The Seraph Lord

Why punish all for one?

Why silence? Why darkness?

What does the Gate want?

But I already knew the answer.

Not strength.

Not obedience.

Not even faith.

Unity.

The word beat in my skull like a second pulse. A law deeper than scripture. If one of us fell out of rhythm, we all starved. If one failed the march, we all wore the weight. The Gate didn't want soldiers. It wanted a single body. One breath. One will.

I closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, he was there.

The Figure in White.

He did not emerge. He was simply standing — as if he'd always been in the corner, half-hidden behind the column of machinery, untouched by smoke or heat.

White robes, still and silent. No soot on the hem. No sweat on the brow. No face — not clearly — just presence. A vertical shape in a world collapsing sideways.

He stood apart from the others. Apart from everything.

In the dark, he was the only thing that didn't blur.

I didn't speak aloud. I don't think I needed to.

"What does it mean to break the line?" I asked him — or thought I did.

He didn't move.

The others swayed, coughed, muttered. Leo leaned into the wall. Jacob stood rigid. Farid was trembling now, mouthing psalms that didn't match the beat. But the man in white never moved.

"Is this what God wants?"

Still no answer.

But his head turned — slightly — toward Tomas.

Tomas, with his hand curled to his chest, his face pale and glistening.

Then to Nicco, still mumbling to someone who wasn't there.

Then finally, to me.

I felt it. That gaze. Or whatever lived behind it.

"You could speak," I thought. "You could tell me why."

And maybe he did.

Because as I stared at him, the smoke behind him shifted — just a little — and I saw what I hadn't seen before:

The shape of a cross. Not carved. Not painted. Formed by absence.

Darkness shaped around it.

A void, cruciform.

And beyond it, the sea.

Even in the dark, I could see it.

And I understood.

Not unity for its own sake.

But unity as sacrifice.

That's what the Gate wanted.

That's what it was built on.

Not stone.

 Not brass.

Not liturgy.

But obedience through pain, brotherhood through starvation, and faith through fear.

I looked down the line.

Six of us.

We hadn't spoken in hours.

We hadn't eaten.

We had nothing left to give.

And still we stood.

Not because we were strong.

But because none of us dared to be the one who made the others fall.

The lights came back one by one.

Not all at once — not clean.

The first guttered like a dying candle, flaring sickly yellow before catching steady. The second hissed as it lit, smoke wafting from the pipe above. Then the third. The fourth. Until the room glowed again with that harsh, incense-colored light.

We didn't move.

None of us breathed deep enough to cough. 

Our limbs were crumpled, stiff, locked from hours against cold stone and steam-metal walls.

Then came the priest.

He stepped through the smoke without a word, robes unwrinkled, silver-tipped cane echoing sharp across the floor. His face hadn't changed. No cruelty. No pity. Just duty.

Behind him, acolytes walked single file, heads bowed.

One held the book.

One carried a censer.

One — a bell.

The priest did not look at us as he passed.

He turned at the far end, faced the line of pistons, and waited.

A hiss of air.

A thud.

The machines shuddered to life again.

The rhythm began.

Boom.

Clank.

Boom.

Clank.

He opened the book.

The censer swung.

The acolyte rang the bell.

Then the priest spoke:

"Saint Enoch of the Cracked Skull."

Step.

We moved.

"Saint Enoch of the Cracked Skull."

Step.

The bones in my ankles cried out, but I didn't fall.

No one did.

Saint Theodora of the Nine Hungers.

Step.

It was like waking up inside your own corpse. We moved not because we could — but because we must. There was no will left. Only momentum.

The march began again.

The floor's tremble returned, deep and patient as before. The pistons above us pumped like iron lungs — breathing steam, breathing fire, breathing time.

Saint Aldric the Thorn-Blooded.

Step.

We didn't whisper anymore.

No muttered psalms.

No broken jokes from Nicco.

No counting from Jacob.

Even Leo had stopped making the sign of the cross.

Saint Brigid of the Bent Neck.

Step.

Our boots dragged, scraped, slid forward just enough to keep pace. Muscles moved on memory, not command. My shoulders slumped forward. My chin sagged into my chest. My vision narrowed like a tunnel.

