The morning after the rescue, they gathered in the main hall.
Sunlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long shadows across the room. The Choir sat along one wall, still weak but recovering. Gang representatives filled the rest of the space. Crimson Jacks. Iron Crescent. Violet Tongues. Rusted Saints. Black Sparrows.
Kemi stood beside Rhea, as always. Solid. Present. The kind of presence that made you feel safer just knowing she was there. Jax leaned against a wall, arms crossed, mohawk catching the light. Mora sat quietly near the back, fingers tapping rhythms only she could hear.
Tzark's volcanic form radiated gentle warmth—calm, for now. Vess arranged himself with practiced stillness, all four arms folded. Kaela sat at a neutral grey, waiting.
And at the center, the Blind Man stood.
Torrin.
That was his name. Kael Torrin. Though most people had forgotten it, buried under titles and legends. The Blind Man. The Crippled Sage. The One Who Fought a Blessed and Lived.
He'd told them his name last night, quietly, like it didn't matter anymore. Like he'd left "Kael Torrin" behind the day his eyes and ears were taken.
But Ilias remembered it. Whispered it now, testing the weight.
"Torrin."
The man's head turned slightly. Acknowledged.
Ilias stood near the front, leaning against the wall. Every muscle still ached. The divine healing had closed the wound, but his body remembered dying. Remembered steel through his chest. Remembered the white light and gods' voices and the feeling of being unmade and remade.
Seraph stood beside him. Close. Protective. Her hand had found his at some point during the night and hadn't let go since. Neither of them had slept much. Just sat together in the quiet, processing everything.
Kojo stood with Rhea, his massive frame somehow making the room feel smaller and safer simultaneously. His gauntlets rested on a nearby table—Ọwọ́ Ogun, gleaming dully in the morning light. Watching.
Mira sat in a corner, arms wrapped around herself. She'd tried to apologize again this morning. Ilias had stopped her. Told her they'd talk about it later. After the war. After they'd all survived.
If they survived.
Taren stood near the door, one hand on his cane, watching everything with his single good eye. The old soldier carried himself like someone who'd seen too many wars and knew exactly how this one would end.
And Reverb hunched over his console in the back, screens flickering with data streams and surveillance feeds, helmet displaying focused concentration (>_<).
"Alright," Ilias said quietly. "Let's start."
The room settled. Everyone turned toward him.
Ilias took a breath. "I died yesterday."
Silence pressed down.
"Or close enough. Staff through my chest. Blood everywhere. I felt myself going." He paused. "And then I was somewhere else."
He told them.
About the white space. The spirit realm. Orun-Fela standing before him like captured thunder. The conversation about his parents—Ademola and Funmilayo Venn, liberators who'd fought and died on this world, trying to free people the Church had crushed.
Kemi straightened slightly when he mentioned his parents' names. Rhea's expression shifted—recognition, maybe respect. They'd heard stories about the Venns. Everyone in the Morrows had.
About the power unlock. The locks. The reason gods were hiding him.
About Ayọlá, one of Orun-Fela's wives, blessing someone who "loved protectively." He didn't say who. But his eyes flicked to Seraph for just a moment.
She noticed. Said nothing. But her grip on his hand tightened, and something warm moved through their connection—a golden thread neither of them fully understood yet.
Then he told them about Ogun.
The room went still.
"The War God?" Kojo's voice was rough. "He came for you?"
"He came to observe." Ilias met his brother's eyes. "Said that where there's rebellion, there's always war. That war is where he thrives."
Kojo stared. Processing. His gauntlets—Ọwọ́ Ogun, the Hands of the War God—seemed to pulse faintly on the table between them. Gleaming. Watching. Aware.
"He's tracking you," Kojo said finally. "If Ogun noticed you enough to show up, that means you're on the radar of forces we can't fight."
"I know."
"And you're okay with that?"
Ilias shrugged. Pain lanced through his chest. He winced. "Don't have much choice."
Torrin stepped forward. "Tell me about the locks."
Ilias turned. "Orun-Fela unlocked some of my power. But locked most of it away. Said if gods knew my full potential, they'd come for me. Some to recruit. Some to control. Some to kill."
"How much is locked?"
"I don't know. I can feel it. Like frequencies I can hear but can't touch. It's there. Just... walled off."
Torrin nodded slowly. "Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. Because if you accessed it all at once, you'd either burn out or lose yourself. Power like that needs to be earned, not given." Torrin's expression was unreadable. "The gods did you a favor, even if it doesn't feel like it."
Someone in the back—one of the Violet Tongues—cleared their throat. "So he's stronger now? That's good, right?"
"Stronger than before," Torrin said. "But not strong enough. Not yet."
