The Church of Luma held its silence in the evening light. Candle flames danced in quiet devotion, and the scent of sweet incense hung in the air like a memory of peace. Before the altar, a lone girl knelt, her head bowed.
Sister Elisabeth clasped her hands together, her lips moving without sound. Her simple white robes settled around her, and her flaxen hair fell over her shoulders like a spill of sunlight.
She was giving thanks, as she did every evening. For the roof over her head. For the purpose in her hands. For the light that had found her in a different kind of dark, one with a mother's sharp hand and a father's absence. The church was not just a sanctuary; it was her first real home.
"For all that I am," she whispered into the stillness, "and all that I am yet to be, I thank you, blessed Luma. You guided me from the dark. You showed me the path. I am yours."
"Good evening, Sister Elisabeth."
The voice was soft, worn like the turning of parchment, yet warm and steady.
She turned her head with a start, quickly rising to her feet. "Father Malcom!" She gave a hurried bow, a faint flush on her cheeks. "Ah, good evening to you too."
He chuckled quietly as he stepped forward. The elder priest embodied divine serenity. His long white robes, threaded with golden trim, rustled softly as he approached, and his eyes, deep and patient, sparkled with quiet joy.
"You've settled well into your role," he said, hands folded together in front of him.
She flushed slightly, then laughed shyly. "I suppose I have. It's thanks to you, Father. You gave me the chance to begin again. I'll always be grateful."
Malcom's smile was the kind that could thaw a winter morning. "I merely opened the door, child. You chose to walk through it. You embraced the goddess's light on your own. You've become a fine young woman for it."
A soft warmth, a fragile pride, bloomed in Elisabeth's chest. She turned back toward the altar, about to offer another quiet word of thanks.
But she never got the chance to speak.
A siren roared from somewhere outside, sharp, mechanical, urgent. The floor shuddered beneath their feet, and a distant explosion cracked through the sky. Dust cascaded from the ceiling as the stained glass trembled violently in its frames.
Father Malcom's serene expression vanished, replaced by sharp alarm. "What in the goddess's name?"
The door burst open.
"Father! Sister!" A young acolyte stumbled in, panting and pale. "The northeastern gate! It's… there's fighting! Monsters! Cultists!"
Malcom's voice cut through the panic, sharp and clear. "Calm yourself. What of the district guard?"
"Overrun. I saw one of the priests get dragged away, and…" The boy froze, his eyes wide with terror as a low, guttural roar echoed from outside, much closer now.
"Go," Malcom ordered firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Evacuate through the cellar. Get to the south quarters."
"But what about you?"
"I'll remain. Go!"
Elisabeth hesitated only for a heartbeat before grabbing the boy's arm. "Come on!"
They ran.
The church corridors were tight, narrow passageways that twisted between cloisters and small sanctuaries. As Elisabeth and the boy sprinted past flickering sconces, the cries from outside grew louder and more desperate. A thick, choking smell of smoke curled down from the stairwell leading to the upper spires. The church wasn't just near the fight; it was caught in it.
They reached the hidden cellar door behind the altar and yanked it open. Dust and cool air rushed out, and the two descended quickly, their boots echoing on the stone steps.
Elisabeth's heart hammered in her chest. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, not just from the sprint, but from the weight of it all. The sacred place that had once felt eternal and untouchable was being torn apart.
They emerged from the back entrance into the alleys behind the church. The world was ablaze.
The streets were chaos. Smoke twisted from shattered homes like ghostly fingers. Screams echoed between crumbling walls. Shadowed figures with robes dark as ink danced through firelight, chanting and wielding unnatural powers. Magic beasts, twisted things with far too many limbs, rampaged like demons unleashed.
The church was no longer safe. Nowhere was.
Elisabeth clutched the hem of her habit to run faster, her breath ragged. A few people rushed past her, bloodied and desperate. She could hear the sound of swords clashing, spells colliding, and the panicked wails of the innocent caught in the crossfire.
They reached the edge of a collapsed square where the smoke thinned just enough to see flickers of light and flashes of magic in the distance. It was chaos, too dangerous to go forward together.
They ducked between buildings, trying to avoid the main streets. At one point they passed a man screaming for help, clutching a wound in his side. Elisabeth froze, torn, but the boy pulled her forward. There was no time.
Down another alley, Elisabeth paused to catch her breath. Her eyes scanned the chaos ahead: the ruined streets, the fleeing civilians, the monsters roaming unchecked. She turned to the acolyte beside her.
"Listen to me," she said firmly, gripping his shoulders. "You have to run. Find someone who can help. Don't look back."
His mouth opened in protest, but she gave him a slight push. "Go."
He hesitated for just a second, then turned and disappeared into the smoke.
She turned into a narrower street to avoid a toppled cart and nearly collided with a cloaked man dragging a screaming civilian. The man turned to her with glowing red eyes, but before he could act, an arrow took him in the throat from somewhere above. Elisabeth didn't stop to question. She ran.
A scream cut through the air, a high, small cry. A child.
Elisabeth skidded to a halt and turned.
Down a side alley, a little girl was curled up against a wall, sobbing. A creature, bulky and low to the ground with gnarled limbs and fangs like knives, was stalking toward her.
Elisabeth didn't think.
"Hey!" she shouted, stepping into the alley and waving her arms. "Over here! Leave her alone!"
The monster turned with a wet, hungry hiss. It charged.
Elisabeth rushed forward, throwing herself between the beast and the child. She managed to scoop the girl up, spinning to shield her with her own body, but she was too slow.
Claws, cold and sharp as broken glass, raked across her back and side.
White-hot pain exploded through her. The world blurred into a smear of color and sound. She cried out, falling to her knees, but she kept her arms locked around the trembling child, curling around her like a shell. Her breath came in ragged, wet gasps. The little girl screamed beneath her.
Please... please, goddess... if you hear me... save her. Save at least her.
The creature snarled in triumph and lunged for the kill.
Elisabeth shut her eyes.
A clean, silver sound split the air. The monster's snarl choked off into a wet gurgle, followed by the heavy, final thud of a massive body collapsing.
Silence.
Then, pain slipped away from her, replaced by warmth, slow and steady like sunlight breaking through clouds. Elisabeth blinked, her vision swimming back into focus.
At first, she thought she was seeing an angel. But the shape sharpened into a man. Tall and still, with black hair falling over dark glasses that caught the light like mirrors.
He knelt beside her, his hand glowing with healing magic pressed gently against her ribs. The heat of it threaded through her nerves with quiet precision. His presence was calm, like the eye of a storm, absolute and unshakable.
Behind him lay the bodies of beasts, limbs twitching weakly, collapsed in heaps of broken bone and claw. Scattered among them, robed cultists lay motionless, robes smoldering.
At his side stood a woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat that seemed absurd amidst the ruin. From beneath its shadow, Elisabeth caught a glimpse of long, dark hair and eyes that held a sharp, crimson gleam as they scanned the chaos.
The woman's posture was one of elegant, impatient grace, utterly at odds with the hellscape around them. The little girl Elisabeth had protected now clung to this stranger's leg, silent and wide-eyed, her small fists tight on the woman's fine coat.
The woman sighed, a sound of profound irritation. "Arden," she said sharply, scowling, "we don't have time to adopt strays."
Something in the woman's presence felt… unnatural. A faint, cold pressure at the edge of Elisabeth's awareness, like the air before a storm. But the thought was formless, swept away by the pain in her side and the ringing in her ears. In that moment of shock, the woman was just another powerful, frightening figure in a night that had ripped the world apart.
The man, Arden, said nothing. He simply finished his spell. The pain didn't vanish; it faded into a dull ache, distant and strange like a memory blurred by time.
Elisabeth looked up at the man healing her. His hand hovered for a moment, then fell to his side, the glow retreating like a dying star. For a moment, he seemed like a figure from a stained glass window, holy and still, carved from reverence and unfinished divinity. Not quite real, not quite human.
He didn't look at Elisabeth. His gaze was already elsewhere, scanning the ruined street, his face an unreadable mask. He was listening to something she couldn't hear.
She opened her mouth to speak, to thank him, to ask who he was, but no sound came. Was this what divine intervention looked like? Not soft, not warm. It was just… inevitable.
She didn't feel chosen or special. But something inside her, the old, familiar ache of being unseen and unwanted, softened. She was not alone. Not anymore.
The woman, Lysandra, groaned and pointed. "More coming. Cultists. And their freaks."
Elisabeth turned her head, pain flaring in her side.
A new figure stepped into the flickering torchlight at the alley's mouth.
A figure emerged into the flickering torchlight. He stood taller than any man should, draped in pale, nearly white robes that marked him as one of their high-ranking leaders. His skin was sickly and bone white, and a jagged burn scar ran from his temple down to his lip. His hair was a matted green, singed at the roots and drifting across his forehead like weeds in a swamp.
From his back sprouted four long, insectile blades, dark, jointed carapaces sharpened to cruel edges, each one twitching as if eager for blood. In his two human hands he held twin swords, their steel pulsing with a faint, corrupted glow. A crooked, unsettling grin split his half burnt face, as though he delighted in the ruin around them.
Around him, cultists in darker robes chanted in ragged unison, and malformed beasts skittered at his feet, sinew and bone knotted into living nightmares.
He smiled, a crooked, delighted thing. "Well, well. Arden. I wondered when you'd show up to the party."
Arden said nothing.
Harm's grin widened, cold and cruel. "They call me Harm. Perhaps you know me as the one who orchestrated this chaos, the one who will ensure your world falls."
Lysandra tensed beside Arden, a low growl in her throat. "That bastard…"
Harm's eyes burned with bitter resolve.
Harm's eyes burned with bitter resolve. "You destroyed our god. You shattered everything we believed in. But this is far from over. We will rise from the ashes, stronger and more relentless than ever."
He extended his insectile blades, the edges catching the light. "The empire's end will be our triumph."
Behind him, the malformed beasts stirred at his command. With a collective hiss, they lunged in a writhing tide.
Arden stepped forward to meet them.
Light, cool and silver, sheened along his arms as mana gathered. Then he moved.
The first creature's chest imploded under a single, brutal blow, hurling it back into its pack. Arden pivoted, caught a leaping horror by the limb, and slammed it headfirst into the cobblestones with a sickening crunch. He moved with a terrible, efficient grace. Each motion was clean, precise, and utterly devastating. He wasn't fighting them. He was dismantling them.
The cultists hesitated, their chants faltering as they witnessed Arden move like a silent storm. They clutched their symbols, whispering prayers to their broken god, unsure whether to charge or flee.
Elisabeth crouched low behind a broken wall, heart hammering in her ears. He wasn't just fighting, he was unmaking them, one brutal motion at a time.
A sudden shout drew her gaze. Two cultists had circled around while Arden battled the monsters, their blades aimed at her and the woman in the hat. Before Elisabeth could scream, fire erupted in a precise arc, scorching the air.
The woman stood with one arm raised, the remains of the spell fading from her fingertips. The smoldering bodies of the attackers dropped in a heap.
Lysandra stood with one hand casually raised, her expression one of profound boredom. She glanced at Arden, who gave a single, slight nod.
"I'll take care of the weirdo," Arden said, already stepping forward, voice low and certain. "You take the others."
With that, he summoned a blade of shadow from the air, its edge pulsing like a heartbeat, and rushed Harm. The cult leader met him with a wild grin, dual blades raised high as their weapons clashed in a burst of unnatural light, magic and shadow erupting as steel clashed with sorcery, their duel carving sigils of chaos into the very air.
The world shrank to the space between blades. Arden and Harm became a blur, steel ringing out in manic bursts, sparks flying as their weapons clashed mid-motion, faster than the eye could follow.
Harm's four insectile blades sliced the air in perfect rhythm with the twin swords in his hands, six edges whirling together in a storm of steel. Each strike rang with a metallic scream, as if the blades themselves thirsted for blood.
Arden didn't retreat. Each strike he blocked was answered with one of his own, clean and deliberate, a rhythm carved from instinct and calculation. He moved like a man who had learned stillness in the heart of chaos, every step measured, every motion lean and lethal. His blade sang, not a warcry but a hymn, sharp and holy. Shadows bloomed in its wake, striking with precision as Harm laughed like a man unraveling.
"Bleed for me!" Harm howled, a sweeping arc from all four blades coming down like a guillotine.
Arden vanished. In a blink, he reappeared behind Harm, weaving through the sweep of those six blades like a wraith. Harm scarcely had time to twist before Arden's hilt drove into his gut, not a slash or a stab, but a crushing blow delivered by the hilt, a blinding uppercut into Harm's stomach. It wasn't elegant. It was brutal.
