Thirty of them stood in line – barefoot, cloaked in tattered robes, steam rising from their skin in the chill. Most were maimed or marked. Liz counted three with broken teeth, two missing limbs. One woman near the front had no ears. The man behind Liz coughed blood into his sleeve. No one offered help. That wasn't part of the performance.

A stone obelisk loomed behind them, carved with scripture:

"GLORY THROUGH ASH." "JOY IS DUTY."

The Overseers moved slowly down the line – five of them, all in slate-grey suits that matched the sky. Not uniforms. Not medical gear. Something colder. Their eyes didn't blink much. Their smiles didn't shift.

One by one, they clipped metallic tags to the neck or ear of each soul. Soul-trackers. The tags pulsed red for a second after activation.

When the Overseer reached Liz, she tilted her chin without speaking.

The tag clicked home against her skin, just behind the jaw. The pain was sharp. Not deep. Just enough to make her wince. The woman gave no acknowledgment. She moved on.

Enforcers lined the perimeter, their black uniforms absorbing the light. White pistols holstered. Soul-lash batons gripped in gloved fists. Their haloes shimmered faint blues and silvers above their heads, like muted flames.

Liz didn't flinch when they looked at her. But she felt Dan shift beside her. His hands flexed at his sides. Once. Twice. A tic she knew too well. His jaw was clenched tight enough to crack.

Easy, she thought. We're almost in.

She forced herself to remember how this started.

The forged records. The fake burns. The bribed overseer in the southern district. It had taken too long to set up the story: two refugees from the ashfields, stripped of everything but their devotion. Grateful. Disposable. Faithful.

They were convincing.

They had to be.

Liz glanced sideways. The line ahead of them shuffled forward.

One woman whispered to no one, "We get to meet the Flame Father today."

Another muttered, "I hope he sees me."

A third just stared skyward, lips moving silently.

Liz swallowed bile. She knew what was waiting behind the doors. Not a god. Not salvation.

Her father.

What was left of him.

The cathedral loomed ahead, built into the bedrock – less a house of worship than a bunker sheathed in devotion. The stone doors were carved with reliefs of fire and sacrifice. At the top, a golden mural depicted King Tomas with arms outstretched, smiling as flames consumed the world beneath him.

Then—

The doors groaned.

Not open, exactly. Unsealed. Light spilled out – cold, white, and surgical, like a morgue pretending to be holy. A low chime sounded from within.

The line moved.

An Enforcer barked once: "Hoods on."

A masked attendant came down the line again, handing out black canvas bags and rope lengths – one per person.

Liz took hers with a steady hand.

She looked at Dan. His eyes met hers for just a moment.

"We're here," she whispered.

He gave the smallest nod. No smile. No words.

Then Liz pulled the hood down over her head. The smell inside was mildew and old breath. Her world went dark.

Rough hands tied her wrists.

The rope was tight, but not cruel.

Then the march began.

One step at a time, thirty bare feet descended into the earth. Into heat. Into silence.

Into the blessing machine.

…………………

The hoods were yanked off all at once.

Light hit Liz like a slap.

Not sunlight. Nothing natural. This was clinical – surgical. Pale white strips embedded in the vaulted ceiling above, pulsing faintly with psychic residue. The corridor ahead stretched long and low, its walls veined with red and gold stone like cracked flesh turned to marble.

Runes glowed faintly beneath her bare feet – sigils etched into the floor in looping spirals. They pulsed with each step the group took, as though tasting them. Approving.

Thirty of them walked in two rows. Liz's shoulder brushed Dan's with every slow, synchronized step. The robes they'd been given were damp with rot and sulphur, and reeked of someone else's fear. Part of the disguise. Part of the show.

Enforcers watched from alcoves between every column.

They didn't move. But their haloes flickered – soft arcs of gold like burning wire above their brows. Each one held a white pistol, perfectly clean. A soul-lash baton hung from every belt like a threat dressed as tradition.

Liz didn't look up at them.

She focused ahead, feet steady, breath locked low in her chest. It felt like walking into a dream she couldn't wake from – a dream of ash and bleach and forced silence.

