Reverb's fingers hadn't stopped moving in three days.
His console cast pale blue light across his face, screens flickering with data streams that would've given most people seizures. Coffee cups littered the desk—some empty, some half-full and cold, one growing something that might've qualified as a new life form.
He didn't notice. Didn't care.
Because he'd found something.
"No way," he muttered, leaning closer. "No fucking way."
The Church's prisoner database was supposed to be impenetrable. Arch-Lector clearance only. Biometric authentication. Quantum encryption that changed every thirty seconds.
He'd been inside for the last six hours.
Not deep. Just... adjacent. Close enough to see fragments. Pieces. Names that shouldn't be there.
He pulled up the manifest. Scrolled.
And stopped.
PRISONER #4718: DESIGNATION "BLIND MAN" - STATUS: DETAINED
PRISONER #4719: DESIGNATION "KORRAN OF VIREEN" - STATUS: DETAINED
PRISONER #4720-4731: DESIGNATION "THE CHOIR" - STATUS: DETAINED
His hands froze over the keys.
"They're alive," he breathed.
The Choir. The people who'd helped Ilias in the early days. Who'd warned him about the Architects. Who'd disappeared after the Church started hunting him in earnest.
Everyone assumed they'd been killed. Erased. Made examples of.
But they weren't dead.
They were imprisoned.
Reverb saved the data. Encrypted it. Triple-checked the trace routes to make sure no one had followed him in.
Then he stood, legs shaking from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, and went to find the others.
They gathered in the main room an hour later.
Ilias stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, staff leaning against the wall behind him. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair longer now, falling into his face. He looked exhausted but alert. Always alert.
Kojo stood beside him. Massive, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Seraph sat to Ilias's right. Close. She'd been doing that more lately—sitting closer, standing closer, like proximity could somehow protect him from what was coming.
Mira worked in the corner, organizing medical supplies with mechanical precision. Too focused. Like if she stopped moving, she'd have to think.
Rhea leaned against the far wall, Iron Crescent jacket catching the dim light. Tzark stood behind her like a volcanic monument. Vess perched on a crate, four arms folded. Kaela shifted colors slowly—purple to green to amber.
Representatives from the other gangs filled the rest of the space. Violet Tongues. Rusted Saints. Black Sparrows.
Everyone looked tired. Worn. Like the city was grinding them down one day at a time.
Reverb stood at his console, screens projected above the table.
"Show us," Ilias said quietly.
Reverb tapped keys. The prisoner manifest appeared.
The room went silent.
"The Choir," Ilias breathed. "They're alive."
"Detained in a Church facility three kilometers northeast," Reverb said. "High security. Sanctifier patrols. But—" He pulled up schematics. "—the building's old. Pre-Purge construction. There are weaknesses."
"We go get them," Ilias said immediately.
"We're stretched thin as it is," one of the Sparrow leaders said. "Another operation right now—"
"They helped me when no one else would." Ilias's voice was steel. "We get them out."
Kojo nodded. "Agreed."
"There's another problem," Mira said quietly from her corner.
Everyone turned.
She didn't look up from her inventory. "The Cultist. The one who's been killing our people. He left another message this morning."
She pulled out a datapad. Slid it across the table.
Blood-written words filled the screen: "THREE DAYS. COME ALONE. OR EVERYONE DIES."
Silence pressed down like a physical weight.
"He wants me," Mira said. Voice flat. Empty. "Specifically. If I don't go, he'll escalate. More bodies. More messages."
"Then we all go," Kojo said. "Trap him. End this."
"No." Mira finally looked up. Met her brother's eyes. "If he sees anyone else, he'll vanish. This has to be me. Alone."
"Absolutely not," Ilias said.
"It's not your choice." Her voice was gentle but firm. "He's targeting our people because of me. I end it."
Kojo's jaw worked. "Mira—"
"I can handle one Cultist." She almost smiled. "Trust me."
The weight in those last two words. The way she said it.
Ilias frowned. Like he was hearing something underneath. Something wrong.
But before he could press, Rhea spoke.
