The Rescue

The Sentinel walked without urgency, his boots clanking dully against the worn stone floors. The torchlight flickered along the corridor, casting long shadows that twitched and stretched with every step.

John followed a pace behind, his posture casual, his grip on his stolen sword light but ready.

The man—Aran, or Arlan, or some other forgettable name—was talking, and talking too much. "Fucking priests," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as if he, too, was weighed down by the sheer exhaustion of holy nonsense. "Don’t get me wrong, I believe in the Empress, yeah? But the way they carry on about her…"

He spat to the side, the saliva dark against the stone. "Like she’s still watching, still listening. She hasn’t spoken in a thousand years, hasn’t shown herself in all that time. What kind of god just leaves like that?"

John grunted.

The Sentinel kept going, oblivious to the lack of interest behind him. "And the way these fucking priests talk about her? It’s not faith. It’s obsession." He snorted. "If she ever did come back, I bet the first thing she’d do is smite half the bastards kneeling in her name."

John gave another grunt.

The Sentinel chuckled. "Yeah, I thought so. You’re not one of those zealots either, huh? Can always tell when a man doesn’t give a shit."

John said nothing.

Arlan—Aran?—sighed. "Well, whatever. Let’s get this done. They want the heretic cleaned up a little before we haul him to the pyre. Can’t have him pissing himself in front of the crowd."

They rounded the last corner, stepping into a dimly lit chamber.

And there he was.

Sir Aric Thren sat against the far wall, his back pressed to cold stone, his arms wrapped in rusted chains. His head was tilted forward, matted hair falling over his swollen face, the bruises dark and sickly beneath torchlight.

He was somewhere between cowering and courage, his body wrecked but unbroken.

Surrounding him were six Sentinels. They weren’t standing at attention. They were amused. One nudged him with a boot, laughing when Aric didn’t flinch. "Come on now, Thren," he sneered. "Say something inspiring. You were all fire earlier."

Another leaned down, his voice mocking. "How’s it feel, knowing you’re about to be burned for real?"

One of them chuckled. "Priests say fire purifies the soul. You feeling holy yet?"

John watched, unmoving.

The six guards weren’t just here for duty. They were here for fun. Which meant they weren’t paying attention. Which meant this was the only chance he would get.

The other Sentinel beside him stepped forward, raising his voice. "Enough," he barked, shaking his head. "You’ll have your fun when the crowd’s watching. Let’s get this over with."

John flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of the sword at his hip.

One chance.

Six men.

A battered prisoner.

And the fire already waiting.

It was time.

The Sentinel beside John took another step forward, his voice still thick with bored authority. "Get him on his feet," he ordered. "Priest wants him looking proper before—"

The whisper of steel cut the sentence short. John’s sword cleared the scabbard in one fluid motion.

He moved fast, before the room could catch up. The first swing was a short, brutal arc, the edge of the blade slamming across the Sentinel’s throat before he even knew he was dead.

Blood sprayed—hot, bright, arterial. The man staggered back, ****, his hands flying up to the gash as his knees buckled beneath him.

John was already stepping past him. The nearest Sentinel turned, his mouth parting— too slow. John drove his blade into his stomach, twisting it hard before yanking it free in a splash of red.

The room caught up. Steel screeched against scabbards, hands scrambled for hilts, boots clattered against stone.

The Sentinels shouted—surprise, anger, orders.

John was already moving through them.

The third man lunged, his sword halfway free. John took him at the knee first. The Sentinel crumpled with a howl, and John buried his blade in his throat to shut him up.

Another charged from behind. John turned fast, ducking the first wild swing, and drove an elbow into the man’s gut, forcing him to double over. He grabbed the Sentinel’s helmet, yanking his head down, and slammed his blade into the back of his skull.

Four down. Two left.

One of them wasn’t hesitating anymore. The fifth Sentinel came in hard, his longsword flashing, a fast, heavy swing meant to take John’s head clean off. John twisted out of reach, the blade whistling past his ear. Then he closed the gap. He brought his own blade up, knocking aside the Sentinel’s next strike, then shoved forward, smashing his forehead into the man’s nose. The Sentinel reeled back, stunned—John buried his sword deep into his ribs.

