemently.

  “How are we looking, Cohen?” Ruppert asked.

  He wasn’t just eyeing the map. He was fleeing the injustice he’d just allowed to unfold, and maybe, just maybe, trying to ease his friend’s torment by validating the work.

  His tone, however, came out more reproachful than warm.

  Cohen looked up with eyes that hadn’t closed for nights. His gaze dropped quickly back to the table as if glancing at the pitiful prisoner might cause him to faint.

  “Warehouse 01,” he breathed, tapping the forested edge of a mountain slope on the projection. “We confirmed it through Steve’s intel and independent scouts. The RHU facility’s blind spot is on the northwest slope. Routine patrols. Predictable intervals.”

  Unable to help himself, he glanced at Steve. His knee gave out, and he sank into the nearest chair. His hand trembled as he traced a descending line on the map.

  “Strike squad will infiltrate here, where the subterranean facility has localized its massive exhaust shaft.”

  He paused. His eyes lingered on the line he’d just trailed and looked up, his expression disturbingly close to Steve’s.

  Cohen issued a resigned sigh that sliced clean across Ruppert’s heart.

  “Once inside, they’ll plant charges along the eastern cryo walls.”

  The Pope turned toward the flickering screens, less to observe, but rather to avoid.

  “Nightfall infiltration is due in twelve hours.”

  The cost was steeper than he’d imagined. A zealot unleashed. A sadist unshackled. And his friend, crumbling beneath it all.

  “Good work, Charles.”

  The compliment was cheap, no more sincere than the name he rarely used. The only good thing happening was that his resistance had direction. Where it led, however, he wasn’t eager to find out.

  Ruppert’s gaze drifted from the red line on the map to the quivering prisoner, both scarred beyond repair.

  “This strike will cripple the project before it has a chance to spread into an uncontrollable plague,” he declared, narrowing his glare at Steve.

  The prisoner flinched and shrank back.

  Ruppert shoved his empathy into the darkest corner of his mind. He didn’t see Steve anymore. He saw Prima.

  That soulless abomination wouldn’t whimper.

  Yusuf slithered closer to the table.

  “Yes, Minister,” Yusuf murmured, glancing at Steve as if reading the plan on his bruised skin. “The heretics shall be judged. The Creator will know His own.”

  Then came the laughter. Soft at first, then serrated. A zealot’s joy, watching justice burn through the flame.

  It pricked Ruppert’s bones, the wrongness of it, the zealotry corrupting Faith.

  he scowled.

  “Contain yourself, Yusuf,” he growled, needing to tame the flame before it burned them all. “This isn’t a crusade. The Creator helps us. Let it not come down to that.”

  Yusuf’s grin withered, his lips tightening under the scolding. He twitched, his body struggling to restrain a retort, and forced an uncourteous bow.

  The Holy One’s gesture seemed to jeer.

  #

  Ruppert barely had the time to scowl at Yusuf before the sound of heavy boots on stone thumped from the hall, echoing like competing gospels, marshalling ancient, peace-yearning souls from their slumber to judge his decision. Steve whimpered, sinking into the chair as if the steel might shield him, digging into his skin instead. Ruppert considered having Yusuf gag the man if only to preserve what was left of his sanity.

  First came a massive hammer perched on an equally large man. Behind him, an odd-shaped tower shield enveloped a second figure, blocking the door as they entered. The frame jutted forward like a giant arrowhead pointing at the ceiling, reminding Ruppert this was a beginning that had to end tonight. His duty was clear: smother heresy in its cradle. For Faith’s sake. In the name of the Creator.

  They stopped before him and bowed. The mountainous one’s shoulders bristled with restrained motion, fingers flexing once on the haft of his hammer. Beside him, the other stood rigid, spine locked, gaze fixed just past Ruppert, toward Steve, lips tightening in visible disgust. Both shared his cause. That much was evident in their grim expressions. But the silence between felt armed. And now they waited for his command as another load fell on his mounting pile of concerns.

  “Minister,” the first greeted, voice practiced and reverent, as if still attuned to choirs in cathedral halls. “Selim of the Guardians of the Creator. We stand at your command. Our shields are sanctified. We shall protect these...” he paused, glancing sideways. “…wild children during the infiltration.”