The corridor walls weren't plain. Between the runes and the veins, scripture had been carved deep into the stone. Bone letters fused with blood:

"JOY IS THE GATE." "PAIN IS PURPOSE." "THE FLAME BURNS, AND YOU ARE THE WICK."

Dan's hand twitched at his side again. Not fast. Just enough for her to notice.

He was breathing too shallowly. She knew that pattern – anger curled too tight under his ribs. His shoulders looked steady. But his knuckles were white.

Screens lined the far wall.

Projected faces smiled from them – men, women, children – each shown mid-transformation. Each caught in the moment their body changed: haloes flickering to life, veins lit with light, eyes wide with unearned wonder. Their mouths stretched too far. Too symmetrical. Joy plastered in place like a mask they couldn't take off.

Liz stared too long.

She felt sick.

That's what they'll make of me. That's what they did to him.

Her father.

A flash – unbidden.

Max, younger, stronger, arms wrapped tight around her after a nightmare. His uniform still dusted with soot. The smell of smoke and rusted metal clung to him like armour. She'd pressed her face into his shoulder, tears hot against her cheeks. He hadn't said much that night. Just one thing.

"You're fireproof," he'd whispered.

And she'd believed him.

Because he'd always been the one who ran into burning rooms. Because she thought he always would be.

A quiet sound beside her broke the memory.

Dan.

His voice was a breath. "He's here."

Liz nodded. Didn't trust her mouth to open. Not here. Not now.

Ahead, the corridor began to curve. Another set of guards waited where the path bent inward – two on each side, their haloes pulsing in rhythm with the floor. One of them stepped forward slightly as the group passed. Not to intervene. Just to watch.

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That's all they did.

Watch. Record. Enforce.

Their silence was worse than any sermon.

From up ahead, beyond the curve, a low hum began – chant or machine, she couldn't tell. It vibrated in her ribs.

Then someone near the front faltered.

A man. Thin. Sick. He dropped to his knees mid-step, chest hitching.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I can't—"

A guard moved without speaking.

He crouched beside the man. Whispered something into his ear.

The man froze.

Liz caught only five words.

"The Flame Father doesn't want tears."

The man rose. Mouth shut. Face slack.

The line kept walking.

Liz didn't look back.

She kept her hands still. Her steps even.

But inside her chest, the fire twisted tighter.

Because she believed Dan.

Because she felt it too.

Max was here.

And every step brought her closer to the broken furnace they'd made of him.

…………………

The hoods came off in unison. Thirty canvas sacks peeled away to reveal a chamber carved in circles.

The ceiling soared above them – etched with layered rings of scripture that spiralled inward toward a single phrase, engraved in bone:

"BURN TO BECOME."

The walls were smooth metal and blood-washed stone. Some parts gleamed. Others wept. Pipes ran overhead like veins, some dripping clear fluid, others pulsing faintly with light. Along the far side, alcoves glowed with surgical trays and soul-lattice monitors.

The entire room was a perfect circle.

In the centre, carved into the floor like the iris of an unblinking eye, was the glyph.

Dozens of runes spiralled around it – glowing amber, humming faintly, vibrating with quiet malice. Around the edge of the circle were thirty evenly spaced drains. The metal grates had rusted from use. Each one stained a different shade of red.

Liz smelled bleach. Alcohol. Blood masked by perfume.

And shackles.

Each station had a pair. Open. Waiting.

She didn't blink.

A woman in a grey coat stepped forward – young, maybe thirty. Her smile was smooth. Her voice sweeter than it had any right to be.

"Prepare your bodies," she said. "Purity of form allows for perfect transmission."

No one moved at first.

Then a man near the back dropped to his knees and began undressing.

Others followed. Slow. Numb. Some shaking. Some already crying.

The guards didn't bark orders. They didn't need to. They simply stepped forward with lashes drawn. No one wanted to test them.

Dan was beside her.

He moved without speaking, untying the rope at his waist, unthreading the coarse tunic they'd been issued in the upper chamber. His hands were too steady. Liz saw his jaw twitch. Once. Then twice. Like he was holding back bile.

Liz didn't flinch.

She undid her own tunic with calm fingers. Beneath it, her skin was pale – laced with memories. Long-healed possession scars trailed her ribs like old lightning. A jagged brand across her lower back. A crescent of gnarled flesh beneath her collarbone, where the demon's tendril had once tried to root inside her heart.