The last one standing hesitated. That was all it took. John yanked his dagger from his belt and flung it across the room. It sank into the Sentinel’s eye. The man crashed against the wall, twitching, his fingers weakly pawing at the hilt.

John exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The air was thick with the scent of blood, the warmth of it seeping into his boots, pooling in the cracks between the stone.

He turned to Sir Aric Thren. The prisoner was staring. Wide-eyed, bloodied, his breathing sharp, unsteady.

Not out of fear. Not out of relief. But because he hadn’t expected to live through the night.

John knelt, gripping the chains binding his wrists. "Get up," he muttered.

They didn’t have much time. The Black Sepulcher would soon realize its prisoners weren’t staying locked away.

John wiped his blade clean on a dead man’s cloak and sheathed it. Without looking at Sir Aric Thren, he spoke. "Take one of their armor sets."

The Sentinel hesitated for only a breath. Then, without argument, he moved. Good. He was smart enough to listen.

Aric knelt beside one of the bodies, his movements stiff, slow, his battered body struggling to cooperate. John ignored him and turned his attention to the others.

The dead Sentinels were sprawled where they had fallen, their bodies still leaking warm. Most of them wore standard plate and chain, their helmets open-faced, leaving their expressions frozen in either shock or emptiness.

Not useful. He needed one with a closed helm.

His eyes scanned the corpses, quick, methodical. One of them had a full visor, the kind that could be shut and locked, hiding the face completely.

John knelt, unfastened the straps, and ripped the helmet free. Then he tossed it toward Aric. The Sentinel caught it clumsily, still halfway into his stolen armor, his wrists shaking from the effort.

Still, he managed to finish dressing, strapping on the chest plate, buckling the pauldrons, adjusting the weight like a man who had worn steel for most of his life. Finally, he slid the helmet over his head, the visor snapping shut with a quiet clink. Now, to anyone looking, he was just another Argent Sentinel.

Sir Aric adjusted the fit of the gauntlets, testing the weight, then turned toward John. "You saved my life," he said, voice steady but uncertain through the helmet.

John didn’t respond. Aric took a step closer. "But why?"

John sighed. "Vaelin Dhoras," he said simply.

Aric stiffened slightly, letting out another quiet laugh, but he said nothing else.

The two of them moved quickly, retracing John’s path through the Sepulcher. They stayed close to the walls, their steps soft against the stone, the air thick with the weight of torches burning low. The corridors wound in slow, suffocating spirals, leading them through the belly of a place built for suffering.

"This place..."

John’s jaw clenched.

The voice again.

"It feels familiar."

"Not now."

"Something about it—"

"Not. Now."

The voice fell silent. Good.

He didn’t have time for her riddles.

He had a job to finish. And if they didn’t move fast enough, Aric would still burn.

John and Sir Aric Thren walked with purpose but not urgency, moving through the Black Sepulcher’s winding corridors with the same presence as any other Argent Sentinel on duty.

They did not hurry. They did not hesitate. That was the trick.

You could sneak past a dog by pretending you belonged in the yard. The same worked for men.

A pair of Sentinels passed them in the halls, sparing only a glance before moving on. A priest in golden robes shuffled by, muttering some low prayer of cleansing, his fingers twitching through the runes etched into the walls.

John and Aric kept walking. When the final turn came, leading to the outer passage, John barely let his breath slow. He pushed through the last archway, stepping out into the night air, cool and biting.

The doors of the Sepulcher stood behind them now and no alarm had been raised.

They were outside. Aric exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “I can’t believe that worked.”

John didn’t look at him. “It worked because you shut up and walked.”

Aric chuckled, wincing as he rolled his shoulders, his battered body reminding him of its limits. John didn’t give him time to enjoy his freedom.

“Tell me about the shipment,” John said, voice low, steady.

