The streets held their breath.
Boots whispered over the worn cobblestones. From the edge of a crumbling rooftop, Ex watched the hooded figures slip from the chapel, their pale robes marked with the twisted sun — a symbol that once meant life, now devouring itself inward, a sun swallowing its own light.
One by one, they went door to door.
A man opened his home, smiling wide, his eyes bright with pride as he knelt to press a kiss to his son's brow. The boy clutched his wooden sword to his chest, wide-eyed, trembling with excitement. "I'll be brave, Papa," he whispered.
The robed figure's hand fell on the boy's shoulder. The father held out both hands, receiving a leather pouch that jingled softly with coins. Without hesitation, the priest dipped two fingers into a jar of ash and scrawled the sun's jagged spiral on the doorframe.
Across the street, another mother wept tears of joy as her daughter was taken, murmuring blessings. Behind closed doors, families gathered, humming hymns, whispering prayers of thanks.
Ex's stomach twisted.
"You fools," he thought. "You're handing them over to be killed."
He moved deeper into the village, slipping through the narrow arteries between buildings. The air thickened, heavy with incense and damp earth. Laughter drifted through open windows; children's shoes sat neatly by doorsteps.
But the farther Ex went, the quieter it became. The songs faded. The smiles stiffened. At the edge of the village, only silence waited — a silence so complete it pressed on the skull, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Ahead, the hooded procession paused.
One of the figures turned, slow, deliberate — a pale face under the hood, lips cracked, eyes fever-bright, scanning the night.
Ex froze. Not a breath, not a twitch. His heartbeat slowed, his presence folded into the dark.
After a long, brittle moment, the figure turned away. The procession moved on.
The chapel loomed ahead, a black wound against the silver sky.
Then—.
A flicker in the corner of his eye.
Ex ducked back, pivoting through an alley, just as the sword swept through where his head had been. He twisted, palm grazing the dagger at his waist — but the strike had already withdrawn.
She stood in the mouth of the alley, golden curls catching the thin moonlight, gold eyes sharp and unblinking. Her skin was the deep brown of sun-warmed earth, marked by faint, pale scars.
Lilith.
Her sword spun lazily at her side. "one of theirs," she murmured, studying him. "But not strong enough to be my opponent."
Ex's mouth curved into a faint smirk. "You're in my way."
He turned — fast — darting through the maze of alleys, his footfalls soundless, a phantom slipping through a dying town. Lilith surged after him, cutting corners, vaulting crates, her staff a flash of silver in the dark.
When she reached the end of the alley, he was gone.
All that remained was a smear of chalk across the stone wall.
Too slow.
Lilith's eyes narrowed, a whisper of a grin at the corner of her mouth. "Interesting."
A whisper of breath — and then Ex was there, stepping from the shadows behind her, movements fluid as smoke. His blade darted toward her hand — the sword clattered to the ground
Lilith spun, her fist already slicing through the air.
Ex caught her wrist, twisting — but Lilith dropped, drove her heel toward his knee. He twisted aside, shoving her back against the altar.
They slammed together, fast and brutal.
Lilith's elbow cracked toward his temple; Ex deflected it with his forearm, pivoted low, aiming a sharp blow to her ribs. Lilith grunted, grabbed his collar, slammed her forehead into his brow. Stars burst across Ex's vision.
He stumbled back, blood dripping from his split skin, grinning. "Better."
Lilith lunged — hands, feet, knees, a storm of motion.
Ex met her head-on, no weapons, no tricks. Just the grind of flesh on flesh, breathless and sharp. His fingers locked around her wrist; hers clamped on his throat. They crashed through the shattered pews, the chapel echoing with the crack of splintering wood.
For a heartbeat they froze, chests heaving, eyes locked.
Then Ex twisted, throwing her off; Lilith rolled midair, landing in a crouch, one hand sweeping through broken glass.
"I'm surprised you could keep up."
Ex's lips curved.
Down the alley, the chapel doors creaked shut. Inside, the last of the lights flickered out.
The corridor widened into a chamber lit by trembling flame.