The sound that followed was like thunder given flesh. Harm flew, those insect blades tearing free from his back with a sickening snap, his body hurled like a ragdoll down the avenue, shattering through one wall, then another, vanishing into rubble and dust.
Elisabeth could only stare.
Lysandra's eyes burned with hate as she stepped forward, claws ready to strike, determined to make sure he was truly dead. But before she could move another inch, a firm hand settled on her shoulder. Arden's touch was calm and steady, and with a soft shake of his head, he held her back.
"Don't," he said quietly, the weight behind his voice telling her to trust him.
Elisabeth had seen him fight before, seen him move like shadow, precise, distant, cold. But this time, something was different. That final blow hadn't felt measured. It felt angry. Final. He didn't say a word, but there was tension in his frame, barely there, a faint stiffness in how his shoulders squared. Maybe no one else noticed. But she did.
Lysandra bit back the fury clawing at her throat and finally let herself be pulled away, her glare still fixed on the ruined spot where Harm had fallen.
The air shifted. New chanting rose in the distance, hollow and desperate. Cultists emerged from the far end of the alley, wild-eyed and frantic. They didn't hesitate. They rushed forward, howling names not meant to be spoken, blades raised high, dragging their nightmarish beasts behind them.
Arden stepped in front of Elisabeth. He didn't raise his sword. He didn't need to.
Beside him, Lysandra lifted one hand, and the world lit up. A beam of silver fire arced through the street, splitting a charging beast clean in half. Another cultist fell screaming as shadow lances erupted beneath his feet, impaling him in an instant. The air hummed with pressure, too much magic, too fast, too precise.
Elisabeth scrambled to her feet, the little girl clinging to her arm. Together, they backed behind a crumbling wall as Arden and Lysandra moved forward, an unstoppable pair of grace and violence, holy and infernal, shadow and flame.
Then, as the last beast fell, the world trembled again. From the smoke and ruin, shapes emerged: tall, armored men with blackened visors and long magi-rifles, their uniforms trimmed in gold thread. They moved in silent formation, fanning out like clockwork guardians.
Behind them came the true titans: automatons, massive and gleaming, carved in the image of knights. Not crude golems, but masterworks of living steel, powered by magi-cores that pulsed like hearts. They moved with grace, not lumbering force, their blades humming with unseen enchantments.
The cultists didn't stand a chance. In under a minute, the tide had turned.
One of them, bloodied and defiant, stumbled forward, his face smeared with soot and blood, his robe torn nearly to rags. He didn't kneel. Didn't beg. He laughed.
"You think we're weak," he rasped, his voice raw but feverishly calm. "You think this ends because your machines arrive. But you haven't even met His Hands."
He raised one shaking finger toward the sky, where smoke spiraled into stars.
He raised one shaking finger toward the sky, where smoke spiraled into stars. "When Joy laughs, you'll scream. When Dread smiles, you'll beg. Sorrow will make you weep, and Wrath…" He shuddered, teeth bared in something between devotion and delirium. "Wrath will break your soul before your bones."
Elisabeth stiffened, unsure whether to feel fear or pity.
But the cultist wasn't done. His eyes burned with fevered light. "You destroyed our god," he hissed at Arden. "But He was the only one who ever saw us. The only one who loved us when the world turned its back. The Herald gave us a place when we had nothing. We bleed not for vengeance, but for His return. For His love. For the day the broken are made whole again."
Arden's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
The cultist staggered forward again, hand clutched to his ribs. "You think this Empire has order. Safety. But we remember what it cost. The lives crushed beneath your peace. The voices silenced in your gilded towers. We're not mad; we're the ones who survived what sanity never could."
Arden silenced him with a flick of his wrist. A surge of air rippled forward, and the man dropped unconscious like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Four more lunatics," Arden muttered.
But the name, His Hands, lingered in the mind like a whispered curse. A splinter left to fester.
Elisabeth finally found the strength to stand, helping the little girl to her feet. The child was silent now, clinging to her leg. She looked at the man who had saved her, at the woman who wielded fire with a sigh, at the steel knights standing guard.
She was shaking. She was hurt. She was terrified.
But for the first time since the sirens had screamed, the crushing, lonely weight of abandonment lifted. She could feel it.
She was not alone in the dark. She wasn't abandoned. Not anymore.