They called it the Sanctum. Fitting, if your idea of sanctity was a blown-out transit hub wired with the bones of dead machines and wrapped in the smell of burnt insulation and wet rust.
The amphitheater still had its tiers, though half had slumped into the lower tunnels like a broken jaw. Above me, signage in archaic dialects flickered in stuttering loops of half-lit promises, departures, sterilization notices, and one that just said: REMAIN STILL FOR CLEANSING. Real warm welcome.
The dais I was perched on creaked under my weight. Not a throne, just an altar cobbled together from drone torsos and scorched war-helmets, built on the sort of spinal coil that probably used to hold up an exosuit the size of a cargo tram. I hadn’t volunteered. They’d carried me there, hands reverent, eyes lit with unearned awe.
They gathered in rings around me. Robed in patchwork stitched from old banners, communion cloth, old curtains maybe. Hoods painted in spirals and faded sigils that pulsed faintly under dying altar-light. A few wore half-masks. Most had the look of people who’d swallowed prophecy and found it spicy.
Then he stepped out.
Didn’t need an intro to know he was in charge. He moved like someone fresh off a vision where he’d screamed into a void. Tall, but not imposing, lean, more shadow than man, his skin a pale grey-blue dusted with ash. Eyes too wide, too wild, shifting like firelight on oil. His bald scalp was inked with looping tattoos that shimmered faintly as he turned.
He leaned on a crooked staff, taller than he was, gnarled bone fused with blackened alloy, crusted in flickering mineral blooms. At its tip, a cage of twisted metal held a slowly rotating crystal, cracked and glowing from within.
“Ah,” Arvie chimed in my mind, mock-solemn. “Local preacher class. Probably dreams in riddles. Let’s hope he doesn’t bless you without consent.”
“Our beacon walks once more,” the preacher said, eyes fixed on mine. “The one who stitched the skies and walked unburned, as was foretold.”
His robe followed behind, dragging like wet smoke. His voice like a cracked bell dragged across gravel.
I glanced sideways. No exits I could spot. Just tunnels funneled full of believers. Dust hung thick in the corners, lit by scavenged glow-orbs and the blue stutter of broken altar tech still pretending to matter.
He went on. Raving, maybe preaching. Hard to tell where the ritual ended and the mania began. Listed off my alleged deeds: sealing the rift over Kelenvar, walking barefoot across ash plains, healing the skies over Vaal, bleeding stars back into wounded orbit. None of it rang true. I didn’t remember a damn thing.
Then came a crackle in my mind. A voice slipped in like a knife wrapped in silk.
# Nice crown, prince.
# Aedan?
# Maybe we can use this cult to our benefit. Find out what they want. Convince them we need to free Larek. He's with Vult Rive, near the old silos.
# I’ll think of something.
I stood and walked up to the leader. Not dramatic, just enough flair to make the room hold its breath.
“What’s your name and role, here,” I said, casually.
He smiled, teeth too white, too neat.
“I am Zevan Selivar,” he said, low and smooth now. “Prime among the Chanters. Guardian of the elder lore until your voice reclaims it.”
“Alright,” I said. “Assuming I’m the guy. Humor me. What’s the state of your cult, after the fall?”
Selivar tilted his head, as if tasting the words.
“The lords have fallen. The alleys run with blood and silence. Yet here we stand. We keep the fire.”
“Nice,” I said. “And what do you want?”
He bowed.
“Freedom,” he said. “From old chains, from lawless hands. We ask for peace, a new path”
“You want me to help?” I asked, mostly to see how deep he’d lean into it.
He lifted the staff as if it meant something, eyes blazing. His voice dropped just enough to hush the zealots.
“The old songs tell of trials. Three graces you must wear, valor, wisdom, and compassion. Pass the trials, and we will follow.”
“Fantastic,” Arvie murmured, her tone a sardonic drawl. “A quest for our reluctant hero. If humility’s on the list, we’re already doomed.”29Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGinktuVFwd
I let out a short, involuntary snort. Tried to choke it with a cough, but too late.
Selivar tilted his head, unsure how to interpret my response.
“Sorry,” I said, recovering. “Coping mechanism. It’s a chronic condition.”
He gave a slow, puzzled blink, like I’d just responded to scripture with a punchline.
A rustle rippled across the congregation like someone had flipped a switch on their collective breathing. The acolytes at the edges leaned in, hungry for drama.
I cleared my throat. “These trials. Do they have to be in order?”
He shook his head. “The steps are yours. Take them as the wind takes you.”
“Great,” I said. “Let’s try wisdom first.”
His brow arched.
“You want to be free of the gangs? You need leverage. The upper city lords are gone, but the Directorate still has teeth. Their boss, Larek, is alive. Underground. Captive.”
“They served the lords. Their hands are not clean.”
“Lords are dead. Gangs run wild. You want something better? You need structure. Someone who can offer power.”
He went still.
“There it is,” Arvie said. “That’s the face people make when they realize revolution costs extra.”
I held my expression steady. “Stop it, Arvie,” I thought. “I'm trying to look credible here.”
“Then try blinking once in a while,” she said. “You’ve got martyr face but none of the flair.”
I exhaled through my nose, then turned to Selivar. “Let’s talk compassion. Next trial on the list. Forgive the Directorate. Help me rescue their leader. Earn their loyalty. Then we talk about building something that lasts.”
A murmur moved through the crowd like wind through dry reeds.
Then a voice rose.
“I’m with Vult Rive,” a woman said from the left tier, half her jaw covered with bronze plating. “They’ve got him. I know where.”
Selivar looked at her, then back.
“So it begins,” he whispered.
# Told you, Aedan crackled in again.
# Nice speech. Want backup? Vex purred in my soul.
# Get down here.
A moment later, Aedan and Vex peeled from the crowd like two stylish rogues, trench coats and dry wit in tow.
“Your holiness,” Vex said, with a flourish worthy of a mock opera. “Need a miracle team?”
“This is Selivar,” I said. “He’s our prime believer. Selivar, Aedan and Vex.”
Selivar bowed in return, graceful and grave.
“Let us talk about it, in the inner sanctum. You,” he pointed to the gang-member, “come with us.”
We followed through a jagged corridor lit by oily blue lamps. The air thick with incense and melting machinery.
Behind us, the cult resumed its chanting, slow and rising.
I followed, part reluctant hero, part makeshift diplomat, with a knot twisting in my gut whispering that none of this was coincidence.
ns216.73.216.56da2
and then Add to home screen.