Chapter 11: Holy Fire
There are few things in life that get the blood pumping more than running through ancient catacombs in a silk robe, one hand gripping a jeweled dagger, the other pulling along your divine ex-priestess-turned-femboy lover while explosions echo behind you. It looks like those retributions came sooner than expected. The Solstice Parade had just hit its climax—the part with the fireworks, the drunken clergy, and, apparently, the Cathedral’s emergency kill-switch, complete with a full set of sword wielding priests. How festive.
Moments ago, we had narrowly escaped our rendezvous point atop the south transept tower, only for the backup route to go up in flames. So now we were sprinting full tilt into the underground catacombs—the ancient ossuary beneath the Cathedral itself, our only path out of this sacred deathtrap.
Unless, of course, you count battling a radiant demigod named Albrecht Hollow, with a vengeance complex and cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread.
"Move!" I barked, throwing myself down a winding corridor as the ceiling behind us collapsed in a rain of gold-tiled rubble.
Ash sprinted beside me, curls bouncing, boots stained with holy oil. Marius had the relic tucked under his arm like a sacred rugby ball, face pale with panic. Lysaria clung to me, his lace robes scorched and scandalously tattered. Even in the midst of divine chaos, he still managed to look like a runway model escaping purgatory.
"We’re almost to the vestibule leading into the sewers," Elian shouted from ahead. "But there’s—oh fuck."
I rounded the corner and saw what made him curse.
Standing in the center of the chamber was Hollow himself.
He looked like a statue carved from starlight and holy writ. Long white hair shimmered like moonlight spun through crystal, and his robes billowed with impossible stillness. His eyes were pure white—no pupils, no mercy.
"Thieves," he said, voice echoing like cathedral bells. "Perverts. Blasphemers."
"You forgot stunning," I offered, breathless. "And slightly overdressed."