"Two operations, then," she said. "We split. Half go for the Choir. Half stay ready in case Mira needs backup."
"I'll take the Choir rescue," Kojo said. "Ilias, you—"
"I'll back up Mira," Ilias said.
"Like hell—"
"Not negotiable." Ilias's tone left no room for argument. "She's family. I'm not letting her walk into a trap alone."
Mira opened her mouth to protest.
Ilias cut her off. "I won't interfere. I'll stay back. But I'm there."
Their eyes met. Something passed between them—unspoken understanding, sibling stubbornness, love wrapped in pragmatism.
Finally, Mira nodded.
"Fine," Kojo growled. "But if this goes sideways—"
"It won't," Mira said.
But her hands were shaking when she said it.
Deep beneath Crescendia's cathedral, where the walls were stone and the air tasted like old prayers, Arch-Lector Vaen walked corridors lit by crystalline sconces.
His footsteps echoed. Perfect rhythm. Measured. Controlled.
He stopped at a cell door. Heavy. Reinforced. Humming faintly with resonance locks.
He placed his hand on the panel. It chimed. Opened.
Inside, sitting cross-legged on bare stone, was the Blind Man.
Eyes gone. Just scarred tissue where they used to be. But his head turned toward Vaen like he could see perfectly.
"Arch-Lector," the Blind Man said. Voice like gravel. "Come to preach?"
"To talk," Vaen said, stepping inside. The door sealed behind him. "I've been reading your file."
"Careful. It's a tragedy."
"It's remarkable." Vaen clasped his hands behind his back. "Fought one of the Blessed trainers. Lost your eyes, your hearing. Yet survived." He paused. "That makes you one of the strongest Tuned in the known universe. Peak Divine-level. Perhaps beyond."
"And yet." The Blind Man spread his hands, gesturing to the cell. "Here I am."
"For your protection. And ours."
"Protection." The word tasted bitter. "Is that what you call cages now?"
Vaen moved closer. Studied him. "You're still listening. Even now. Even here. I can see it—the way you track sound, read vibrations. You hear everything, don't you?"
"Sound is everywhere, Arch-Lector. You just have to know how to listen."
"The boy you helped. Ilias. He's becoming dangerous."
"He's becoming free."
Vaen's expression didn't change. "Freedom without guidance is chaos. The Church provides structure. Order. Without us, the galaxy would tear itself apart."
"Without you, people would choose their own path. That terrifies you more than any Silence."
"Choice is an illusion for those too weak to see the patterns." Vaen knelt, eye-level now. "I don't expect you to understand. You're powerful, yes. But power without purpose is just noise."
"And purpose without freedom is just slavery dressed in hymns."
Silence stretched between them. Two philosophies. Incompatible. Immovable.
Finally, Vaen stood.
"The boy will come for you," he said. "He's predictable that way. Noble. Foolish."
"Let him come." The Blind Man smiled faintly. "You're not ready, Vaen."
"We've prepared for every contingency."
"Have you?" The smile widened. "The Blessed I fought wasn't even trying when he took my eyes. Just... measuring me. Deciding how much effort I was worth." He tilted his head. "And Ilias is just beginning to understand what he is."
He leaned forward.
"You're not ready. None of you are. Because you see Blessed as threats. As tools. As things to control." His voice dropped. "But they're not things. They're inevitabilities. And inevitability doesn't negotiate."
Vaen's jaw tightened. Just barely.
Then he turned and left without another word.
The door sealed.
The Blind Man sat alone in darkness, listening to frequencies only he could hear.
And smiled.
Mira moved through the Morrows like a ghost.
Not the healer. Not the kind sister who ran a free clinic and stitched wounds with gentle hands.
The other one.
The one she'd buried years ago. The one that moved through shadows like they were home. The one that tracked prey with patience and precision and an understanding of death that went bone-deep.
She'd been following the Orphan's pattern for days. The kills. The locations. The timing.
He was good. Careful. Covered his tracks.
But she was better.
She found his mark—a spray-painted Cult symbol on a warehouse wall, still wet. Fresh. Tonight.
