The Seraph Lord

We had only just begun to heal.

A week had passed since the scouring—bones set, bruises faded, fevers broken by bitter teas and whispered prayers. Tomas's thumb stayed wrapped in oil-soaked linen. Leo's ribs were slower to mend, but he joked now. Nicco limped in a circle every morning and called it his ritual. Even Farid, who hadn't spoken much since the drowning drill, nodded when I handed him bread.

But this morning, they came for us again.

A black-cloaked server read no names. Just said, "You. All six. Now." Then turned without waiting.

We followed in silence, boots scraping stone, hearts echoing louder than our steps.

They marched us through the inner corridors of Heaven's Gate — deeper this time, where light did not go willingly. Past grates that hissed steam. Past chained iron icons so rusted they wept. Down stairwells that narrowed the further you went, until we had to pass one by one.

I asked Jacob, quietly, "Do you know where they're taking us?"

He only said, "To dress us for the grave."

The room they brought us to was colder than the infirmary. Red light spilled through thick stained glass, washing everything in blood. Rows of waxed-black coats lined the walls like hung corpses. There was a table. There was a man behind it.

He wore a gray cassock and no insignia.

"You will wear Heaven's skin," he said. "Strip."

None of us moved.

"Strip. The Holy Spirit already saw you born naked. You'll die that way too. Put the uniform between."

We obeyed.

I felt small again, pulling off the clothes I'd worn since the boat. They were stained, torn, ash-colored things. Tomas struggled with his bandages until Leo helped him. Jacob folded his shirt before setting it down. Nicco bowed, softly, toward his old shoes.

The man opened a crate with a crowbar.

"Boots first," he said. "Then the coat. Then the shell. Don't speak unless spoken to."

They handed out the gear piece by piece.

The boots were cracked leather, with rust-ringed laces. The coats — long, stiff, oil-waxed wool — bore the emblem of the Gate: a plain iron cross, rising against a stylized backdrop of storm-lit sea. Not embroidered, but stamped in dull thread on the shoulder like a brand. The helmets came last. Rounded steel, slitted at the eyes. No polish. No rank. Only weight.

When I held mine, I saw a name scratched into the inside rim. Tertius—

Someone else's.

"These aren't new," Nicco whispered, running a finger down the stiff cuff. "They smell like mildew and—God, is that… wax?"

Tomas grunted. "Oilcloth. Doesn't burn easy."

Jacob tightened his chinstrap. "The Theotics designed this pattern in Year 111. Gas-resistant. Shrapnel-resistant. Spiritually unadorned until field sanctification."

"Feels cursed," Leo muttered, adjusting the belt.

Farid looked at the buttons. Brass, etched faintly with crosses.

"They call it the Penitent Shell," he said. "We march into judgment wearing this."

The man behind the table spoke again. "This uniform is not yours. You are not worthy of it. But you will carry it. You will die in it. Or you will return it for cleansing. That is your best fate."

We stood there, the six of us. Armored but not armed. Covered but not comforted.

I looked around and saw no boys. Only half-formed soldiers, caught somewhere between trial and tomb. Salem Vale, buried in a coat too long for his frame. Leo, hulking and slouched. Tomas with his bandaged hand awkward in the sleeve. Farid, eyes half-closed in prayer. Nicco, shivering under steel. Jacob — standing straight.

The man nodded.

"Through that door," he said. "You will enter the machine-prayer wing. There, you march. You chant. You learn the names of saints until they bleed from your mouths. If one of you falls out of rhythm, you all starve. Do you understand?"

We didn't answer. We didn't need to.

The door opened. Steam poured through it like breath from a furnace.

They didn't need to push us forward. We walked.

The door swallowed us.

Heat rolled over our faces. Not fire — not yet — but the breath of it. The air inside was thick with smoke and oil and a strange, pulsing rhythm that echoed beneath the stone.

We marched into a vaulted chamber lit by red lamps and burning incense. Pipes hissed along the ceiling. Gears clanked and pistons pumped — slow and solemn — like the heartbeat of something older than the Gate itself.

"Fall in," came the voice. Not shouted — declared.

We formed a line, boots thudding against metal grates. The clang of each step rang up the walls, swallowed by the hum of the machinery. I saw stained glass in the high windows, but it wasn't saints or martyrs — just wheels, flames, swords, and names I couldn't read. At the center of the chamber, high above the bell, hung the emblem of the Gate — a black cross rising against the backdrop of a painted sea, ringed with broken gold.

A row of priests stood at the far end, robes cinched tight. One held a bell. Another carried a book so large he needed both arms to lift it. A third watched us with hollow eyes.