  A faint, aggravating smirk curled on his lips.

  Ruppert could almost see Yusuf and Jared’s necks crane in indignation.

  But before he could speak, the second man stepped forward and slapped a heavy hand against Selim’s shield, hard enough to make the leaner man stumble.

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  He laughed the way Ruppert imagined he would: a low, thunderous rumble.

  “Our strike will shake the mountain, bury the heretics beneath it.” His eyes stayed locked on Selim. “Anwar. Commander of the Yad Al-Hakim. Personal guard of the Holy One.”

  He nodded toward Yusuf. Then glared back at Selim.

  “Better the Creator take me now than see me cower behind your shield, pretty man.”

  Pinching his brow, Ruppert released an exasperated growl. The RHU project was gaining ground, but Faith was clashing with Faith before his eyes, while its supposed leaders drowned in zealotry or flogged themselves over necessary blood.

  “Enough,” he snapped, hand raised, not just to still them, but to hold himself in check.

  “Save your fire for the walking dead about to stain your nation.”

  They didn’t flinch, but the light above them dimmed as if hesitating with him.

  He glanced back at Cohen, who stared silently, then at Yusuf, whose sullen face masked a rare stillness. Both waited.

  He stood taller. The Minister of Faith spoke now, not the man beneath.

  “Your mission is to cleanse Westland of its budding plague.”

  Both commanders straightened at the order, their petty tension forgotten.

  “Go now, with the Creator’s blessing.”

  he almost added.

  But he didn’t. That was more for himself than for them.

  The two saluted, respect, at last, shining in their eyes.

  Ruppert waved them off with a hand that was both dismissal and blessing.

  As they turned, their weapons brushed in passing. The sound felt more like a final banter than a proper goodbye.

  Children of Faith, opposed as they may be, Ruppert sincerely hoped they’d return safely.

  “I believe we are all set, then,” Ruppert said, though his gaze lingered on the space the two commanders had just vacated.

  In their absence, his mind conjured the specter of an expressionless Prima preaching salvation, and Luciano’s smile, still warning him of the danger she represented.

  He turned to the prisoner, who yelped, mistaking the glare Ruppert wore for judgment aimed at him.

  “What of him?”

  He asked no one in particular, his voice straining for dismissal as if tone alone could soften the implication of deciding the fate of a man who had witnessed a potential rebellion.

  Steve held his breath expectantly, hope flickering in his eyes, searching the Minister like a leaf caught in a storm.

  Cohen rubbed a thumb into his palm, glanced at Steve, then back at Ruppert, searching for leniency, as much for himself as for the man whose life he had condemned.

  Then he stared at his feet and sighed.

  “He’s the only one who’s given us the layout. He was laid off a week after the bill passed, his intel’s fresh. Scouts confirmed most of what he gave us. I doubt much has changed in seven days. He stays until it’s done.”

  Ruppert gave a slow, uneven nod, one that almost passed for a shake.

  “So be it.”

  The words tasted sour on Ruppert’s tongue. The necessary evil was not pleasant. Not with the zealot who smiled like a spoiled child, clasping both hands with a reverent look that violated the prisoner more than any torture.

  “His knowledge is recent,” Yusuf said. “And I was informed…”

  He let his words drift as he glanced at Cohen as if pointing to the one who had delivered the lamb.

  “That he has recently forsaken the Creator. We shall enlighten him again. He will repent. He will share more of what he knows. He will thank us, for allowing him to help cleanse Westland of heresy.”

  For the first time, Steve spoke. His voice was low, guttural, and condemning.

  “May your Creator choke on your prayers.”

  He spat at them, the blood-soaked saliva falling short, splattering near Ruppert’s feet.

  Jared stepped forward and, without ceremony, delivered a heavy backhand that knocked the man unconscious.

  “Silence, infidel.”

  When Steve’s head dropped, another burden fell onto Ruppert’s ever-growing pile of concerns.

  And this time, the voice that judged him sounded uncomfortably like Luciano’s suave tone.