Aric sighed, dragging a gloved hand over his helmet before unfastening the straps and pulling it free. His short-cropped hair was damp with sweat, his face still a mosaic of bruises.

He wiped at his split lip, thinking. “I only heard rumors,” he admitted.

“Don’t care,” John muttered. “Tell me anyway.”

Aric sighed again, tilting his head back toward the moonlit sky. “They say it contains a relic of Averína the Eternal.”

The words carried weight.

Even Aric, battered and bleeding, paused long enough to mutter a small blessing. "May the Eternal watch over us, even in silence."

“Do you know the route?” he asked instead.

Aric nodded. “It’ll move through the Radiant Ward, escorted by Sentinels and priests, heading toward the Celestial Spire.” He winced, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “I can show you the best spot to hit it, but…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Not tonight. My body’s had enough. We’ll talk at dawn.”

John’s jaw tightened. “The shipment arrives tomorrow.”

“We have time,” Aric said.

John wasn’t so sure. He studied him, gauging whether he’d be able to move when it mattered. The man was alive, but alive wasn’t always enough. Still, arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere.

“We need a place to stay,” he said.

Aric snorted. “You have a hideout here?”

John smirked. “Something like that.”

Lirianne knew places.

She had to.

When her girls needed to disappear, when things got too rough, too dangerous, too close, she had places to send them. One of those places was half a mile from the Argent Ring, a brothel that asked no questions, took no names.

Not the Cinder House. But close enough. He gestured for Aric to follow.

“Come on,” John muttered. “You can bleed in a whore’s bed.”

Aric chuckled, wincing. “Better than a pyre.”

John didn’t disagree. They moved into the night, slipping into the city like ghosts.

The brothel was classier than The Cinder House but still affordable enough to cater to the kind of men who came seeking comfort without the coin to buy true luxury. It was a three-story building, built of aged wood and dark stone, the kind of place that had seen better days but still held a flicker of dignity. The sign above the entrance was lacquered but worn, painted with the image of a gilded feather resting on silken sheets.

"The Feathered Veil," Aric murmured as they approached, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Haven't been here in years."

Inside, the air was warm, perfumed, scented with burnt incense, sweet wine, and the distant musk of flesh on flesh.

The women here were draped in loose silks, their jewelry clinking softly as they moved between the patrons, some whispering promises, others merely watching with amusement.

It was quieter than the Cinder House. More controlled. The girls here weren’t ****. They were comfortable. Standing behind a polished mahogany counter, at the center of it all was a woman who was clearly in charge.

The Madam. She was tall, older, with silver threaded through her dark hair, her gown a deep blue silk, modest by comparison to her girls but no less alluring.

Her eyes were sharp, her gaze cutting through the warm glow of candlelight as she studied them. She did not bother to hide her scrutiny.

Two men entering her house past midnight, one of them dressed as an Argent Sentinel, battered, half-broken, but still standing.

John stepped forward, his tone even, respectful but firm. "Lirianne sent me."

A flicker of recognition. Then, her lips curled slightly into something that was not quite a smile. "Did she now?"

John pulled a small pouch of coin from his belt and placed it on the counter.

The Madam studied him, then glanced at Aric’s state—his bruises, the slow way he held himself, the Sentinel armor he wore like it might crumble beneath him.

She exhaled softly. Then, without breaking eye contact, she slid the pouch back toward him. "Keep it," she said. "Spend it on the girls."

John didn’t argue. She turned and snapped her fingers. Two girls emerged from the side hall, dressed in soft wraps, their gazes flickering toward Aric.

"Take him to the back," the Madam instructed. "Clean him up. See to his needs."

The women moved immediately, stepping toward Aric with gentle but firm hands, guiding him away. Aric didn’t resist, though he gave John a look—half amused, half wary—before letting himself be led away.

John turned back toward the Madam. She was watching him again, her expression unreadable.

Then, quietly, she asked, "That’s Sir Aric, isn’t it?"

John paused. Then, he nodded once.

She hummed, tapping her fingers lightly against the counter. "You did a good thing," she said.