She checked her weapons. Scalpels in her coat. Hairpin in her bun. Small pistol at her hip. Medical supplies that could heal or harm depending on how she used them.
Then she waited.
Three blocks away, Ilias followed.
He'd seen her leave. Seen the way she moved—too focused, too controlled. Like someone walking toward a fight they didn't expect to survive.
He didn't confront her. Didn't call out.
Just followed. Keeping distance. Keeping quiet.
Staff in hand. Ready.
The Orphan appeared at midnight.
Stepped out of the shadows like he'd been part of them. Young. Maybe twenty. Dark hair. Eyes that had seen too much too soon.
And absolutely consumed by darkness resonance.
It clung to him like smoke. Made the air around him feel wrong.
"You came," he said. Voice layered. Not entirely his own anymore.
"I came." Mira stepped into the light. Hands empty. Calm. "Let's end this."
"You don't even remember me, do you?" Bitterness soaked every word. "You killed them. My parents. Right in front of me. And you don't even remember."
"I remember," Mira said quietly. "I remember all of them."
That seemed to hurt worse than denial would have.
"Then you know why I'm here."
"I do." She met his eyes. "But killing me won't bring them back."
"No." He smiled. Cold. Broken. "But it'll make me feel better."
He moved.
Fast.
Darkness-Tuned at Divine-level. Enhanced by the Entity. He was a blur of shadow and violence.
Mira barely dodged the first strike.
Countered with a blade—he blocked.
They clashed. Once. Twice. Three times.
She was good. Trained. Lethal.
But he was enhanced. Powered by cosmic horror and grief in equal measure.
A hit landed. She staggered.
Another. She went down.
He raised his weapon—darkness coalescing into a blade of pure absence.
"I'm sorry," Mira whispered. Blood on her lips. "For everything."
"Sorry doesn't—"
Light exploded.
Golden. Brilliant. Divine.
The Orphan flew backward, hit a wall, collapsed.
Ilias stood where Mira had been, staff raised, eyes glowing faintly gold.
"Get away from my sister."
The Orphan climbed to his feet. Slowly. Blood running from his mouth.
"The golden boy," he rasped. "Perfect. Pure. Blessed by gods who don't care about people like me."
"I care." Ilias stepped between him and Mira. "But I won't let you hurt her."
"Then you'll have to kill me."
"I don't want to."
"Too bad."
The Orphan attacked.
Faster than before. Desperate. All-in.
Ilias met him.
And something had changed.
The way he moved. The way he fought.
This wasn't just staff technique. Wasn't just resonance control.
This was synthesis.
He moved like Seraph had taught him—military precision, efficient strikes, perfect footwork.
He fought like Kojo had shown him—overwhelming force, relentless pressure, no mercy for enemies.
He shot—pistol appearing in his off-hand mid-spin—calculated, strategic, exactly how Reverb had trained him.
And his resonance—
He was mixing things.
Fire and air creating explosive bursts.
Sound and light weaving illusions.
Earth and water reshaping terrain mid-fight.
Things that shouldn't work together. Things that broke the rules.
Because he was Blessed.
And Blessed didn't follow rules.
They made them.
The Orphan realized it too late.
One final clash. Staff versus darkness blade.
The darkness shattered.
The Orphan fell.
Ilias stood over him, breathing hard, staff humming with power.
"Stay down," he said. "It's over."
The Orphan laughed. Bitter. Broken. "Is it?"
Ilias turned—checking on Mira, making sure she was okay.
The Orphan's hand shot out. Grabbed a piece of broken rebar from the rubble.
Lunged.
Stabbed upward.
The metal punched through Ilias's side. He gasped, stumbled.
The Orphan wrenched the makeshift weapon free. Grabbed Ilias's staff as he fell.
And drove it through his chest.
The black metal pierced clean through.
Ilias's eyes went wide. Mouth opened. No sound came out.
The Orphan staggered back, horrified by what he'd done, and fled into the shadows.
Mira screamed.
She scrambled forward—still dizzy, vision blurring—but forced herself to move.