I couldn't feel my arms. Just the ache where they had once lived.

Saint Gerasimos of the Swallowed Nail.Step.

The beat was a prison.

The bell struck like a hammer on hollow bone, echoing off the pipes above. The censer poured out bitter, sour smoke — it clung to our lungs like guilt. I could taste it in my teeth.

Saint Aurelius the Burnt-Eyed.

Step.

Tomas limped. He didn't hide it now. His wrapped hand hung useless. He moved like a man shot through the ribs.

But he moved.

Farid's eyes were closed, his mouth locked in silent repetition — words of comfort, maybe, or apology.

Nicco had tears running down his cheeks, but not from crying. His face didn't move. They just… leaked out.

Saint Cyprian of the Fifth Gospel.

Step.

The machines got louder. Or maybe we were quieter. Either way, it felt like walking through the belly of some old metal god — alive only because we fed it hours and heat and blood.

I thought of Zeke.

What he'd say if he saw me like this.

What Mom would say.

If I told her I wasn't afraid to die — only afraid to be the reason the others did.

Saint Veronica of the Empty Font.

Step.

The rhythm pulled us like tide. We were less than men now. Less than boys. Just parts in a body not our own.

A body the Gate had built.

Of silence.

Of punishment.

Of holy rhythm.

Saint Basil of the Salted Road.

Step.

My legs folded once — I caught myself on Leo's arm. He didn't speak. Didn't nod. Just held me up for two steps, then let go.

Saint Amos of the Headless Vigil.

Step.

The priest did not tire. He turned the page without haste. His voice never broke. Acolytes flanked him like shadows.

And the march stretched on.

Minutes bled into hours. Time split apart like rusted seams.

Saint Moriah of the Scalding Cradle.

Step.

I was no longer myself.

I was the line.

I was the failure it feared.

And so I endured.

Because if I broke, the others suffered.

And if the line broke, the Gate would punish us all.

We passed them.

The last saint's name fell like ash.

No one marked it.

The bell didn't ring again.

The priest closed his book and walked away.

We didn't stop marching until the machines did — not when the acolytes vanished, not when the pistons slowed, not even when the hiss of the steam died down like a beast losing breath.

Only when the rhythm ceased did we fall still.

And even then, none of us moved.

Not for a long time.

Our feet held the posture of forward, even as our bodies curled inward — knees bent, shoulders sloped.

I tried to count my steps, but the numbers weren't mine anymore. They belonged to the Gate.

We were ushered back through the corridor by a different priest. He didn't speak either. Just pointed once, and walked ahead with his back to us — robes darkened by incense smoke.

The world outside the machine hall was no quieter. Stone groaned. Chains dragged. Pipes leaked. But none of it mattered. The sound that lived in my ears now was the rhythm.

Boom.

Clank.

Boom.

Clank.

It followed us like a wound.

We were given a basin of water.

Not clean. Not warm. But water.

No one drank first. We passed it like it was a thing to be feared — or maybe blessed. Leo took two sips, then handed it on. Jacob drank with his eyes closed. Nicco didn't drink at all.

There was a tray of food, too — cold barley mash, half-spoiled bread.

Tomas didn't touch it.

Farid muttered a psalm, then ate in silence.

I ate because I needed to, not because I could.

No one looked anyone in the eye.

We sat shoulder to shoulder, backs to the wall, boots off.

Our socks were soaked through. Our hands shook even when resting. The bones in my knees felt hollow — like the marrow had been wrung out during the march.

No one cried.

But not because we were strong.

It was because even grief takes energy.

And we had none left.

It was Nicco who spoke first.

Very quietly, almost too soft to hear.

"That was just one day."

No one answered.

Then Jacob, after a long silence.

"One body."

Tomas laughed — a sharp, broken thing. Not real laughter.

Just breath trying to escape the wrong way.

Leo leaned his head back against the wall and said nothing.

Farid pulled his knees to his chest and began mouthing the Names again.

I kept my eyes on the far torch, where the light didn't quite reach the corner.

Where shadows clung like soot.

And for a moment, I swore I saw him.

The Figure.

White robes. Still and waiting.

But when I blinked, he was gone.