  #

  Selim inhaled an earthy pine scent, calm, grounding. There is no danger here, it seemed to whisper, urging him to believe. But the silhouette of the pines fluttered restlessly. And the grim expressions of the men trailing behind him intensified beneath the darkening orange sky, unraveling whatever comfort the breeze had offered.

  A company of one hundred and sixty Children of the Creator pulled from the fiery Yad Al-Hakim, and the reserved Guardians of Creation trudged along in as much silence as their gear allowed. To Selim, it sounded like a morning drill. So much for infiltration.

  Anwar rolled in beside him like a boulder, ready to topple the mountain, grinning, likely the only one enjoying the thought of the raid. His golden armor blazed in the amber light. With that massive weapon across his back, he looked like judgment incarnate.

  Selim tightened his grip on the shield and scowled at the brute. He was the Pope's shield, not a wet nurse. But orders were orders. Today, that entailed guarding and bringing home steel and fire. If the Pope could set aside his differences with Bayt al-Mutawakkilin, so could he.

  A little while later, as they neared their goal perimeter, Selim stopped, squinting into the dark. Threads of light swept across the distance in rhythmic arcs. He raised a hand, and the column behind him halted, dropping into a crouch. Even the trees seemed to pause their bristling.

  Anwar turned, hands on hips, Pummeler hoisted. His posture demanded to know why they’d stopped. Selim pointed toward the lights, then held up three fingers. Anwar squinted into the dark, and his teeth caught the moonlight, shining through a hungry, wolfish grin.

  Before Selim could caution restraint, the man was already surging forward, like an agile avalanche, his huge frame vanishing into the bush ahead. Gravel sprayed. Branches cracked. Ahead, the scouts began to turn, drawn toward the raucous. By the Creator!

  Selim slapped a hand to his face and hastily leveled his shield in front of him, angled like a crossbow. He fired three bolts.

  The lights arced through the air as the scouts dropped, seconds before Anwar’s broad hammer swept past and slammed into the dirt with a heavy thud. A frustrated growl followed. The forest reverted to its incessant bristle.

  “No need to be so eager, Brother,” Selim murmured, sliding his shield onto his back. He didn’t need to see Anwar’s face to know the brute was glaring, vexed at being robbed of his prey. I might as well stoke the fire. We’ll need it raging soon enough. If scouts were this far out, whatever waited inside the facility wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Selim rolled his shoulders and pressed on.

  A while later, he was perched atop the same tree Armand del Tenebre had touched several nights prior, overlooking the gargantuan exhaust shaft. The company and Anwar waited several paces behind. Four sentries patrolled the shaft below, their lights sweeping every nook and cranny of the forest around it.

  Selim sliced a finger through the air and they dropped instantly. Large bolts jutting from their bodies.

  “This feels too easy,” he muttered.

  The breeze had stilled since they entered this space; repulsed, perhaps, by the warm air oozing from the exhaust. Or maybe it had fled from the abomination the mountain was gestating.

  Even Anwar’s grin had faded to a tentative smile. One foot balanced on a boulder, hammer angled at his hip, ready to swat at any demon that might crawl out of the hole. The pine scent was gone now, replaced by a faint, musky tang that stung Selim’s lungs.

  Anwar grunted, perhaps to strongarm any hesitation. “Then let’s not keep the abyss waiting.” And he stepped down into the shaft.

  Selim glanced one last time at the fallen sentries. The lack of blood oozing from their corpses rang an alarm in his mind He promptly snuffed the thought. Then he peered into the forest. Still. Strange. As if it watched him.

  “Orders are orders,” he muttered, more to convince himself than anyone else, and jumped, shield, doubts, and the unnerving sense of being watched by something unholy in tow.

  The questions that had plagued him since the day before lingered in the space he left behind:

  Back at the perimeter, one of the fallen sentries twitched. Then again. He stirred. Slowly. Unnervingly. The iron shaft still protruded from his chest, the wound knitting itself closed around the shaft.

  “Mother,” he rasped through a punctured lung, a voice wet and wrong. "New vessels have entered the Headquarters."