Ilias was on his knees. Staff through his chest. Blood spreading across his shirt, pooling on the concrete.
"No no no—" Her hands hovered, shaking. "Stay with me—"
"Mira—" His voice was wet. Wrong.
"Don't talk. Just—" She tried to grip the staff but her hands were trembling too much. The metal was slick with blood. "Fuck—FUCK—"
She got her arms under him. Lifted. He was heavy—dead weight, getting heavier—but she refused to leave him.
"Stay awake," she gasped, stumbling toward the hideout. Blood soaked through her coat, her shirt, warm and spreading. "Stay awake, Ilias. That's an order."
His head lolled against her shoulder.
Blood everywhere. On her hands. Her face. Dripping.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't die. Not because of me. Not because I was too weak to—"
"Not... your fault..."
"Shut up. Save your strength."
Three blocks. Might as well have been three miles.
Her legs shook. Arms burning. Every step agony.
But she didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
She kicked the door open.
Everyone looked up.
Saw her. Saw him. Saw the blood. Saw the staff through his chest.
Time stopped.
"Help—" Her voice broke. "Please—"
Kojo moved first.
Fast. Caught Ilias as Mira's strength finally gave out. She collapsed against the wall, gasping, covered in her brother's blood.
For one second, Kojo just stared. Processing. Denying.
Then: "MIRA! NOW!"
She was already there. Hands glowing green. Pressing against the wound around the staff.
Nothing happened.
"It's not working—" Panic crept into her voice. "The staff is divine—I can't—"
"Try harder."
"I AM!"
Seraph appeared. She'd been across the room. Now she was there. Weapon dropped. Forgotten.
She fell to her knees beside him.
"Ilias—"
He didn't respond.
"*Ilias.*" Louder. Desperate. A tone no one had ever heard from her.
Mira kept trying. Green light flickering. Failing.
"The resonance is rejecting me—"
"Then find another way!" Seraph grabbed Ilias's hand. Squeezed. "You don't get to do this. You don't—"
Her voice cracked.
She never cried. Never lost control. Never showed weakness.
She was breaking now.
"Not now. Not after everything." Tears streaming. "Not after I—"
She couldn't finish.
Everyone heard it anyway.
*Not after I fell for you.*
Kojo stood over them. Fists clenched. Shaking.
"Where is he?" His voice was too calm. The kind of calm that came before murder. "Where's the Cultist?"
"He ran—" Mira's voice broke. She was staring at her hands, at the blood, at what she'd caused. "Kojo, I'm sorry, this is my fault—"
"We'll deal with that later." He knelt. Put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hey. Kid. You listening?"
Ilias's eyes opened. Just barely.
"Don't you fucking dare," Kojo whispered. "Don't you dare leave me. Not after I just got you back."
Ilias tried to smile. Failed.
His hand found Seraph's. Squeezed. Once.
"Seraph..." Barely audible.
"I'm here." She pressed his hand to her face. "Right here. Don't leave. Please don't leave me."
His lips moved. Forming words no one could hear.
But she heard them.
*I love you too.*
Then his eyes closed.
And the world went white.
Ilias felt his blood seep into the staff.
Felt Osh'Kora drink.
Not consuming. Connecting.
The metal pulsed. Once. Twice.
Then reality bent.
The hideout—the people, the voices, the pain—all of it faded like smoke.
Replaced by light.
Pure. Blinding. Beautiful.
He was standing.
No wound. No blood. No pain.
Just... here.
Wherever here was.
The light resolved into shapes. Forms. A vast space that felt both infinite and intimate.
And in the center—
A figure.
Bronze skin. Burning eyes. Crowned in lightning. Draped in smoke that moved like living music.
Orun-Fela.
God of Freedom. The Last of the Old Beat.
And around him—
Women.
Dozens of them. Beautiful. Powerful. Divine.
His wives.
Goddesses in their own right. Spirits of love, war, protection, art, rebellion.
They formed a circle around Ilias. Watching. Waiting.
Orun-Fela smiled.
And when he spoke, his voice was thunder and whispers combined.
"Welcome, child. We need to talk."