She didn't hide them.

One of the overseers paused, staring for a moment too long. Liz met her eyes.

The woman looked away.

The robe hit the floor.

The guards collected them wordlessly. Liz heard someone sobbing a few bodies down. Heard another whispering prayers to Tomas. To the Flame Father.

The room didn't respond.

It didn't need to. It was already devouring them.

Liz's gaze flicked to the glyph. Her breath shallowed.

Did Dad see this? Did he watch every single one of these people step forward? Did he watch them bleed? Did he scream inside his own skull as they thanked him?

She didn't know.

But she believed he looked. That he didn't turn away. That he tried – even now – to believe it could be undone.

He saves lives.

And they've made him into the engine that destroys them.

Her stomach twisted. Not with fear.

With fury.

She stood straighter. Her skin was cold. Her scars felt like fire.

Dan looked at her. For one second.

And in that silence, nothing had to be said.

They were getting him out. Or dying on the floor.

The overseer clapped once.

"Approach the ring."

The thirty began to move.

Toward the glyph. Toward Max.

Toward the heart of the lie.

…………………

The silence that followed the last disrobing was not peace. It was compression. Held breath in thirty different chests. A stillness thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and antiseptic.

Then footsteps.

The Overseer walked calmly to the raised dais – her boots whispering over polished stone. Her coat hung like folded wings, grey with embroidered scripture glinting at the cuffs. She stood beneath the dome, beneath the eye-shaped symbol carved in white light above them.

And she smiled.

"You have arrived," she said, "at the foot of your new lives."

Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried like gospel – measured, smooth, rehearsed with perfect care.

"One by one, you will be called forward. You will kneel at the edge of the holy circle. The Flame Father will reach for you. His hand will rest upon your soul. And in that moment, if your heart is clean and your body worthy—" her eyes swept the room, "—you will awaken."

She let the words soak in.

"You may gain strength. Or speed. Or vision. Or endurance. Each blessing is different. Tailored. Perfect. You will not be told what your gift is. You will feel it."

A smile spread wide across her face.

"And you will be grateful."

Liz stood among the thirty, unmoving. Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides. She didn't try to stop them.

The Overseer stepped closer to the centre of the ritual chamber. Her shadow flickered across the concentric glyphs carved into the stone – sigils and runes that hummed faintly with blue fire.

"The Flame Father," she said, voice lowering into something almost tender, "is not like you. He is not strong because he was chosen. He is strong because he chose to suffer."

She gestured behind her.

"There is no comfort in his body. No pride. No memory of love. He gave it all away. His family. His past. His name. All burned."

Her voice didn't waver. Not even when she said it: "He suffers for you."

Liz's chest hollowed.

"He lives in agony. And the deeper his agony, the greater your blessings. That is the sacred exchange. That is the divine covenant." The Overseer lifted her chin slightly. "Do not pity him. That is arrogance. The Flame Father does not want your pity. He lives for your rise. He suffers so you may shine."

Dan shifted beside her. She didn't look at him. She couldn't.

Because the lie was too perfect. Too clean. And it coated the truth in poison.

Her father had not chosen this. He had not offered himself. He had been taken.

Liz felt her vision ripple. Not from tears. From rage.

She could see it – herself lunging forward, grabbing the Overseer by the throat, slamming her into the ritual circle and screaming the truth into her skull.

She could already hear the crack of bone.

"Liz," Dan whispered.

She blinked.

He didn't look at her. Just angled his head slightly. His voice, nearly inaudible.

"Hold it. Not yet. Just… hold it."

Liz exhaled through her teeth. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Her nails bit into her palms.

Then—

The Overseer turned.

"Witness the blessing."

She raised one hand.

The door opened.

Light spilled through – clinical and searing, like sunlight filtered through a scalpel.

And there he was.

Liz saw chains first.

Then the spike— through the thigh.

Then the man. The husk. The wreck of someone she knew down to the marrow.

Dad.

His head hung forward, blood streaking from his brow. His arms were bound. His ribs visible. His body so still it barely seemed to breathe.

She couldn't move. Couldn't blink.

