Night draped itself like a shroud over the train yard. Zindra moved through the shadows, no longer hiding from what he was — a sentinel with nothing left to lose but the one person he could not live without.
Cyne's voice still whispered in his mind — old orders and cold logic telling him to abandon this world, return home, let Earth fall. But every whisper only hardened his resolve. He had chosen his side — and it was here, with her.
He found clues the cult had left behind — scraps of black cloth marked with twisted runes, candles burned down to pools of wax, a symbol drawn in chalk that flickered with faint, sickly light. They had taken Liyaya to their hidden sanctuary — deep beneath the old city.
Zindra felt the Meakery Senlord pulsing in his chest. Its ancient voice urged caution: You are hunted now — by your own kind and by the darkness you fight.
He ignored it. He had no more time for caution.
---
Below the City
The cult's lair stank of damp concrete and rotting dreams. Dozens of followers knelt in a circle around Liyaya, who sat chained to an old metal throne — her wrists bound with chains etched with runes to dampen any power she'd learned to wield.
The cult leader paced before her, his eyes glassy with madness. "He will come for you," he murmured, almost lovingly. "When he does, we offer him to Sanavak — the betrayer becomes the feast."
Liyaya spat blood at his feet. "You're nothing but prey pretending to be a priest."
The leader's grin cracked wider. He turned, raising his hands. The circle of followers began to chant — a low, rising hum that made the walls tremble.
---
The Strike
Up above, Zindra found the entrance — an old hatch hidden behind a rusted generator. He pressed his palm to it — runes flickered and the lock melted like wax under a flame.
He dropped down into darkness — then into firelight.
A follower lunged at him with a jagged blade, but Zindra moved like a phantom. He caught the man's arm, twisted, and flung him into the wall. Another came — Zindra's fist cracked through the cultist's runic mask in one blow.
The chanting rose. The leader turned, eyes wild. "He is here! Bring him down!"
More figures swarmed from the shadows — knives, clubs, broken pipes. Zindra's runes burned along his skin, brighter than ever. He moved through them like a storm made flesh — every blow a burst of light, every step a promise: You will not take her from me.
In the center of the chaos, Liyaya struggled against her chains. Her eyes met Zindra's across the swirling madness — and she saw the truth in his face. He would tear down the world before he let her slip away.
A blade grazed his side. Blood bloomed, but he didn't stop. He reached the throne, crushed the lock on her chains with a single blast of force, and pulled her to her feet.
"Can you run?" he asked, voice raw.
Liyaya's eyes shone. "With you? Always."
They turned to escape — but a new sound stopped them. A distant rumble — not of the cult, but of boots and weapons, precise and cold. From the tunnel behind the cult, armored figures appeared — helms marked with Cyne's crest.
The Enforcers.
The lead enforcer pointed at Zindra, his voice echoing through a metallic helm. "Sentinel Zindra. By the decree of the Council, you are under arrest for treason."
Behind them, the remaining cultists snarled like cornered rats — Sanavak's mark pulsing in their eyes.
Between the cult and the enforcers, Zindra tightened his grip on Liyaya's hand. His runes flared once more, defying the past and the orders that bound him.
"Then you'll have to take us together," he growled.
And in that flickering underground light, a new war began — the sentinel, the human, hunted by shadows and their own people alike, standing back-to-back in the dark.