  It yanked the bolt free as if it hadn’t pierced its lungs. Behind it, the other two sentries stirred, moving with smooth, unnatural ease, unbothered by wounds that should have killed them.

  #

  A stench struck Selim, acrid, warm, and damp, as he landed with a thud that rattled his heart. Around him, Guardians and Yad al-Hakim raised their weapons, tense and bracing as if the tunnel itself had exhaled a warning.

  At the vanguard, Anwar radiated divine fury.

  “Here we are, boys. Shaitan’s belly,” Anwar growled.

  A Yad al-Hakim clutched the chain at his neck.

  A few Guardians lifted their shields just a little higher.

  “Eyes peeled, all of you. Beware the demons that might snatch your ankles.”

  His laugh echoed down the tunnel, low and rasping. It trembled in Selim’s chest.

  But Selim heard the truth beneath it: a poor attempt to steady Anwar’s own nerves.

  “Move out,” he barked.

  The holy procession advanced, their faith shielded by feeble lights against the dark.

  Soon, they reached a fork where two etched arrows marked the way:

  Warehouse 01 ←?Assembly Hall →

  “We burn the sleepers first,” Anwar declared without hesitation. “Cleanse the devout. Give them eternal rest.”

  Selim scoffed. There was zeal in the tone, but not enough to hide the ginger glance thrown toward the Assembly Hall.

  “Then warehouse it is,” Selim muttered. He mocked the bear of a man, but truth be told, he wasn’t eager to face what lay in the other direction either.

  A dreadful premonition chilled Selim as they reached a vast hall lined with rows of gargantuan doors.

  All of them stood open.

  The air was too warm for a place meant to house cryo-pods.

  “This place is quieter than the grave it’s supposed to be,” a Yad al-Hakim muttered.

  Others echoed with whispered prayers to the Creator.

  The company stepped through the first open door, weapons ready.

  Inside, cryo-pods lined endless rows of shelves, an industrial nursery more than a grave.

  Curses and whispered prayers mingled in a cloud of unease.

  A sour scent enveloped them, trailed by a silence that prowled behind like a predator.

  The shelved gloom swallowed Selim as he stepped deeper, approaching a cryo-pod.

  As suspected, a hollow husk. Its quarry gone.

  “They’re empty...” confirmed a murmur farther down.

  Selim didn’t need to turn to know, everyone had frozen in place.

  “Search the other halls!” Anwar barked.

  The command cracked like thunder, but Selim heard his own frustration echoing back beneath it.

  Men scattered, swarming through adjoining vaults like ants whose nest had drowned.

  One by one, the calls returned:

  “Empty.”

  “Empty.”

  “Same here, sir.”

  The silence that followed was no longer predatory.

  It cackled in condemnation:

  You faithful have failed to protect your ancestors.

  "Damn it!" A sharp crack reverberated as Anwar’s hammer smashed the floor.

  "Burn it all. They must not hatch new abominations!" Anwar ordered, their gaze met, and in them, Selim saw fear.

  Selim gulped. Divine judgment was afraid, what, then, was left to anchor them? His chest felt heavy.

  “Command...The warehouse is vacant. The devout… desecrated.”

  No answer.

  Then a voice, distant, furious Minister Ruppert, likely barking at the bound man.

  “What is the meaning of this!”

  A muted slap followed.

  "What are you smiling about Heretic!" Yusuf shrieked.

  And here they were Creator’s children stranded in Heresy’s nest. Selim shivered.

  Yusuf’s shrill command pierced through the coms:

  “Bring that mountain down! Those abominations must not see the light of day.”

  A pause crackled with static.

  Then came Cohen’s counsel, laden with a weary-of-it-all breath:

  “Proceed with caution, Selim. Your life takes precedence. The Creator wills it.”

  Selim’s heart warmed. Despite the Holy Father’s desperation, he still found space for kind words, ones that embraced like a blessing.

  I shall not fail you, he vowed.

  But it felt forced. Judging by the number of pods and the emptiness of these halls, the mountain was likely crawling with RHUs.

  A draft brushed his cheek, one that felt like death’s hand leaving a mark.

  Orders were orders... he told himself, though his mind screamed to run.

  He moved to the tunnel entrance and waited for Anwar and the others to finish rigging the explosives.

  Soon, the company reluctantly moved on, heading toward the Assembly Hall. Anwar was silent, a change that unsettled Selim. He marched ahead as a paranoid vanguard, eyes restless, glancing back every now and then as if expecting a horde of RHUs to swarm from behind.

  The trek toward the Assembly Hall was slow and lethargic, every body resisting the urge to run away. It was as though time itself became a shield, the slower they advanced, the longer life clung to them. Around them, faint streams of air swam through the ranks, like breath through lungs. It was as if the tunnel was digesting them.

  Then ahead, the tunnel eased open, vomiting them into an enormous cavern. Its concrete floor was unnaturally flat. It felt like a stomach, a space where RHUs might gestate. Selim scanned the emptiness. The only notable features were two other openings, mirroring each other on opposite walls in the distance.

  The silence that had slipped away returned, poised in the dark above. Only sounds of labored, apprehensive breaths of men huddled close fed the space, a small clump of life inching slowly across the cavern floor.

  “I don’t like this, Anwar…” he muttered, unable to endure the silence.

  “It stinks like a trap.” Anwar agreed, squinting as if trying to make out shapes slithering along the cavern’s ceiling.

  Selim pressed his coms. “Command, we’ve reached a gargantuan cavern, no RHUs in sight. Anwar and I suspect it’s a trap.”

  A crackle of static answered him, no not an answer only the Minister’s demands bleeding through.

  “Where are they? What is Markov planning?”

  Flesh met flesh, followed by a soft unpleasant chuckle.

  A loud clang echoed through the cavern. Around Selim, everyone froze.

  Selim clutched his coms like his life depended on it and turned slowly, he already knew what he’d see: a fallen Guardian of the Creator. He did not expect the corpse to freeze then and there. The chuckle leaked through again, brimming with madness.

  #

  “HOLD!” Anwar’s scream lashed through the silence, jolting the stunned soldiers into motion.

  Guardians locked shields, some bracing upward, others toward the three entryways. The Yad al-Hakim moved differently: hammers cradled like railguns, eyes scanning the shadows, ready to strike at anything that dared move. Even their hearts seemed to hold still as if breathing might betray them to death.

  Selim was still staring at his fallen comrade, his mind lagging.

  His gaze caught on a glint of glass, tiny, almost invisible, jutting from the freezing body’s neck.

  His eyes widened as instinct surged. He raised his shield and cowered beneath it.

  “Snipers!” he bellowed. It was a curse. Cryo-darts rained down, hissing from every direction.

  Faith froze before it could flare.

  Selim hurled himself at a nearby Guardian, slamming the man sideways, and dragging his shield up. He grabbed Anwar next, yanking him under the makeshift bunker of steel.

  “Creator, shield us,” he prayed under the barrage.

  The coms crackled.

  “Selim! What is happening?” Cohen demanded, fearful.

  But curling through his plea came a soft, wet and repugnant laughter.

  Selim flinched. His mind painted the image of a bloodied, bound man cackling with hysteria, Steve.

  The thought stung where the wind had brushed him, death’s mark, already throbbing.

  “Command…” he choked out. “We are under attack. By who or what? I cannot see..."

  Desperation broke Selim.

  "By the Creator, I cannot see.”

  Beside him, Anwar clutched his hammer like a sacred relic as if its weight alone could ward off death.

  Selim didn’t dare peek, not even as more Guardians dove into the shield wall, dragging survivors to form the Creator’s last bastion: a flickering ember under siege.

  After a moment that stretched for an eternity, the onslaught ceased.

  Faint hisses remained, like acid burrowing through flesh.

  Silence sauntered in like a gourmet savoring its first bite.

  Selim dared a glance. Finding darkness staring back, expectant.

  Around him, the rest of the company was lifeless.

  One Guardian knelt, still in prayer, shield lifted as if salvation might descend.

  Blue darts glinted like heretical sacraments on foreheads, throats, and spine.

  Merely a single trail of sweat answered, cold like death’s hand calculating down his warmth.