All the anger, all the hatred, all the practiced self-control – gone.

And in its place: Grief. Blinding. Pure. Like fire catching dry cloth.

Her father was here.

And they were killing him.

…………………

They pushed the line forward.

No words. No ceremony. Just the shuffle of bare feet across etched stone – thirty souls dragging themselves toward the centre of the chamber like cattle drawn to slaughter by invisible reins.

Liz didn't move. She couldn't.

Dan stood at her side, fists clenched so tight they'd gone white. His breathing was shallow. Measured. A man balancing on the edge of a scream.

At first, she didn't understand what she was looking at.

Just a shape in the darkened centre of the ritual circle. Chained. Hung.

Then the light shifted.

And the shape had a name.

Dad.

He was nailed upright to a vertical scaffold of iron. Arms outstretched, dislocated at the elbows. Shoulders pulled so far back they trembled with every breath. His spine had buckled under the strain – twisted, curved, no longer shaped for standing like a man.

He wasn't standing.

He was displayed.

His chest was bare – skin pale and almost translucent, stretched too tight over bones that jutted out like scaffolding. His ribs moved with each breath, the rise and fall so faint Liz couldn't tell if he was breathing… or just remembering how.

Every inch of him was bruised or burned or cut.

His leg…

A black iron spike ran clean through the thigh, pinning him to the floor. Bone glinted in the wound. Dried blood crusted from hip to ankle.

His halo barely flickered.

Not gold. Not fire.

A weak, jaundiced yellow pulsed just behind his skull, like a guttering candle left too long in the wind. It cast no heat. No light. Only the faintest shimmer – as if it, too, had given up.

His hair was long, matted to his skull. Dreaded into clumps by blood and time. His beard was patchy, streaked with grey and bile. Drool hung from the corner of his mouth. It dripped, slow and constant, down his chest.

His eyes—

One twitched. The other barely moved. Glassy. Wide. Hollow.

He wasn't looking at anyone.

Because he wasn't there.

The only thing that still moved – truly moved – were his fingers.

They twitched. Constantly. Not with will. With programming. A scar down his forearm glowed faintly, like a surgical conduit. A blood-channel. Carved into him. Used, again and again, to feed the circle.

Under his feet, the drains ran slick with red.

Liz didn't scream. She tried.

But no words came.

Only fire.

A burst of raw, psychic flame exploded from her throat – soundless, searing. Her halo surged blood-red, wild and uncontrollable, blistering the air with grief and power. Sparks danced across her skin. Her breath came in sharp, stabbing gasps.

Her knees hit the stone.

Not from weakness.

From grief. The kind that breaks the body first, so the soul doesn't have to finish the job.

Dan reached for her— grabbing her by the arms, shaking. His whole frame trembled. Not with fear.

With rage.

"You have to hold it," he hissed. "Liz, please."

She couldn't speak. She couldn't breathe.

She could only look at what they'd made her father into.

The guards had begun to notice. Whispers. Weapons shifting in holsters. One took a step forward.

Liz rose.

Not because she had strength.

But because this was him.

Her father.

Her dad.

The one who taught her how to swim. Who danced with her barefoot in the kitchen. Who told her she was fireproof even when the world burned.

She stepped forward.

The Overseer turned, her voice snapping through the air: "Next!"

Liz ignored her.

Her eyes never left Max.

Every step closer hurt more.

Her stomach twisted. Her chest cracked open. Grief roared through her like floodwater with nowhere to go.

And still— he didn't see her.

She stopped just outside the glyph. Her bare feet hovered at the threshold.

Dan's voice was behind her now – thick with something that wasn't anger anymore. "We're too late," he whispered.

She shook her head.

Because she had to.

Because if she didn't…

She looked up at the wreck of a man who had once carried her through fire.

The glyph beneath her feet flared.

Lines of glowing sigils spread outward – seeking, sensing.

The ritual had begun.

Her voice came – shattered, hoarse, the ghost of a whisper: "Dad… I'm here."

Max didn't answer.

Didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

But the pulse of his halo hitched.

A flicker. A tremor.

A fragment of recognition. A soundless beat.

Liz felt something snap inside her.

The kind of snap you don't come back from.

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