The chanting echoed through the underpass like blood pulsing in a vein.
Cloaked figures moved in silence, dressed in crimson robes darkened with soot. Their hands rose and fell in slow rhythm. At the center of the circle, bones crumbled into ash. A sigil shimmered on the cold concrete—etched with fingers that didn't bleed anymore.
"He burned the city," whispered the leader, voice trembling in reverence. "And cleansed it. He is fire made flesh. We must awaken him fully."
Around him, dozens of eyes opened.
They glowed faintly. Unblinking.
The ash began to glow.
---
Lucen woke gasping.
His body didn't feel right. Too light, like the air in his lungs wasn't made for breathing anymore.
He sat up, chest damp with sweat.
The silence in the room pressed in too tightly.
He stumbled into the bathroom. The floor tiles were cold, grounding him for a moment. He gripped the sink, stared into the mirror, and flipped on the light.
It flickered.
Then for a split second—his reflection wasn't his.
His eyes shone silver. His veins, laced with molten gold-red, pulsed under his skin like liquid heat. Behind him, the air twisted. A spiraling sigil spun to life, glowing in a way that felt ancient and alive.
"No…" he whispered. "What the hell is this?"
The mirror shattered.
And then he vanished.
---
Lucen crashed into the middle of the street. Night air slapped against him. Cars swerved. A dog barked in the distance.
He stared at his hands, panting.
He hadn't moved. Not really.
He'd been moved.
---
Scarne's workshop smelled like burnt copper and old oil. Lucen sat on the floor while Scarne paced nearby, his arms folded, shirt stained with sparks.
"You sure you didn't trigger it?" Scarne asked. "No emotion spike? No memory flash?"
Lucen shook his head.
"I didn't do anything," he said. "But something did. I felt it. Like… voices. Prayers."
Scarne froze.
"You're being worshipped?"
Lucen didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
The silence was enough.
---
The temple in his dream wasn't one place.
Its walls shifted, folding and unfolding like cloth soaked in ink. Each step Lucen took echoed for miles. Statues stared from every corner—some with his face, some with worse.
Morpheus walked beside him, barefoot, eyes blindfolded with threads of silver.
"Worship is a double-edged dagger," the dream-being said. "It can crown you… or carve you."
Lucen kept walking.
"I don't want it."
"Want is irrelevant," Morpheus replied. "You were never asked."
Lucen clenched his fists.
"Then how do I stop it?"
"Stop the source," Morpheus said, tilting his head. "But beware, child of betrayal… your true father wants you crowned."
Lucen turned to him.
"My father—"
But Morpheus was already gone.
---
The old cathedral had long been buried by the city.
Subway lines ran above it. Rats and time had chewed through most of the stone. But someone had rebuilt it in secret. Candlelight danced across cracked stained glass. Ash drifted from the high ceiling like snow.
At the center of the altar stood a towering statue.
It was Lucen.
Not the man. Not even the devil.
Something between.
Tall, cloaked in carved flame, a third eye open in his forehead. Wings curled in like claws. The sigil burned in his chest, painted in gold.
The cult chanted louder.
Their voices rose like waves—feeding the fire in the stone, shaping something deeper.
In the back, half-hidden in shadow, a man stood with hands folded behind his back.
His presence cut through the light like a blade through silk.
He smiled without warmth. A voice followed. Velvet. Venom.
"Rise, my son," the man said. "Let them sing your power into being. Let the world remember the eighth flame."
His eyes glinted crimson.
Satan had arrived.
END OF CHAPTER 14
Next up:
CHAPTER 15: BENEATH THE HALO