Part I — Crossfire Sermons
The night began with rain, as most revolutions do.
The Veil was under siege — not by armies, but by precision. Syndicate drones slipped through sewer vents, humming like mechanical hornets. The Alpha Order had sealed the exits, claiming to "protect the sanctum."
Translation: they were letting the enemy do their work.
Kai and Lira crouched behind a broken conduit, the scent of ozone thick in the air.
The Veil's scattered inhabitants — children of mixed bloodlines, discarded halfbreeds, ghosts with human hearts — were cornered.
"They'll wipe the district," Lira said, voice tight. "Too many witnesses to the old ways."
Kai looked around. The crowd huddled behind her — terrified, armed with nothing but scrap metal and hope.
He felt the hum under his ribs again — the one Prophet had called the Moon's broadcast.
"You still think I'm supposed to sit and wait for divine permission?" he asked.
Lira gave a dry laugh. "Permission? From them?" She nodded toward the glowing towers above. "The Alpha Order wrote obedience into their gospel. The Syndicate coded it into theirs. Pick your poison."
Kai stood. "Then I'll write a new one."
He stepped out from the shadows.
The first drone scanned him, red beam slicing through the mist.
He raised a hand — not to fight, but to listen.
The sound came first: a rising whine buried in the city's static.
Then the release — a pulse of blue-white fire, born of vibration and rage.
The drone burst into molten shards.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
Then the air filled with sirens, gunfire, and the primal roar of wolves.
Kai moved like sound incarnate — his rhythm pure instinct, each motion a verse of rebellion.
He shielded the weak, tore through steel, burned sigils into concrete.
Every strike sang with the pitch of freedom.
But to the Alpha Order, it was heresy.
To the Syndicate, terrorism.
And to those watching from above — it was a beginning they could no longer control.