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 a jittery loop of half-lit promises, departures, sterilizations, and one that just said “REMAIN STILL FOR CLEANSING.” Real warm welcome.
The dais I was seated on creaked under my weight. No throne, just a jury-rigged altar of 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 asked to sit, they just… carried me there. Reverent hands. Silent awe.
They gathered in rings around me. Robed in patchwork stitched from old banners, cracked synthsilk and faded communion cloth, maybe a curtain or two, their hoods painted with spirals and sigils that pulsed faintly under the altar light. A few wore half-masks. Their faces glowed like they’d just swallowed a prophecy.
Then he stepped out.
Didn’t need an introduction to know he was the one in charge. He moved like someone who'd just come down from ascension after screaming 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 inked with looping tattoos that shimmered faintly as he turned, robe trailing like wet smoke. Voice? Like a cracked bell dragged across gravel.
“Our beacon walks once more,” he said, eyes fixed on mine. “The one who stitched the skies and walked unburned, as was foretold.”
Oh. That again.
I glanced sideways. No exits I could see, just tunnels funneled full of watchers, believers, zealots. 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. Listing deeds I supposedly did: Sealing the rift over Kelenvar, walking barefoot across ash plains, healing the skies over Vaal, bleeding stars back into wounded orbit. Did not remember any of it.
Then came a crackle in my mind. A voice slipped in like a knife wrapped in silk.
# Hey, prince.
# Aedan?
# Maybe we can use this cult to our benefit. Find out what they want. Convince them we need to free Larek from the Vult Rive gang. We think he's 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 Selivar,” he said, low and smooth now. “Prime among the Chanters, guarding the elder lore until your voice reclaims it.”
“Alright,” I said. “Assuming I’m the one. Humor me. What’s the state of the 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 said. Mostly to see how far he’d lean into it.
His eyes blazed.
“The old songs tell of trials,” he said. “Three graces you must wear. Valor, Wisdom, and Compassion. Pass the trials, and we will follow.”
I thought for a moment.
“Order matter?”
He frowned. “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 real leverage. The upper city lords are gone. But the Directorate still has teeth. Their boss, Larek, is alive. Underground. Prisoner.”
“They served the lords. Their hands were not clean.”
“Lords are dead. Gangs run wild. You want something better? You need structure. Someone who can offer power.”
Selivar was quiet.
“How about some compassion, the next trial?” I said. “Forgive the Directorate. Forgive their past. Help me rescue their boss. Earn their support. Then, maybe, you get your revolution.”
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 and I know where they keep him.”
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 him through a jagged corridor lit with oily blue lamps. Smell of old circuitry and incense thick in the air.
Behind us, the cult began to chant again. Low and slow.
I followed them into the dark, part reluctant hero, part makeshift diplomat.15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvtplqHaJnc
