Chapter 9: Whispers Beneath the Sanctuary
The city of Shinya stretched before them like a holy labyrinth, vast and gilded, every street polished to a gleam that blinded under the sun. Its spires pierced the sky, their tips vanishing into clouds. Bells rang faintly across the city, each chime like a call to obedience.
At the heart of it all rose the Holy Sanctuary, a cathedral so massive its shadow blanketed the plaza below. Its walls were carved from pale stone, etched with ancient scriptures. Golden stained windows shimmered as though fire itself burned inside. To the world, Shinya was the "Home of Saints." But to Moro, it felt like a cage wrapped in silk.
The moment they passed the gates, the weight of the place pressed down on him. His Matrix pulsed faintly in his chest, reacting to something unseen. Kaya noticed the shift in his eyes and muttered, "This place looks holy… but smells rotten."
They walked through the crowded market square. Merchants displayed their goods—fruit, charms, fabric dyed in royal colors—but their voices lacked spirit. Conversations broke into murmurs when Sentinels walked by. Children clutched their mothers' arms tightly. Behind every smile was fear, hidden and trembling.
Moro slowed as whispers drifted into his ears.
"Have you heard?" a veiled woman muttered, arranging her basket of grain.
"The Festival is near. The Highs will bless us again."
Another leaned closer, her voice sharp with bitterness. "Bless us? Last year, three families vanished. Their names were erased from the records. No one even dares speak of them now."
"Shhh!" an elder hissed. Her eyes darted around the square. "Do you want the Sentinels to rip your tongue out?"
Moro's fists tightened at his side. Kaya caught the shift in his stance, but before she could speak, the air grew colder.
A patrol of Sanctuary Sentinels entered the plaza.
Tall, armored in obsidian-black plates, each carried long silver staves crackling with faint energy. Their visors glowed faintly red, their very presence bending the air with an unseen pressure.
The crowd froze. Heads bowed instantly, like grass in a storm. Even the street dogs whimpered and fled.
One Sentinel stopped directly in front of the veiled women. He tilted his helmet just enough for his voice—low, hollow, dangerous—to carry.
"Are your tongues busy with prayers… or with poison?"
The women trembled. No one answered.
Seconds dragged like hours. Then the Sentinel sneered, lowered his helm, and moved on. His boots clanged against stone, each step heavier than the last.
The square only exhaled when they disappeared, but the whispers were gone. No one dared to speak.
Moro muttered, his jaw tight, "Chains without iron."
Kaya smirked faintly, though her eyes were sharp. "Feels like saints on the surface, executioners beneath."
They moved deeper into the city as dusk fell. Lanterns were lit along the streets, their glow painting trembling shadows across stone walls. Priests in long robes sang hymns as they marched toward the Sanctuary, their chants echoing like a funeral dirge.
Everyone prepared for the Festival of Blessings, the grand event where the Celtic Highs descended from the Sanctuary to lay their "hands of light" upon the city. But Moro could see it—the fear in their eyes, the stiffness in their steps. It was a celebration chained in terror.
That night, they found shelter in a small inn at the edge of the city. The keeper, a frail old man with weary eyes, served them bread and water. His hands shook as he placed the tray before them.
He leaned closer, his voice trembling. "Be careful… The Sanctuary sees everything."
Moro locked eyes with him. "What are they afraid of?"
The innkeeper hesitated, then glanced at the shuttered windows before whispering:
"Because some still dream of freedom. They whisper of rebellion… shadows moving under the city. And when the Festival comes, more will vanish. It is always the Festival."
Kaya's brow furrowed. "Vanish?"
The man shook his head quickly, refusing to say more. He bowed and retreated into the dark, leaving Moro and Kaya in silence.
For a long while, neither spoke.
Moro's gaze drifted to the window. The Sanctuary loomed, lit by torches, its spires stabbing into the night sky. His hand brushed the glowing Matrix embedded in his chest. Its faint hum mirrored the pulse of unease beneath his skin.
"Rebellion, vanishing people, holy blessings… all wrapped in scripture," he muttered, a bitter grin crossing his lips. "Yeah… this city's rotting from the inside."
Kaya leaned back, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "So what's the plan? Wait for their Festival, or start digging before this place swallows us whole?"
Moro didn't answer immediately. His eyes never left the towering Sanctuary. Bells tolled again in the distance, heavy and hollow, each chime like the strike of chains.
And as the sound faded into the night, he whispered under his breath:
"Whatever's waiting in there… the Festival will drag it into the open."
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