Chapter 13 – Blades in the Fog
Night descended on Durelin with a damp heaviness, the kind that clung to the bones. A mist rolled in from the harbor, swallowing lamps and muffling footsteps. The city seemed to hold its breath.
Lucian stood with his back pressed against the cold stone of an alley, his cloak pulled tight. Beside him crouched Kaelen, eyes narrowed, scanning the fog. Somewhere further down the narrow lane, a faint metallic scrape echoed—the telltale sound of steel kissing scabbard.
"They're here," Kaelen whispered.
Lucian's hand went to his sword, his thumb brushing the hilt in a silent vow. He had heard stories of the Seraphic Blades since childhood—phantoms in holy scripture, said to appear only when the Goddess willed it. To common folk, they were angels of wrath. To rebels like him, they were executioners.
From the mist emerged three figures, their armor black and polished to a cruel sheen. Their faces were hidden behind masks carved with serene smiles, an unsettling parody of divinity. The fog itself seemed to recoil from their presence.
"Lucian Veylan," one of them intoned, voice distorted by the mask. "By decree of the High Father, your soul is forfeit. Kneel, and your death will be swift."
Lucian stepped forward, blade drawn, its steel reflecting the faint lantern light. His voice was steady. "If you've come to take me, you'll leave with nothing but blood."
The clash was immediate. One Blade lunged, their sword wreathed in fire, the strike so fast it hissed through the mist like a serpent. Lucian parried, the impact rattling his arms, sparks flying as steel kissed steel. Kaelen darted low, his dagger flashing in the fog, but another Blade intercepted with inhuman reflexes, forcing him back with a sweep of radiant flame.
The alley became a storm of shadows and light—swords slashing, fog swirling, fire igniting the night. Every strike from the Blades carried divine weight, each one meant to end, not to wound.
But Lucian refused to yield. His body moved with instinct sharpened by desperation, each parry growing surer, each riposte heavier. For the first time, he felt not just like a hunted man, but like a predator testing his fangs.
As the fight raged, a cry rang out from above. A hooded figure loosed an arrow from the rooftops, the shaft glowing faintly blue. It struck one Blade in the shoulder, staggering him.
Lucian risked a glance upward. The archer gave a small nod before vanishing into the fog.
Whoever they were, Lucian knew one thing: the Oathkeepers were not as fractured as the Church believed.
The Seraphic Blades regrouped, their laughterless smiles never faltering. The night was far from over.