  The coms crackled to life.

  “Talk to me, Selim, what do you see?!”

  Ruppert’s voice bled through, furious, panicked.

  Selim’s mouth opened, searching for sense.

  But there was no enemy, only fallen brothers.

  Then came the laughter. Wet. Mirthless. It rang in his skull like a cursed prayer.

  No heat signatures. No enemies. No movement. Only fear shivering with the rest of his men.

  Only silence salivating in the womb of heresy, digesting them whole.

  “I shall not cower forever,” Anwar growled, eyes burning with martyr’s resolve. He grabbed the detonator at his hip, clutched his hammer, and vaulted from cover, firing with abandon. Empty bullet casings clattered across the floor in a desperate symphony, their echoes serrating Selim’s heart.

  Divine retribution was breathing its last.

  Stillness returned after the last bullet clinked.

  One Yad al-Hakim leaned out. Then another, brave or foolish.

  “Perhaps they’ve run out of ammuni—”

  He never finished. His body locked mid-word, mid-thought, mid-breath.

  “Feel the Creator’s fury!” Anwar roared as a dart struck his forehead.

  He slammed his thumb on the detonator.

  The ground trembled. The mountain shuddered as the warehouse beyond collapsed, burying hostless coffins beneath stone and silence, the only solace left for the desecrated devout.

  Selim stood alone, surrounded by soulless bodies frozen in time. Shields had failed. Faith’s hammers were too soft to batter heresy.

  Crisp footsteps echoed from one of the entrances, carrying the gait of certainty.

  Selim watched them cross the cavern floor, unliving humans, hollow gazes fixed on him.

  His mind screamed:

  But his limbs refused to move. Only his lungs moved, drawing in resigned breaths.

  One moved differently, clad in matte-black tactical armor, its gait too fluid to be human.

  A part of him was almost grateful, not to live in the world these abominations would build.

  The black-clad figure raised one hand. A cryo-gun slid forward, a predator giving verdict, teeth poised at exposed flesh.

  Selim’s thoughts flicked to his Pope. Grief tightened his chest. His shield would no longer protect the Holy Father.

  The dart struck painlessly. Cold crept in his veins, perhaps this was the Creator’s mercy. The last thing he saw was the silhouette. And in that stillness, he understood: Death has no empathy.

  The lead RHU lowered its weapon, stepped forward, and unlatched the bodycam from Selim’s armor. Then it plucked the earpiece from his head.

  "Beginning message."

  It spoke into the coms with a voice too steady to be human.

  “To Minister Ruppert: Your petty game ends here. The Eastern Federation is our true enemy. End of message.”

  It crushed the earpiece in its palm, dropped the cam, and brought its boot down hard.

  “Armand reporting to Mother: Incursion averted,” it said to the silence. “Loss of warehouse and cryo-pods acknowledged. New vessel secured.”

  Heresy swallowed Faith’s feeble strike, while the madman’s laughter lingered like a specter, mocking the Creator.

  #

  Steve’s laughter drilled into Ruppert’s skull like an excavator. By the Creator... his mind pleaded. He needed salvation, from what he’d seen, from what it meant, and from the lunatic who ruled from a bloodied iron throne.

  Before him, the display wall pulsed with lifeless feeds. Every screen blinked the same verdict. No signal. A liturgy for the damned.

  Beside him, Cohen flipped through channels like a sin-ridden man begging for a miracle he didn’t deserve. His fingers trembled. His lips moved in broken prayer.

  “There has to be... just one. Just one...” A breath. “Oh, dear Creator... Selim.”

  Yusuf paced behind them like a bead of water on hot metal, wrath hissing, directionless. His gaze scraped over the prisoner, hunting for an unbruised patch to blemish, to feed his furious grief.

  Steve only grinned, strangely serene, like a man watching rain from a cozy room. Jared lingered above him, eyes gleaming with reverence for the anomaly that dulled pain. Unshaken by the brothers buried under the mountain, it thrilled him. Ruppert found it sickening.

  Cohen’s defeated voice drew Ruppert’s attention. “…Have we been forsaken?”