"Then what do we do?" Rhea's voice cut through. Sharp. Practical. "We're about to go to war with the Church. With Vaen. With Sanctifiers and forces that outnumber us ten to one. We need every advantage."
Kemi's voice joined hers, quiet but firm. "We need to know what we're working with."
"You need the truth," Torrin said.
"What truth?"
Torrin was silent for a moment. Listening to something only he could hear. Then he spoke.
"You're all still using their language. Fire-Tuned. Water-Tuned. Earth, shadow, light. Those terms—they're Church propaganda."
The room shifted. Confusion rippling through the crowd.
"What?" Kojo frowned.
"There's no such thing as Fire-Tuned," Torrin said flatly. "That's a simplification. A lie designed to keep you manageable. You're not tuned to fire. You're tuned to rage. To war drums. To the music of conflict and violence. Fire is just how it manifests because rage burns."
Silence.
Then Seraph: "That doesn't make sense. I've been trained by the Church. They taught—"
"They taught you wrong. Intentionally." Torrin's voice was calm but absolute. "The Church knows the truth. So do the Families. They keep it from you because understanding the real system makes you dangerous."
Ilias pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain. "So what's the real system?"
"Music. Emotion. Frequency." Torrin turned toward him. Scars where his eyes should be. "You're not connecting to elements. You're connecting to the emotional resonance of sound itself. A love song doesn't give you 'water powers.' It gives you empathy. Connection. Growth. The ability to bond with animals. Manipulate plants. Heal wounds. Because that's what love does. It connects. It nurtures."
Mira's voice came from the corner. Quiet. Shaking. "Requiems. Funeral songs. That's what I hear when I use my powers."
Torrin nodded. "Exactly. You're not 'dual-element.' You're tuned to death and grief. The boundary between life and ending. That's why you can heal or harm with a touch. You understand both sides of that line."
Rhea's amber eyes narrowed. "Why would they hide this?"
"Control." Torrin's tone didn't waver. "If you think you're limited to 'fire,' you won't experiment. Won't grow. Won't realize you could tune to different music and access entirely different abilities. They keep you in boxes so you're predictable. Manageable. Weak."
"How do you know this?" Taren's voice cut through from the door.
Torrin turned toward the sound. "Because I left this planet once. Fought across worlds. Learned from cultures the Church hasn't touched. Saw how Tuning really works when people aren't being lied to." He paused. "Then I came back and realized—this place is a cage. And the bars are made of ignorance."
The room erupted.
Voices overlapping. Questions shouting over each other. Anger, confusion, disbelief all tangled together.
Jax pushed off the wall, mohawk practically bristling. "You're saying everything we were taught is bullshit?"
"Yes."
"Everything?" Mora's quiet voice cut through. "The training. The hierarchies. The whole fucking system?"
"Yes."
Tzark's volcanic skin flickered orange-red. Not quite rage. Something between confusion and vindication. "I always felt... wrong. Like the categories didn't fit."
"Because they don't," Torrin said simply.
Ilias felt something cold settle in his chest.
He'd been lied to. His whole life. The Church had taken something beautiful and complicated and flattened it into simple categories so they could control it. Control *him*.
He looked at his hands. Felt the frequencies humming beneath his skin. Fire, water, earth, shadow, light, air—no. Not elements.
Rage. Peace. Stability. Fear. Hope. Freedom.
*Emotions*.
He'd been mixing emotions this whole time. That's why his powers felt different. Why he could combine things that "shouldn't work."
Because he wasn't breaking rules. He was ignoring the fake ones and using the real system.
"How many people know?" Ilias asked. His voice cut through the noise. The room quieted.
Torrin turned toward him. "On this planet? The Church leadership. The Twelve Families. Maybe a handful of Divine-level Tuned who figured it out themselves. Everyone else? They're taught the lie from birth and never question it."
"And off-world?"
"Most cultures know. This planet is unusual. Isolated. Controlled." Torrin tilted his head. "The Church here has been suppressing knowledge for generations. It's how they maintain power."
Kemi's voice was steel. "They kept us ignorant on purpose."
"Yes."
"Made us weaker so we'd stay in line."
"Yes."
Her hand moved to her blade. Rhea placed a hand on her shoulder—not restraining, just grounding. A reminder to stay focused.
Ilias stepped forward. "Why didn't you tell me this before? When we first met?"
The question hung in the air.
Torrin was silent for a long moment.
Then: "Because you weren't ready."
"Ready?" Ilias's voice hardened. "I could've been training properly. Learning the real system. Instead I've been stumbling through fights, mixing things by instinct—"
"Yes. By instinct." Torrin's voice was firm. "You needed to learn that first. To trust yourself. To stop relying on what you were taught and start feeling your way forward." He stepped closer. "If I'd told you the truth immediately, you would've tried to understand it intellectually. Tried to make it fit into frameworks you already knew. But this system? It doesn't work that way. It has to be *felt*. Experienced. You needed to break the old rules before you could learn there were no rules."
