The rain came and went as it pleased. It fell in soft, apologetic sheets as if the city were trying to rinse away its sins.
Sister Azraela moved with a slight limp from the last ambush. The Choir Master had died while helping her with information. Information of where she's heading next.
The Catacombs.
The subterranean labyrinth hideout leading to Blade's Hollow, somewhere in Mirabel.
"I must make her death count," Azraela muttered to herself. "Else she would have died for nothing."
Her temple throbbed. Blood dried into a rust-colored smear down her cheek. Her eyes, however, were fire.
At Warehouse Nine, someone had saved her life from Seraph's Pulse Bomb that knocked her unconscious, and dropped her where she had woken up. But who helped her, and why, remained a silent scream in her mind.
One of the maps from the pouch the Choir Master gave her before her life was taken contained general roadmap directions. The other, specific directions, with landmarks and signposts. With the second map, her navigation became smoother.
She ducked beneath a flickering streetlamp, her steps leading her to the edge of Sanctum Row, an old part of the city gutted by fire two decades ago. At its heart stood a ruined church, Saint Violeta's, burned but not forgotten.
"Finally," she said, confirming the location with the map in her hand. She tried the old, rusty handle of the door. But it was locked. Looked like it had been locked for centuries.
From what she could remember, locals called it The Choir Below. And for a very good, but scary reason. Yet, unknown to many, this was the secret passageway to the Catacombs. Word on the street said it still hummed with voices when the wind hit right. However, that information was yet to be proven.
"Well, there's only one way to find out," she said to herself.
She brought out a tiny parchment from her pocket. It wasn't a map. It was an instruction. A passcode of sort, she thought. It read:
To gain entry into the Catacombs, one must calm the mind with meditation and mindfulness.
Being raised in the chapel, Azraela was familiar with meditation. So, she decided to give it a try.
"Here goes nothing," she said, trying to stay calm. To relax. She sat on the ground, in a yoga fashion. Her eyes closed. Focused. On nothing in particular. On nothing but the wind.
At first, her mind was jumping all over every chaotic thought like monkeys. She allowed them. Observed them. Never forcing them into calmness.
Mindfulness, she exhaled in meditative thought, letting go and letting be of her mindal storm, imagining herself as the Eye of the Storm.
Half an hour later, something began to stir.
Mindally.
She felt it stronger. Not wind, but a vibration. Beneath her boots. A pulse. Like a heartbeat in the bones of the earth.
Open the door, came a whisper.
Not a voice. But a thought. Not her own. Yet, it seemed to come from within her.
She opened her eyes. Stood up. And tried the door again. It creaked open with the lightest push. Excitement tingled over her body. What an achievement, she congratulated herself mentally. But just as soon, her warrior's mood snapped her back to Spartan discipline.
Inside, pews lay scattered like broken teeth, and ash clung to every surface. Moonlight cut through the collapsed dome, painting sacred symbols in dust.
And yet, candles flickered at the far end.
She drew her blade this time. Not her gun. The Glocks were gone. Stolen. And something told her bullets wouldn't help where she was going.
She stepped down the central aisle. Every footfall echoed like a challenge.
"You're late," came a voice. Female. Cool. Crisp. Somewhere behind the altar.
Azraela raised her blade. "And you're hiding."
A figure emerged: a woman in a tailored black coat and cybernetic veil that blinked like a second skin. Her hands were covered in black gloves, and her eyes glowed faintly blue behind the mesh.
She was strikingly beautiful. Young and elegant.
"I am called Mirna," she said, her voice smooth and celestial. "I pulled you out before Seraph's bomb could cook your organs, and replace them with some things you can't even imagine."
Azraela was dumbfounded. Mirna was a total stranger to her. There must be a catch, she pondered.
"You're welcome," Mirna said flatly, as though reading her mind.
Azraela didn't lower her blade. "Why?"
"Because I don't like what Seraph is planning. And because your association with him would tip the balance too soon," Mirna replied.
Azraela narrowed her eyes. "Association? Balance?"
Mirna gave a slow smile. "There are things beneath this city, Sister. Buried things. You think this is about gangs and gunslingers?" She shook her head. "You're standing on the mouth of an old cathedral built not for saints, but for monsters."
