Somewhere in Serendi City, on the south coast of the Blades Colony, Kreed lit a cigarette. Hands shaking.
The flame trembled at the tip of the lighter. Sweat clung to his temples. His eyes, bloodshot, sunken, locked onto nothing in particular. Just staring into the dark.
The apartment was a mess. It reeks with the stench of beer bottles. Crushed pills. And something moldy in the sink.
A buzzing neon from the window outside threw long shadows across the room. The sound of traffic echoed far below, muffled by years of decay.
But all he could hear was her voice.
That girl.
Sera.
She'd come back from the dead, dressed in a nun's robe, whispering vendetta. A damn ghost with bullets in her hymnal.
He remembered last night. She walked into the bar like a ghost. Like nothing had happened. Like ten years hadn't passed. Like she hadn't been traumatized and left for dead in that house.
He didn't recognize her at first. Not with the robes. Not with the way she moved: deliberate, cold, precise. But then she turned. And the scar under her left eye caught the light.
That cursed scar.
He had to sit down at gunpoint.
Luckily, Sera hadn't been in a killing mood. Otherwise, he would have been dead last night. She had been in a good mood: and all she wanted was information. Which he gladly gave her just so that his miserable life could be spared.
And when he had warned Sera that she was no match for the Blades: that they would kill her, what was that she said again? he reflected. Aha! he remembered. Sera is already dead: they can't kill a ghost.
There and then, Kreed knew that Sera meant business. That she wasn't just kidding. Nine men dead at Warehouse Nine was enough proof of that. Slaughtered like pigs in a pew. Kreed had warned the Blades about her. The least he could do. He had been seen with her. Publicly. He had to report her, to save his skin. Again.
Even with intel, they weren't ready. Didn't matter. Sera still carved through them. Gunfire and grace. Only fell because she was stunned by a Pulse Bomb, or something. Passed out. But, somehow, still managed to live: the last he heard.
Good for her...
He dropped the cigarette, pressed it into the ashtray with a hard exhale. The taste of ash curled in his throat.
That scar…
Ten years ago, somewhere in Echo County, the screams still echoed.
Sera was six. Small. Quiet. The youngest of two daughters. Kreed remembered the house: quaint, modest, perched on the Hill's edge. Their father had once crossed the Blade cult. Not directly, but enough to draw blood.
Orders were given. Eliminate the Valtoria family. Spare none.
Kreed hadn't been on the main strike team. He was cleanup. Suppression. Containment. The ones who went in were fiercer. Meaner. The job had been done. He was to move in and clean up. Stepping in, the house was already screaming in flames.
A woman's body was crumpled by the hallway. Burned. The man of the house, Sera's father, riddled with holes, slumped against the stairwell. The older sister. God! Kreed looked away.
Then he heard a crash upstairs. A voice. Faint.
Sera.
She had slipped through the chaos, climbed through the back, trying to escape. Smoke choked the upper floor. One of the beams snapped. A blast of sparks exploded as wiring shorted out.
She ran down the stairs: straight into Kreed's line of sight.
She froze.
He did too.
Not out of fear. But out of weakness. Weakened by the fact that an innocent girl of six was involved. A girl who knew him. A girl he knew.
But, he was here to do what he was paid for: containment.
Pushing his weakness aside, he gave chase. The floor beneath her cracked, snapped, caved in. She fell. Hard. Into the wreckage below.
A long sliver of burning timber lashed across her cheek. Sliced her. Deep.
She didn't scream. Not once. But she didn't move either.
Kreed stood over her, blade drawn.
One stab. That was all it would take.
She was unconscious. Face in ash. Breathing shallow. One eye swollen. That scar still glowing red.
He stared at her a moment too long.
Couldn't do it.
There was something about her. The silence. The way she looked, even in pain. Like she'd already made peace with death.
He sheathed the knife. Walked away. The fire would take her, he was sure.
What he didn't know, what none of them knew, was that, a few minutes later, Father Thorne had broken through the side wall. He carried her out before the flame could consume her.
And so, Sera lived.
That scar healed. But the mark still remained. Faintly. But obvious. Serving as a reminder. A reminder that she never forgot.
And now she was back.
Kreed stood, pacing. The cigarette smoldered behind him.
If the Blade found out he'd spared her; if Sera found out why her family had really been targeted.
No. He needed to disappear.
Fast.
But deep down, he knew. There was no running from the Blade.
Nor from Sera.
Not anymore.
Somewhere else in Serendi City, beneath the city above, lay a city below. A hidden city.
Mirabel City.
Nobody knew of it. Except the elite of the Blade Cult. Or the Keepers of Secrets such as the Choir of Teeth. And this amounted to few. The few among fews.
The entrance to this subterranean city, Mirabel, was the Catacombs.
Within the Catacombs, the air was heavy with metal, blood, and incense.
Azraela stood at the edge of the machine chamber, still breathing hard.
The creature lay behind her. One of Seraph's fallen scouts. Its chest torn open, black oil pooling beneath twisted ribs. Its mouth, filled with nails and rosary teeth, hung open in death.
Mirna knelt beside it, gloved fingers inspecting the remains.
"What do we do with this?" Azraela asked, voice low. "Burn it?" she added.
Mirna stood slowly, brushing her hands clean.
"No," she said. "We use it."
Azraela frowned. "Use what?"
"Its bones," Mirna replied. "Its language. It's coded in blood and psalm. You want to fight Seraph? You need more than bullets."
"Speaking of which, where did you keep my gun and combat gear?" Azraela asked, now remembering that some minutes ago, Mirna admitted she saved her from Seraph's death trap. That being so, Azraela assumed Mirna should know the whereabout of her weapon.
"Seriously?" Mirna exclaimed disbelievingly. "I saved your ass, and all the thanks I get is this stupid question?"
"Just aski..." Azraela was saying when a sudden pulsing sound interrupted her in mid-sentence.
Azraela's gaze drifted toward the center of the chamber where the machine pulsed.
A relic. Ancient. Breathing. Humming like a choir trapped in a jar.
Suddenly, it opened.
A small hatch. Round. Glowing softly. Just big enough for a hand.
Azraela froze.
Mirna didn't blink. "It wants you."
Azraela swallowed. The sound echoed in the hollow.
She stepped forward. One foot at a time. Her fingers hovered, then slowly pressed into the opening.
The machine sang.
Not a melody. Not human. Just a sound. A broken, sacred thing. Like glass shattering in holy water.
And then:
Visions.
Fire.
Cathedrals weeping blood.
Children in masks reciting prayers backward.
A man in gold robes.
Seraph. Without his mask.
She gasped.
The pain hit her spine first, then her eyes. She stumbled back, convulsed once.
Mirna caught her.
Azraela's eyes flared with violet fire.
She blinked. Once. Twice.
"I saw him," she whispered. "I saw his face."
Mirna nodded. "Then it's begun."
Azraela looked down at her hand. Still glowing.
Still marked.