"You will speak when the bell rings," the first said. "You will march in time with the pistons. You will recite the Litany of Names. If one of you falters—"

He looked down the line.

"—you all starve."

The bell rang.

The first name thundered from the book like a verdict.

"Saint Gaius of the Martyr Field."

We repeated it, stepping forward.

"Saint Halim the Broken."

Step.

"Saint Domitian of Ash."

Step.

Each name struck like a hammer. The rhythm built, slow but punishing. The pistons drove on, and our boots followed — six as one.

Jacob watched the machinery, lips tight, counting beats. Farid moved like a shadow, mouthing the names ahead of time. Nicco whispered them like charms, some half-wrong but still sincere. Leo's face shone with sweat. Tomas's hand was stiff again, the bandage soaked through. He lagged slightly, then caught up.

I kept my eyes ahead. I didn't stumble.

I matched every step, every syllable.

Not fast. Not proud. Just obedient. Just right.

Saint Helena of the Scorch.

Step.

Saint Paulus of the Teeth.

Step.

Saint Jude of the Thorned Eye.

Step.

Saint Cassiel Who Wept Fire.

Step..

The pistons kept their tempo. We kept ours.

Then —

Saint Damaris of the Mouthless Choir.

Step.

Too late.

Tomas hit it half a beat behind. Just one misstep — but in Heaven's Gate, one was enough.

The bell rang again.

Not sharp this time. Not fast.

It rang like a funeral toll.

The priest did not speak.

He turned to the row behind him and gave a single nod. One of them moved to the far wall and pulled a lever.

Every incense light snuffed out.

We stood in sudden dark. Smoke clung to our eyes and lips. No bell. No name. No song.

Somewhere above, a door clanged shut.

Then the voice came.

"You have failed the Litany."

It wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be.

"You will not eat."

No cruelty. No pity. Just the decree.

We didn't protest. We didn't cry. Tomas didn't even speak. He knew. We all knew.

And me?

I didn't stumble.

But that didn't matter.

The Gate had its own justice.

I kept my breath slow, eyes open to the dark. The silence was worse than hunger.

I didn't pray to be strong.

I prayed I wouldn't start hating the ones who weren't.

We stood in silence for what could've been an hour. Or a day. Or a single breath that never let itself go.

The only sound was the pistons above — slower now, like a dying heart. No names. No bell. Just metal lungs drawing breath for a body that never slept.

Tomas whispered once, maybe to himself.

"I'm sorry."

But no one answered. Not even the dark.

The air thickened fast. The incense had turned to smoke. Hot, clinging. Every breath tasted of ash and rust. There was no wind. Just heat and stillness and sweat slicking down our backs. Someone tried to shift their weight — the grating beneath us gave a screech — and we all flinched.

We couldn't sit. The iron beneath us had grown too hot, the pattern of the mesh biting into our boots and heels. Even leaning against the wall brought no comfort. The stone was warm as flesh.

Time slipped. Some of us stopped blinking. Others blinked too much. I didn't know which I was. It was like being buried alive — not in dirt, but in smoke and silence.

Then came the thirst.

It wasn't sudden. It started like a whisper in the throat. Then it grew. Mouths dried. Tongues thickened. Someone coughed — once, twice — but no one offered help. We couldn't. We were all unraveling in the same silence.

Leo began murmuring saint names again, but slower this time, out of rhythm. Not the litany — just names he knew. Saints of hunger. Saints of endurance. Saints of thirst. He said them like a child counting beads.

Nicco laughed under his breath at something none of us heard. It made me colder than the heat around us.

Tomas tried not to lean. His hand was shaking again. The bandage on his thumb had loosened and sagged, the wound under it still raw. He clutched it close, as if the others might see it as another weakness.

I stared straight ahead.

I didn't pray.

I just repeated the same phrase over and over:

Don't blink. Don't speak. Don't move.

Eventually, the sweating stopped. That was worse. The body gives up when it knows there's no point in fighting heat.

That's when the dark turned cruel.

Shapes began to move that weren't there. I saw torches being carried, though no light was cast. I saw the man in white — distant, motionless — standing beside Farid, though Farid hadn't seen him.

But I kept my mouth shut.

I wasn't afraid of the dark.

I was afraid of the voice that would break it.

Then came the worst thing.

I started to hear breathing.

Not ours.

Something deeper.

Up in the rafters, above the pipes, behind the gears.

One long inhale.

Then silence.

Then again.

No one else moved. I didn't ask if they heard it. I already knew.

The Gate was watching.

And we were still not forgiven.