  How was he supposed to answer? It didn’t even sound like a question. No one spoke, except Steve, who cackled now and then like a lord amused by his jester’s flailing.

  “Silence him!”

  Ruppert roared at no one in particular, venting pressure that had built since the mountain fell. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. A shudder ran through him as clarity flickered between the cackles.

  Think about what? The men he’d sent to die? The dead that would soon crawl to the surface? Faith’s light was fading out.

  Yusuf’s neck craned stiffly. Anwar’s death still pressing down his spine. But when he turned to Jared, only fire burned in his eyes.

  He seized Ruppert’s outburst like a divine signal... or just a bone tossed to grief.

  “Finish him. Now. Before his plague spreads.”

  His venom was no less contagious than Steve’s madness. Ruppert clutched his skull as pain pulsed like a second heartbeat.

  Jared stepped forward, a tool loosely gripped in one hand, gaze locked on Steve. Ruppert gathered the executioner’s scowl wasn’t meant for Steve. It was the look of a man forced to smother a specimen he’d longed to dissect.

  “No.”

  Cohen broke the surface of despair like a man gasping for air. He scrambled between Jared and Steve, clutching the moment like a lifeline.

  “By the Creator’s mercy, you will do no such thing.” He raised a hand to ward Jared off, then pointed to Steve.

  “This man is the Creator’s warning. Our penance. In our zeal to defend faith, we violated His.” As he turned to face the heretic, his eyes held a gentle mercy, almost devout. “I will tend to him.”

  Ruppert had expected as much from him. Truth be told, he didn’t want Steve dead. Merely silenced.

  But Yusuf was already drawing breath for a retort, hand half-raised, ready to strangle the heretic himself if no one else would.

  Ruppert exhaled through clenched teeth, tense from decision fatigue.

  "That's enough, Yusuf," he said, reining the zealot with worn authority. "We are faith’s guardians, not its executioners."

  He turned to Cohen and winced. The pope was still staring at Steve as if he were redemption.

  "He's yours, Cohen. But by the Creator's grace..."

  As if mocking Ruppert’s subsequent words, Steve chuckled, like a king amused by his squabbling court.

  “Gag him. I need to bloody think.”

  Cohen sagged in quiet relief and gestured to a nearby Guardian. One stepped forward without a word, taking his place and fumbling for anything that might serve as a gag.

  Ruppert shook his head and bent over the console, fingers fumbling across the interface. A screen stuttered to life.

  Selim’s chest-mounted feed replayed his final moments. An eerie blare followed as rows upon rows of RHUs came into view. One figure, clad in black tactical armor, raised his weapon, fired, and delivered the damning message:

  “To Minister Ruppert: Your petty game ends here. The Eastern Federation is our true enemy.”

  Where had he seen that black tactical suit? That fluid gait? The way the weapon lowered with muscle memory like it had delivered death a thousand times.

  Ruppert leaned in. His breath hitched.

  Two memories collided. First, the elevator outside Luciano’s study, two figures in similar gear, flanking the door. Then, the Cave of Whispers. Face to face with the man he’d chosen to ignore.

  “That’s a Del Tenebre…” Ruppert whispered.

  Acid spread through his chest, realization burning first through disbelief, then guilt, then rage. The devil had sold them.

  He slammed both fists against the console. Everyone flinched, Yusuf included. The pain helped the truth land.

  No. The devil had been kind. He’d tried to stop this.

  Armand. That was his name. The operative Luciano had sent to spy on the operation. Now converted into an RHU. And here, Ruppert had let them brutalize Steve. An unfortunate man, a casualty of proximity. Because he’d been too proud to listen to the devil’s honest warning.

  Who’s next?

  His gaze slid to Steve’s chilling smile as the man waited, gag half-raised.

  Am I next?

  He scanned the confused, defeated lot, his feeble, broken alliance. The Resistance didn’t fight heresy. It fed it. He fed it.

  On the screen, Armand lowered the cryo-gun once more, never drawing blood. It was Steve’s voice that bled through instead.

  “Fatherless children sent to die... gurkl.”

  The Guardian finally found a makeshift gag and stuffed it in.