Ilias stared at him. Angry. But understanding, reluctantly, that Torrin was right.
"You're a teacher," Ilias said quietly. "You're a frustrating, cryptic, impossible teacher."
Torrin smiled faintly. "Yes."
Kojo's voice rumbled from across the room. "So what now? We know the truth. How does that help us?"
"It means you're not limited anymore," Torrin said. "Fire-Tuned? No. Rage-Tuned. So lean into that. Let the anger fuel you. But also understand—rage can be cold. Calculated. It doesn't have to burn hot. Experiment. Find what works."
He looked around the room. "All of you. Stop thinking in elements. Start thinking in emotions. In music. In what moves you. That's your power. Not fire. Not water. Not shadow. *Feeling*."
Tzark's volcanic skin flickered, colors shifting as he processed. "Rage. Not fire."
"Yes."
Vess's black compound eyes gleamed. "Strategy. Precision. That's what moves me."
"Then that's your frequency."
Kaela shifted colors. Purple to green to gold. "Curiosity. Adaptation."
"There you go."
One by one, they named it. Not elements. Emotions. Music. The things that made them who they were.
Kemi's voice was quiet but certain. "Loyalty. Protection."
Jax: "Defiance. Rebellion."
Mora: "Harmony. Connection."
And slowly, the room shifted. Not just understanding. *Believing*.
Seraph spoke quietly. "Discipline. Order. That's what I hear when I fight."
Torrin nodded. "Military marches. Regimented beats. You're tuned to structure. That's why your strikes are so precise. Why you never waste movement."
She looked at Ilias. Something unspoken passed between them—that golden warmth again, stronger now, like Ayọlá's blessing was beginning to manifest in ways neither of them understood yet.
He squeezed her hand.
Then he turned back to Torrin. "You said I'm different. When you sense my frequency. What did you mean?"
Torrin hesitated.
Everyone waited.
Finally: "Your frequency doesn't have edges."
Silence.
"What does that mean?" Ilias pressed.
"It means you're not tuned to one emotion. One music type. You're tuned to *all of them*." Torrin's expression was difficult to read. "Most Blessed can access multiple frequencies. But you? Yours blend together. Overlap. I can't tell where one ends and another begins. It's like trying to hold smoke."
"Is that bad?"
"I don't know." Torrin's voice was quiet. Careful. "The Blessed who crippled me felt like a sun. Burning. Overwhelming. Singular. You feel like the space *between* stars. Empty. Infinite. Cold."
He paused.
"That terrifies me. And it should terrify you too."
Ilias felt something twist in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly. Something deeper.
Seraph's hand tightened on his. That golden warmth flared—protective, grounding, pulling him back from whatever edge Torrin's words had pushed him toward.
"But," Torrin continued, "it also means you have potential none of us can imagine. If you learn control. If you stay grounded. If you don't lose yourself." He stepped closer. "That's why the locks are good. They're not chains. They're training wheels. You're not ready for the full weight yet. And that's okay."
Ilias nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Now." Torrin turned to address the room. "You have two days. Maybe less. Vaen is moving on the Morrows. His plan is to wipe you out. Every human. Every alien. Every soul. Turn you into Sanctifiers. Build an army. Use this planet as his base to wage war against the Main Church."
Horror rippled through the crowd.
"He believes the Church has grown corrupt," Torrin continued. "That Crescendia's leadership is the only pure faction left. That the galaxy needs cleansing. He sees himself as righteous. A crusader. And you? You're raw materials."
"Then we kill him," Kojo said. Voice flat. Absolute.
"Yes. But not recklessly. Not scattered." Torrin's tone sharpened. "I've fought across worlds. Seen empires rise and fall. And I'll tell you what wins wars: Not power. Not numbers. Not even righteousness. *Unity*. People who refuse to break. Who look at impossible odds and say 'not today.'"
He let that settle.
"Vaen thinks you're disposable. Weak. Divided. Prove him wrong."
The room was silent. Then someone—a Crimson Jack—stood. "So what's the plan?"
Torrin smiled faintly. "We take the fight to him. Before he's ready. Before he expects it. We hit his cathedral. His production facilities. His supply lines. Everything. All at once."
Rhea stepped forward. "We'll need coordination. Real coordination. Not just gangs with temporary alliances. One force. One goal."
"Agreed," Kojo said.
Taren nodded. "Every gang. Every defected family. Every person with a weapon or a grudge. We bring them all."
"We have representatives here," Rhea said, gesturing around the room. "Let's make it official."
They gathered around a central table. Maps spread out. Districts marked. Church facilities highlighted in red.