An altar waited at its heart, hewn from stone, cracked and darkened by centuries of offerings. On its surface, the twisted sun symbol was carved deep, the grooves blackened and warped by something older than ash.
The wind outside howled through the broken chapel doors.
And in the distance, from the chapel, a child's scream pierced the night.
Lilith darted flipped backwards diving a strike from ex and running down through the chapel doors,— her breath sharp, controlled, as she disappeared into the light.
Ex waited.
Silent.
Then he slipped in after her, a shadow beneath the towering arches.
The chapel's air was damp, heavy with incense and rot. Faint candlelight guttered along the walls, painting broken saints and hollow-eyed angels in trembling gold.
Ahead, Lilith moved fast, weaving through pews toward the far transept — and Ex saw.
His eyes widened, fingers tightening around the dagger at his side, a pulse of cold fury running through him. Children.
Six of them, chained at the ankles, huddled against the cold stone. Their small faces were pale, lips cracked, clothes ragged. Lilith dropped to her knees, murmuring under her breath as she worked at the cuffs, fingers moving with the ease of someone who had done this before.
Ex slipped past. Reluctantly.
No sound.
No breath.
He followed the curve of the wall, deeper into the dark — until he reached the far end of the chapel.
There, three robed figures stood before a smaller altar. Torchlight shimmered off their pale robes, the twisted sun blazoned bright on their backs. One of them let out a breathless laugh, wild with triumph.
"Finally," he whispered, voice shaking, "after all the testing, all the trials — we've created it."
A glass vial emerged first — a swirling violet liquid, thick as ink, pulsing with a strange, unnatural rhythm. The leader placed it on the altar with a lover's tenderness.
Then came the fruit.
It pulsed with Soel.
Ex felt it before he saw it — a thrumming, raw force that prickled along his skin, sharp as a blade's edge. His breath caught, slow and cold.
One of the cloaked figures leaned in, his voice a raspy whisper.
"It's almost a pity," he murmured. "All the work, all the lives we burned through… and yet the true vessel waits, hidden among them."
Another chuckled softly. "The city won't suspect a thing. Not until it's too late."
A third, fingers twitching near the vial, added, "Once the vessel awakens… even the gods will turn to praise us
A sudden hush.
The dagger hovered over the altar.
"Quickly," the leader breathed. "We are at the threshold now. One cut — one drop — and the gods call will echo across this wretched place."
One of the figures reached into his sleeve, pulling free a thin, trembling hand. Another took it, drawing the jagged blade. With a swift cut, blood welled in the palm — and dripped onto the altar.
The twisted sun drank deep.
he symbol began to glow — a sickly gold, pulsing in time with the vial on the altar. The air shimmered, as if reality itself was flinching back. A low hum stirred in the walls, a sound that seemed to crawl up Ex's spine, whispering of things not meant to be seen.
"You disgust me." he whispered
Ex moved.
The first man barely had time to gasp before steel punched through his spine. Ex shoved the body aside, rolling across the altar as the second swung wide — a sloppy, desperate blow Ex ducked under, snapping his heel into the man's throat. Bones crunched.
A third figure screamed, "Protect the sacred fruit!" — the words sharp with panic, echoing off the stone walls.
Ex's blade found his forehead sliding between his eyes effortlessly. The scream cut off in a wet, rattling gasp.
Blood sprayed across the altar.
The glow sputtered. Flickered.
When it was done, the chamber was silent.
Ex stood alone.
eyes flicking down to the offerings. The vial pulsed in his palm as he scooped it up; the fruit trembled faintly against his fingers, a sensation that crawled up his arm like static.
His hand closed around the vial — blood, thick and pulsing with something more than life.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Close.
Lilith.
His pocketed the fruit — and a surge of Soel shuddered up his leg, fierce, immense, alive.
Without a word, Ex dragged two fingers through the pooling blood at his feet, and with one slow stroke, carved an X across the twisted sun.
A mark.
A warning.
Then he was gone, slipping into the dark just as Lilith stormed in, breath sharp, eyes flaring wide.
Her gaze fell on the empty altar.
"Shit." A breath, sharp and cold.
"The fruit's gone."