  “A fool’s d...earkh!”

  The cloth jammed deep into Steve’s mouth, cutting him off mid-curse, and dissolving his muffled words into a sputtering cough. The laugh that wheezed through the gag was worse than any scream.

  It didn’t mock. It cursed them.

  Ruppert was forced then and there to make peace with the fact that the sound would haunt him for life.

  He turned from the feed, trying to face the room. But his vision tunneled.

  The command center choked him. It was too thick with grief and too clotted with heat and failure.

  By the crea... He stopped himself and stormed out. He needed fresh air, uncontaminated by grief or madness.

  Behind, the room swelled like an unfinished sermon that judged him. The zealot. His sadist. Their creation: the madman. And finally, the pope.

  Another friend he had corrupted, all stared at his back.

  Above them all, save for the screen frozen on Armand’s expressionless face, the grid blinked with stubborn precision.

  No signal. No signal. No signal.

  To the others, it was a curse. But to Ruppert? It blinked with heretical certainty:

  The Creator had gone offline.

  #

  The Resistance's despair drained into the black hole named Steve. Markov swirled his liquor, starlight catching in the glass like a private galaxy.

  At the apex of the MID Tower, inside a sky-sphere office wrapped in stars, he was enthroned like a god. Around him, dozens of screens displayed the Quarkon raid, Carl’s RHU army moving with fluid, inhuman precision. Blue cryo-darts rained down on Eastern Federation units, felling them like grass. Only one feed diverged on Armand’s post-raid POV. Bodies were tagged, sorted, and stored in cryo-pods.

  A poor harvest. He scowled and flicked the feed away. At least their memories would prove insightful.

  To his side, a few paces away, Prima lay on a lounge chair, cables and tubes threaded through her flesh like invasive roots. Her eyes fluttered beneath closed lids, parsing streams of data. She didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

  Keeping a biological server in his office was distasteful, but necessary. Better to have her where he could watch, and keep the golden goose under lock.

  Harrow had insisted she be left undisturbed. His babble about cerebral expansion and memory strain hadn’t clarified much.

  The thought of his lead scientist soured Markov’s smile.

  The idiot had used Prima’s strand to seed the RHUs instead of the government-approved AI.

  “Too dumb to connect,” he’d cursed.

  Reckless, but the results spoke for themselves.

  Another dozen grotesque failures would have buried the project... but may have tarnished its future implementation.

  And in the end, results were the metric that mattered.

  To his other side, a boyish man in a pristinely cut suit leaned into the feed Markov had just dismissed. Armand’s lens swept over a company of frozen, faithful men who had come to defend Faith and died in disbelief. Markov raised his glass toward his smirking protégé, took a slow sip, and savored the silent precision of industrial harvest.

  “I’d expected Luciano to provide intel on the resistance… Instead, he sends his rat to sniff where it shouldn’t.”

  Matthew chuckled, then sipped from his glass.

  “Can’t fault him. The man only cares for personal gains, although, it can be said he gave you a gift. You now have inside intel into his operation.”

  He crossed his arms, eyes intent on the RHUs loading bodies into cryo-pods, entranced by their fluid, inhuman precision.

  “It’s going to be hard to work for a desperate man, don’t you think?”

  Markov tilted his glass slightly in a toast, his protégé lifted his glass without looking.

  “Desperation makes martyrs,” Matthew said, catching the sinister curl of Markov’s grin. “Though Minister Ruppert is likely feeling irrelevant. So much for the master of voice.” His lips twitched in quiet distaste.

  Markov couldn’t fault him. Ruppert held sway. But it was Matthew who had opened the channels between the leaders. He was the true master of voice. He was the true master of voice.

  One of the feeds caught his attention as Luciano’s droid slid down a dune.

  “The devil, it turns out, still had a heart.”

  He gestured to the feed that Matthew was watching, then to Matthew with a conniving smile.

  “It was the devout hands that proved greedy.”

  Matthew merely raised his drink once more and bowed to him.

  “At your service sir.”

  Markov chuckled, then finished his drink.

  “Well played,” he murmured.

  Ruppert feared shadows. But never thought to look at his own.