Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 7

Deep beneath the wooden floorboards, near the bed, a rhythmic golden light was beating. It was faint, like a dying candle, but it was there.

Bruce ran to the spot. He knelt down, his fingers clawing at the gap between the boards. These boards weren't rotted; they were reinforced with lead to hide what was underneath.

"Help me," Bruce urged.

The Seraph used a single claw to pry the heavy board upward. It snapped with a loud crack, revealing a hidden compartment lined with velvet.

Inside, there was no gold. There were no jewels. There was a small, leather-bound book with a silver lock, and a small glass vial containing a single lock of raven-black hair.

As Bruce picked up the vial, his entire arm began to tingle. The lock of hair wasn't just hair; it hummed with the exact same frequency as the Seraph behind him. 

It was a "Soul-Anchor," a piece of a living person used to tether a spirit to this world.

"It’s her hair," Bruce whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek. "She’s alive. I can feel her."

He turned his attention to the diary. The leather was old and stained with something dark—dried blood. He broke the silver lock with a small stone and opened the first page.

The handwriting was elegant, but as the pages went on, it became frantic and messy, as if the writer were running out of time. Bruce began to read, his eyes darting across the words.

“Day 400 of the Vigil,” the diary began. “The Clan Elders grow greedy. They no longer care about the balance. They call themselves Iron-Hearts, but they have forgotten that our strength comes from the Cinders, not from the sword. Hestia looks at me with eyes like a wolf. She wants the Seal. She doesn't understand that the Seal isn't a weapon it’s a prison for the Ashen Seraph. If the Seal is broken by a heart full of hate, the world will burn.”

Bruce’s breath hitched. He flipped through the pages, skipping ahead to the final entry.

“They are coming for me tonight. Hestia, Margaret, and the others. They think I am weak because I refuse to use the Seraph to conquer the neighboring lands. They don't know I have hidden the Key in the soul of my child. Bruce, my sweet boy, if you are reading this, know that I did not leave you. They are going to use me. They need my blood to keep the Seal from killing them while they siphon its power. They will call me a traitor to hide their own theft. Do not trust the light, Bruce. The light is where they hide their lies. Seek the ashes...”

The diary ended in a long smear of blood.

Bruce felt a wave of nausea hit him. It was all a lie. His entire life was a lie. His mother wasn't a traitor who ran away. She was a guardian who had been betrayed by her own family. They had imprisoned her in the catacombs, using her as a biological battery to power the clan’s prosperity while they branded her son as a disgrace to keep him from asking questions.

"They used her," Bruce whispered, his voice shaking with a rage so cold it felt like ice in his veins. "They spent nineteen years calling her a whore and a traitor while they fed off her life."

The Ashen Seraph leaned over him, its skeletal mask reflecting the moonlight. “Now you know, Master. You were not born of shame. You were born of a sacrifice. The Iron-Hearts are not a clan. They are parasites.”

Bruce gripped the diary so hard the leather groaned. "They’re going to pay. Every single one of them. Hestia, the Elders... everyone who laughed while I knelt in the mud."

"A very touching sentiment," a voice whispered from the darkness of the corner.

Bruce froze. He hadn't heard the door open. He hadn't felt a shift in the air.

The Ashen Seraph immediately spun around, its smoke-blade flashing into existence. It let out a low, vibrating hiss that shook the floorboards.

From the deepest shadow in the corner of the room, a man stepped forward. He was dressed in a suit of black leather that seemed to absorb the moonlight. 

His face was covered by a mask of dark cloth, leaving only two cold, obsidian eyes visible. He carried no sword, but a dozen thin, silver wires danced between his fingers like spiders' silk.

Bruce recognized him instantly. Even though he had only seen him from a distance, the man’s presence was unmistakable.

It was Mike, the Clan’s Head Assassin. The man known as "The Ghost of the Iron-Heart." 

Nineteen years ago, the Clan had told everyone that Mike was the one who had escorted Victoria Thompson out of the city gates when she was exiled.

"Mike," Bruce said, standing up. The Seraph stood between them, ready to strike.

"You've grown, Bruce," Mike said. His voice was like dry leaves skittering over a grave. "The last time I saw you, you were a bundle of blankets crying in a basket while your mother's blood was being scrubbed off these very floorboards."

"Where is she?" Bruce demanded. "The diary says she’s in the catacombs. Is she alive?"

Mike tilted his head. He didn't seem afraid of the Forbidden Angel. He looked at the Seraph with a strange kind of professional curiosity. "Alive is a complicated word. She breathes. Her heart beats. But the woman you are looking for is mostly gone, poured into the jars of the Elders to keep their spirits strong."

Mike raised his hands, the silver wires glinting. "I was sent here to finish what we started nineteen years ago. Hestia is quite upset that you escaped the Inquisitors. She wants your head on a spike before the sun rises, to prove to the High Inquisitor that the 'heresy' has been purged."

"Try it," Bruce said, his hand moving toward the hilt of the Blade of Lost Tears.

Mike chuckled, a hollow sound. "Oh, I didn't come here to fight that monster behind you. I'm an assassin, Bruce. I don't fight fair."

Mike flicked his wrist.

Suddenly, Bruce felt a sharp sting in his neck. He reached up and pulled out a tiny, silver needle.

"The Seraph is strong," Mike said, stepping back into the shadows. "But its power is tied to your heart. And your heart is currently stopping."

Bruce’s vision began to blur. The room started to spin. He felt his legs give way, and he collapsed onto the bed where his mother once slept. 

The Ashen Seraph let out a roar of fury and lunged at Mike, but the assassin simply dissolved into a cloud of literal shadows, appearing on the other side of the room.

"Sleep now, bastard," Mike’s voice echoed. "When you wake up, you'll be back in the plaza. But this time, there won't be any smoke to save you."

Bruce’s eyes drifted shut. The last thing he saw was the Seraph reaching out for him, its skeletal hand glowing with a desperate, ashen fire.