John didn’t respond. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze unreadable. "I never believed in his guilt," she added.

Then, without another word, she turned and walked away.

Leaving John alone, surrounded by perfumed shadows, soft whispers, and the knowledge that by dawn, the whole city would know Sir Aric Thren was missing. And that meant time was running out.

John was still standing at the counter, his mind already spinning toward tomorrow, when a soft touch at his side pulled him back to the present.

A woman.

She was draped in silk, the color of deep wine, her dark hair falling in loose waves down her shoulders.

Her fingers traced up his arm, slow, lazy, like a cat playing with something it didn’t fear. "You’re new," she murmured.

Her voice was low, honey-thick, edged with something knowing. John didn’t answer. Didn’t pull away either.

She took that as permission. She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her perfume rich with jasmine and something faintly spiced. "You look like a man who needs a distraction," she whispered.

Her fingers danced along his chest, light but deliberate, her nails just barely grazing through the fabric. He felt her smile against his neck. "Would you like me to take care of you?" she purred.

John smirked, tilting his head slightly. "That obvious?"

She chuckled, breath warm, teasing. "Men like you always need it," she murmured. "You carry so much weight."

Her lips brushed the edge of his jaw, barely there. "But you don’t have to, not here," she continued. "Let me take it off you for a little while."

Her hands slid lower, her hips pressing just so against his side. She was good at this. And fuck, he wanted to.

It had been a long night, and the thought of a warm bed, warm hands, a warm mouth—

But—Something inside him twisted.

A pull.

A nudge.

Something cold and insistent, not of flesh, but of thought. He was being called.

Not by a voice. Not by something he could explain. But it was there.

Something outside.

He exhaled slowly, lightly pushing her away, brushing a hand over the woman’s wrist.

She tilted her head, more curious than insulted. "Where are you going?" she asked.

John rolled his shoulders, stepping back.

"Just need some air," he muttered.

She smirked. "Come back when you're done," she said. "I’ll be waiting."

John gave a half-nod, already moving toward the door.

The night air was cool and quiet, the streets of the Argent Ring softened by the hush of midnight. John stepped out of the Feathered Veil, adjusting his cloak, rolling his shoulders.

The feeling was gone. Whatever had pulled him outside had vanished, leaving only the lingering scent of damp stone and lantern smoke.

He scanned the street, his golden eyes drifting across the darkened alleys, the flickering torches of distant watchmen.

"You left."

The voice.

Softer now.

Hurt.

John exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"I didn’t mean it like that," he muttered.

"Didn’t you?"

He sighed, shifting his weight. "It wasn’t the best time for reminiscing," he said.

The voice was quiet for a moment. "I know."

She didn’t sound angry.

Just tired.

John hesitated, then asked, half-wary, half-curious: "Was it you?"

"What?"

"The reason I came outside."

"Yes."

John’s brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Because of what I said in the Sepulcher."

John inhaled slowly, then sat. Right there, on the cold stone of the brothel steps, arms resting on his knees, head tilted slightly upward, watching the stars cut through the clouds.

"Alright," he muttered. "Talk."

She hesitated.

Then, finally, she spoke. "I don’t know why," she admitted, softly. "But a piece of me is inside that place."

John’s brows knit together. "Inside the Sepulcher?"

"Yes."

John frowned. "That doesn’t make sense," he muttered. "You’re not real."

"Aren’t I?"

That made him pause.

She sounded uncertain. Not offended. Not challenging him.

"I don’t know what I am," she admitted. "I don’t know if I am real, or if I am something else. But I know that something inside that place is connected to me."

John sat with that for a moment. Trying to make sense of it.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What do you want me to do?"

A pause.

"Find it."

There was an ache in her voice now, something ****, pleading. "Please," she whispered. "Maybe… maybe I’ll find answers."

John inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising, falling. He had just broken into that godsdamned place.

Getting out had been hard enough.

Going back? Madness.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine."

The voice exhaled softly, almost relieved.

"Thank you."