Kojo placed his gauntlets on the table. "Main assault on the cathedral. I'll lead it."
Rhea nodded. "Iron Crescent hits the Sanctifier production facilities. Coordinated strikes. We cut off his reinforcements."
Kemi leaned over the map, finger tracing routes. "Three-pronged approach. North, east, south. Simultaneous. They won't know which to defend."
"Smart," Jax said. "I'll take north team."
"East," Mora added quietly.
Seraph stepped forward. Her voice was quiet but firm. "I know the cathedral's layout. I was Church. I'll infiltrate with a small team. Disable defenses from the inside."
Ilias moved beside her. "I'm going with you."
She looked at him. "You just came back from the dead."
"Which is exactly why I'm going. I need to move. Test the new power. See what I can do."
"Ilias—"
"Not negotiable," he said, echoing her words from before.
She almost smiled. "Fine."
Mira's voice came from the corner. "Medical corps. I'll organize field hospitals. Triage. Extraction teams for wounded." She paused. "And if I see the Orphan, he's mine."
No one argued.
Reverb's voice crackled through a speaker, helmet displaying determined focus (>:D). "Electronic warfare. I'll jam their communications. Disable surveillance. Make them blind."
Tzark stepped forward, volcanic skin glowing with purpose. "Heavy combat. We break their lines."
Vess nodded. "Tactical strikes. Precision."
Kaela shifted colors—deep, determined blue. "Infiltration. Sabotage."
One by one, they assigned roles. Built the plan. Turned chaos into strategy.
Torrin stood to the side, listening. Approving.
When they finished, Kojo looked around the room. "Everyone clear?"
Affirmations rippled through the crowd.
"Then we move tomorrow at dawn." His voice carried. Strong. Certain. "This is our home. Our people. Our freedom. And we're taking it back."
He placed his hand on the table. Palm down. Firm.
Rhea placed hers on top of his.
Then Kemi. Then Seraph. Then Ilias. Then Mira. Then Taren. Then Jax. Then Mora. Then Reverb's holographic hand.
One by one, every representative in the room added their hand to the pile.
Gang leaders. Family defectors. The Choir. Refugees. Fighters who'd lost everything and refused to lose more.
Tzark's massive volcanic hand. Vess's four hands stacked together. Kaela's shifting-colored palm.
"For the Morrows," Kojo said.
"For freedom," Rhea added.
"For everyone who couldn't fight back," Seraph whispered.
"For the ones we lost," Kemi said quietly.
They stood there. Hands together. United.
And for the first time in weeks, Ilias felt something like hope.
---
Three blocks away, hidden in shadow, Mia watched through a cracked window.
Not Mira—Kojo's sister, the healer—who sat inside organizing medical supplies.
Not Lyra—the Church spy with two souls trapped in one body, lurking elsewhere in the city.
This was Ilias's ex. The one who'd loved him. Lost him. And never stopped wanting him back.
She'd been tracking them since the rescue. Following. Listening. Waiting.
And now she saw him.
Ilias.
Alive.
The Orphan had said he was dead. Felt him die. Reported it to the Entity—to *Father*.
But there he stood. Breathing. Moving. Laughing with the red-haired woman beside him.
Seraph.
Mia's hands clenched. Chains materialized in her grip—spiked, black, forged from Silence itself. Not music. Not resonance. Something older. Emptier. Hungrier.
She watched them. The way Seraph's hand rested on his arm. The way he leaned toward her when she spoke. The way they looked at each other.
Like they belonged together.
*No.*
Father had raised her. Found her when she was a child, alone and terrified after the first rebellion tore her world apart. Gave her purpose. Power. A family when she had none.
And Father had a plan.
Get close to Ilias. The son of liberators. The boy who would spark rebellion. Use him. Let Father possess his body. Lead the revolution and twist it into something beautiful—a choir of Silence, an army of the faithful, a world finally at peace.
But then the breakup happened.
Ilias walked away. Said he needed space. Said things weren't working. Said he cared about her but—
But nothing.
He was hers. He'd always been hers. And that woman—that soldier—didn't understand him. Didn't know what he'd been through. Didn't love him the way Mia did.
Father's voice whispered in her mind. Not words. Just presence. Patient. Calculating.
The boy still serves the plan. Alive or possessed. Free or claimed. He will be ours. He will be hers.
Mia stepped away from the window. The chains coiled around her arms like living things.
The war was coming.
And when it did, she'd save him.
Take him away from Seraph. Away from the fighting and dying and chaos. Away from the rebellion that would only get him killed.
Just the two of them.
The way it was always supposed to be.
Father would understand.
Eventually. When she brought Ilias home. When she proved her love was stronger than any plan.
She smiled.
And disappeared into the shadows.