Azraela's stomach twisted. "What does he want?"
"You mean they," Mirna corrected.
"They?"
"Seraph is not the only one interested in you," Mirna replied, stepping closer. "He's just one out of many. And what do they want? Control. Dominion. And you? You're their Trump-card. Or their Terminator."
Before she could respond, the floor below rumbled again. Louder now. Real. Dust fell from the ceiling.
Mirna turned sharply. "It's waking up. Come. You'll want to see this."
Meanwhile, somewhere in Blades' Hollow, Seraph stood at the center of a circular chamber lit by blue flame. The air shimmered with digital glyphs projected mid-air. Around him stood five others; each masked, cloaked, each a commander of their own dominion within the syndicate.
One stepped forward, his mask shaped like a raven. "She survived?"
Seraph didn't blink. "Yes."
Another, with a snake-like visor: "You said the bomb would finish her."
"I said the bomb would finish her as Sera Valtoria," Seraph's voice held no apology.
"But it didn't," replied the one with the snake-like visor.
"I also said the bomb would test her." Seraph continued. "And it did."
The third voice, soft and feminine: "You're playing with prophecy again."
Seraph smiled behind his mask. "Isn't that what we do?"
He tapped a rune. A hologram shimmered to life. An ancient map of the city layered with glowing lines. At the heart of it pulsed a red dot: St. Violeta's.
"The Choir Below is waking," Seraph said. "And so is it."
A fourth voice growled, "The engine's not ready. We haven't secured the final key."
"We will," Seraph replied smoothly. "Because she's already moving toward it."
He turned to them, eyes burning. "Let her. The Sister is our knife. She carves the path we need."
Back at St. Violeta's subterranean hideout, Mirna led Azraela through the Catacombs. Dust hung thick. The air was colder here. Unnaturally so.
Ancient murals lined the walls, carved in obsidian relief. Angels with razored wings. Eyes gouged from saints. Children kneeling before shrines not made for God.
Azraela traced a finger along the wall. "This isn't, she paused, "Christian."
"Let's just say it's older. Deeper. Twisted. The Blades worship what came before the faith. Before language. Even the faith you believe in is twisted."
Azraela's eyes dilated. And before she could demand an explanation, Mirna quickly waved it off with: "But what do I know? Don't take my word for it."
They came to a heavy steel hatch.
Behind it, the humming grew louder.
Mirna turned. "What I show you, you cannot unsee. What you choose next, you cannot undo."
Azraela looked her dead in the eye. "I was undone a long time ago."
Mirna flashed at her a Cheshire Cat's grin.
The hatch opened with a hiss.
Inside was a chamber: vast, humming with violet light. At its center, a machine. Massive. Organic. Breathing. Its gears were bone. Its veins, wire. Its heart pulsed with something not quite fire, not quite blood.
Azraela staggered forward. "What," she paused in dread, "is this?"
"The Canticum," Mirna replied indifferently. "A relic-machine. It sings beneath the city. The Blades feed it."
"For what?" Azraela could not take her eyes off it. The massiveness of it was mind-staggering.
Mirna stepped beside her. "To wake the city's true master."
Azraela turned sharply. "There are no masters. Not anymore."
"You sure?" Mirna tilted her head. "Then why are the Blades building an army? Why are you still alive?"
That last one hit hard.
Azraela looked up at the machine. It pulsed once, like it knew her.
And then. A scream. Not human. From behind.
Both women spun, weapons raised.
Out of the shadows slithered a creature: a fusion of flesh and tech, stitched with wires and runes. It lunged.
Azraela moved first. Blade met metal. Sparks. Blood. Screams. The thing writhed but Azraela didn't let go. With a cry, she drove her blade into its eye. It fell.
Azraela panted. "What is this place?"
Mirna shrugged as though everything was normal. "Even if I tell you, would you believe?"
"With what I've just witnessed, I see no reason why I shouldn't," Azraela replied resolutely.
"It's an ancient tomb. A ritual site, actually," Mirna calmly said.
Azraela gasped. Dumbfounded.
Mirna's mouth was grim. "They've started feeding it live offerings."
Azraela looked at the corpse. Then at the machine. Then at her own shaking hands.
The war had changed.
And so had she.