Chapter 10: The Chains of the Blessed
The morning sun crawled over the horizon, its pale gold bleeding across the rooftops of Shinya. Unlike the crude stonework of Junlskye or the weathered markets of Kuba, this city gleamed with false holiness. Spires of white marble stabbed at the sky, each crowned with banners of crimson and gold. From afar, the city looked alive—prayers echoing through the air, bells tolling in rhythm, hymns drifting across every street.
But when Moro stepped into the crowded plaza with Kaya beside him, the truth was undeniable. The city wasn't alive. It was suffocating.
Every smile was brittle. Every hymn was forced. And every glance toward the looming cathedral at Shinya's heart carried not reverence—but fear.
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Festival Preparations
Vendors lined the main square, their stalls painted with symbols of the Celtic Highs. They handed out bread marked with holy seals, small charms said to "bless" families for the year to come. Children darted between the legs of the crowd, singing verses of old hymns. Banners of gold were stretched across rooftops, their silken fabric catching the morning light.
At the center of the square, workers hammered together a massive wooden platform. The sound of nails driving into timber echoed over the plaza like drumbeats. The platform's purpose was obvious—it was for the Festival of Blessings, the yearly ritual when the Celtic Highs appeared to "grace" their people.
Kaya's sharp eyes scanned the workers. "Too big for just a ceremony," she murmured under her hood.
Moro grunted. His eyes weren't on the workers but on the Sentinels—heavily armored enforcers with halberds, their polished breastplates etched with holy runes. They stood at every corner of the square, watching the crowd like wolves in a pen of sheep.
Suddenly, the hammering stopped.
The air shifted.
From one of the side streets, two Sentinels dragged a man into the plaza. His face was swollen from beatings, his tunic torn, his wrists bound with chains. Behind him walked a priest, clad in robes of blinding white, a scroll in hand.
The crowd's chatter died instantly. Silence fell over the square like a suffocating blanket.
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Public Trial
The priest's voice rang out with theatrical authority.
"Elandor Tane, baker of the southern quarter. You stand accused of blasphemy. You dared to slander the Celtic Highs. You dared spread false rumors of rebellion. You defiled this sacred city with lies."
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Mothers pulled their children close. Old men lowered their heads in fear.
The chained man—Elandor—staggered but forced himself to shout through cracked lips:
"Lies? You call the truth lies? Every year, more of us vanish! Every year, you call it holy! You think we don't notice? You think we don't remember?!"
The Sentinels yanked his chains. Blood sprayed from his split lip.
The priest's face twisted with righteous fury.
"Silence! Your words are poison, and poison must be purged. The Festival is a gift from the Highs. Your rebellion is a disease, and we will cut it out."
He nodded once.
A Sentinel raised his staff. White lightning crackled at its tip. The crowd flinched.
Moro's fists clenched until his nails dug into his palms. His chest burned as the Matrix pulsed faintly beneath his skin. Rage built in him, hot and suffocating.
Beside him, Kaya grabbed his wrist tightly. Her whisper cut through the air like a blade:
"Not now. Not here."
The Sentinel brought the staff down.
A blinding flash.
A scream that tore through the silence.
Then nothing.
When the light faded, Elandor lay still, smoke rising from his lifeless body. The chains still bound his hands, as though even in death, he was not free.
The priest closed the scroll with a snap.
"Let this be a lesson. The Festival draws near. The Celtic Highs bless only the faithful. There is no place for rebellion in Shinya."
The Sentinels dragged the corpse away.
The crowd lowered their heads—some in false prayer, others in sheer terror.
Moro did neither. He stood frozen, his jaw tight, his eyes burning holes into the priest's back. His voice was low, guttural:
"They executed him for words. Words."
Kaya's expression was grim, her hood shadowing her eyes.
"And that's just what they're willing to show us in daylight."
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Festival Fever
As night fell, Shinya grew even louder. Fireworks cracked in the distance, their trails of light painting the sky. Children laughed as priests sprinkled holy water through the streets. Musicians filled the air with flutes and drums. On the surface, the city glittered with joy.
But beneath it all, fear thrummed like a drumbeat in every alley.
Moro and Kaya kept to the shadows. They slipped through the backstreets, watching patrols march past in neat formations. Every door they passed was locked, every window shuttered. No one dared linger outside once the sun was gone.
Then—
"Psst."
A voice hissed from the shadows.
From behind a crumbling stone wall, a cloaked figure emerged. His movements were cautious, his voice urgent.
"You saw what happened today. You're not blind."
Moro's stance shifted, ready to strike. His Matrix glowed faintly, but Kaya raised a hand, signaling him to wait.
The man pulled back his hood just enough to reveal a scarred face, eyes burning with defiance.
"Name doesn't matter. What matters is this—what you saw is just a glimpse. The Festival? It's not a blessing. It's a purge."
Kaya's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
The man glanced around before leaning closer. His words were like daggers, whispered but sharp:
"Each year, they take more people. Rebels. Doubters. Anyone who questions the Highs. They're dragged into the Sanctuary, and they never come back. The priests call it ascension. The truth is far darker."
Moro's eyes narrowed. His Matrix pulsed violently in his chest, almost as if it responded to the words. The cathedral loomed in the distance, its spires cutting into the night sky like knives.
"And what do you want from us?" Moro asked.
The scarred man smirked faintly.
"Nothing. Not yet. Just know this—when the Festival begins, blood will run in these streets. Decide where you stand before it does."
Before Moro could press further, the sound of boots echoed down the alley. A patrol.
The cloaked man vanished into the shadows with uncanny speed, his cloak melting into the dark.
Moro and Kaya ducked behind the wall as Sentinels marched past, their halberds gleaming under torchlight. Only when the sound of their footsteps faded did Kaya exhale.
"This city's about to burst," she muttered.
Moro's gaze fixed on the spires of the Sanctuary, their glow an unholy beacon in the night. His voice was low, dangerous:
"No. It's already bleeding. The Festival will just tear the wound wide open."
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Foreshadowing the Storm
The following days blurred together as the Festival drew closer. Everywhere Moro and Kaya went, preparations consumed the city. Banners grew thicker, hymns louder, and priests more fanatical.
But so did the fear.
They passed a woman kneeling in the street, whispering prayers with trembling hands. A child cried for his father, only for his mother to hush him quickly, eyes darting toward the Sentinels. In taverns, voices dropped to whispers when rebellion was mentioned, only for silence to smother the room entirely when a priest entered.
At night, Moro often stood on rooftops, watching the spires of the Sanctuary glow against the stars. The Matrix pulsed in him like a second heartbeat, restless, hungry. He felt the city's tension crawling beneath his skin, as though Shinya itself was daring him to ignite the fire everyone else feared to spark.
Kaya joined him one night, her arms crossed as she gazed at the golden spires.
"You're thinking of tearing this whole city apart, aren't you?"
Moro's jaw flexed.
"If that's what it takes to rip the truth out of them, then yes."
Kaya's voice was quiet, but heavy with warning:
"Then be ready. Because once you light that fire, nothing in Shinya will ever be the same again."
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