The bells of Saint Lucien had not rung for three days.
Once, their toll had been the heartbeat of the holy city, calling the faithful to prayer, marking the hours, binding order to the lives of its people. Now the bells lay in ruins, melted in the inferno that consumed the cathedral.
Ash still drifted across the city like snow. Streets once blessed with hymns now stank of charred wood and blood. And in the center of it all, where the great spires of Saint Lucien once pierced the heavens, there rose nothing but blackened stone and silence.
The church had fallen.
And the world had heard.
---
Far from the smoldering city, deep in the marble halls of the High Synod, the surviving cardinals gathered. The air was thick with incense, but no scent could mask the fear that hung heavier than smoke.
At the head of the chamber sat the Pontifex—the supreme voice of the Church. Draped in white and gold, his face carved with lines of age and authority, he stared at the kneeling survivors before him.
Veynar was among them, his robes torn, his voice hoarse from smoke and flight. He had run through the night like a hunted man, clutching relics to his breast as he escaped the burning cathedral. And now, here in the sanctity of the Synod, he relived the nightmare under the Pontifex's gaze.
"He tore through our defenses as if they were reeds," Veynar rasped, his eyes sunken with terror. "The beast himself—Dominic—led them. Wolves filled the streets, and their howls drowned our hymns. But it was not the fire nor the fangs that undid us—it was her."
A ripple spread through the council at his words.
"The siren," another cardinal murmured.
"She sang?"
Veynar's voice shook. "Yes. Once her chains were broken, her song rose above the flames. It was no mere hymn. It was a weapon. I felt it pierce my bones, strip the courage from my chest. Even as I fled, the song followed me—it filled the night like a curse."
The chamber darkened as fear settled.
"She has chosen the beast," the Pontifex said at last, his voice heavy. "The prophecy was clear—the Song of Dawn would either purify or destroy. Bound to our altar, she was light. Loosed into the wild, she becomes shadow."
Veynar lowered his head. "We have lost her. And with her, perhaps the age itself."
---
The council erupted into argument.
"She must be hunted!" one cried.
"No—she must be reclaimed!" another shouted.
"The Alpha cannot be defeated by steel alone. We must call upon the Inquisitors."
"Or worse," whispered a frail voice from the corner. "We must awaken the Seraph Blades."
The room froze. Even the Pontifex turned sharply, his eyes narrowing.
The Seraph Blades had not been spoken of in generations. Forged with the blood of saints, bound in rituals so forbidden even the archives had sealed their names, they were weapons that could unmake flesh and spirit alike. To draw them was to admit desperation.
"Would you damn us all to summon that fire?" another snapped.
"Better damnation," the old cardinal hissed, "than annihilation."
---
Veynar bowed low, trembling. "Holy Father, the beast grows stronger each night. He has already razed Saint Lucien. Tomorrow, he will strike again. If we do not act—if we do not crush him—our holy empire will fall."
The Pontifex rose slowly, his robes trailing like a shroud across the marble. He walked to the great window overlooking the holy city, its golden spires gleaming under dawn. For a moment, his face was lit by light—and then, by shadow.
"The Alpha believes he has won," the Pontifex murmured. "He believes that with her song at his side, he is invincible. But he forgets one truth."
He turned, his gaze sweeping the trembling cardinals.
"The church does not break. It endures. For every cathedral burned, ten more will rise. For every song stolen, a choir will answer. And for every beast who lifts claw against us, there are chains forged to bind him."
His hand lifted, and silence fell like a blade.
"Summon the Inquisitors."
Gasps rang across the chamber. The Inquisitors were not priests, nor soldiers—they were executioners, trained in silence and shadow, wielding relics dipped in angel-fire. Their coming meant war.
"And," the Pontifex added, his voice low and terrible, "unseal the vault of Saint Eloria. It is time the Seraph Blades tasted blood once more."
---
Far away, Seraphina stirred in her sleep.
She lay in the arms of Dominic, the ruins of Saint Lucien miles behind them. They had retreated into the forest, into a den where wolves kept watch and firelight painted the stone walls.
But even in dreams, she felt the tremor—the shift in the air as the Church called upon its forbidden powers.
Her song turned uneasy, the melody breaking into dissonance.
Dominic's eyes snapped open, golden even in the dark. He tightened his hold on her, his senses burning with warning.
The church was not broken.
It was sharpening its knives.
---
At dawn, the first Inquisitors rode from the holy city. Clad in black armor etched with scripture, their faces hidden by silver masks, they carried relics bound in chains. Behind them came wagons heavy with crates sealed in wax—the Seraph Blades, wrapped in cloth and silence.
Where they passed, villages fell silent. Doors closed. Mothers pulled children indoors. Even the birds grew quiet.
For the people knew: when the Inquisitors rode, blood followed.
And their quarry was already named.
The Alpha.
The Siren.
The prophecy turned against them.
---
Back in the forest, Seraphina woke with a start, her body trembling. Dominic was already awake, seated at the mouth of the den, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun.
"They are moving," he said without turning.
She rose, her chains gone now, her wrists raw but free. She came to him, laying her hand against his shoulder. "How do you know?"
His jaw tightened. "I can feel the hunt. The earth shifts when predators move. And these are no ordinary men."
Her heart pounded. "The Inquisitors?"
His eyes met hers, golden and grim. "And worse. They carry something I cannot yet name—but I can taste its edge. Fire. Poison. Both."
Seraphina swallowed, her throat dry. She knew the Church would not yield easily—but the thought of what weapons they might unleash sent fear like ice through her veins.
But Dominic caught her hand, pressing it to his chest where his heart thundered.
"Do not fear them," he said. "They may bring blades. They may bring fire. But we carry something stronger."
"What?" she whispered.
He leaned close, his breath hot against her ear. "The bond. Your song. My claws. Together, we are more than prophecy. We are defiance."
Her fear melted into flame.
Yes. The church would come. With inquisitors, with forbidden blades, with fire enough to scorch the earth.
But she and Dominic would not run.
This was no longer survival.
This was war.