Shadowhunter in the Apocalypse

The plaza overflowed with people, their chants rolling like waves against the marble steps. Miriam stood at the center of it all, draped in white and gold, hands raised as if the heavens themselves bent to listen.

"My children," she called, her voice carrying with ease. "You are seen. Every prayer, every offering, every tear shed in secret — none of it is wasted. Heaven gathers them like drops of rain, and in return, it waters the earth with grace."

The crowd erupted, some crying, some bowing. To them, she was a prophetess, a living vessel of God's will. None of them could see the truth — the halo burning above her head, the glowing runes etched across her skin. Those were hidden, veiled from mortal eyes.

She smiled and continued, weaving her words like a net. They came to her broken, hungry, hopeless. She gave them meaning, gave them direction. And in return, they gave her faith — the very fuel that powered the Apostles.

When the sermon ended, people rushed to press offerings forward: bread, coins, flowers, even letters scrawled on scraps of paper. She blessed each with a touch, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

The Apostles' guards closed around her, escorting her through the adoring throng and into the quiet of the temple's inner halls.

She walked with perfect poise, but her heart was restless. She thought of the message. That cursed picture of her son asleep, sent from an unmarked number. She thought of the voice on the other end of the call — calm, casual, terrifying in its indifference. Delay the ritual.

Delay? How? The ritual was not hers alone. The gathered faith would surge tonight. And if she faltered, the others would intervene, pouring their own strength into the circle. She had an hour window at most.

Still, what choice did she have? Her child was worth more than doctrine.

The guards bowed her into the Holy Room. Miriam nodded, dismissed them, and closed the doors. Alone at last, her mask slipped.

She placed a hand over her chest where the runes pulsed faintly. Her halo flickered. The time was near.

And she whispered into the empty chamber, "Heaven forgive me. For tonight, I must bend."

Miriam's hand lingered over the altar stone, trembling despite the steady glow of her halo. She whispered again, softer this time, as though ashamed of herself, "Forgive me. For Aaron."

Reed crouched on the rooftop, shadowed by a row of stone gargoyles. From here, the temple grounds stretched like a fortress of faith — too many guards, too much light.

Jasmine lay prone beside him, tablet balanced on her forearm, cables trailing like veins from her pack. The blue glow painted her face sharp.

"They rotated shifts early," she murmured. "I can loop the cameras, but not forever. Ten minutes max."

Reed smirked. "That's nine more than I need."

Jasmine shot him a look. "Don't get cocky. This place is a vault, not some nightclub full of drunk warlocks."

"Relax," he said lazily, eyes fixed on the spires below. "We're not here to fight angels. Just to borrow one hunter."

"Borrow," she repeated with a scoff. "You mean pry Webb out of the Apostles' personal dungeon without sparking a holy war."

Reed didn't answer. He adjusted the strap of his shadow suit, gaze already mapping paths between patches of darkness on the temple grounds.

Jasmine sighed, tapping the screen until the feeds blinked and froze. "Alright, you've got your window. Try not to die. HQ's not paying me enough to drag your corpse out of angel territory."

Reed rose, the gargoyles swallowing him back into the dark. "Don't worry. They won't even know I was here."

Reed crouched low behind the parapet, eyes scanning the temple's outer court. Apostles built nothing half-hearted. The entire place pulsed with discipline — lanterns strung in precise lines, guards moving in rehearsed rotations, rune-etched walls humming faintly with borrowed angelic power.

Jasmine's tablet hummed in her lap, wires tangled around her wrist like a second skeleton. She worked without wasted movement, eyes darting from one feed to another.

"South quadrant cameras are mine," she whispered. "They'll keep looping until I pull them back. Don't ask how — just know you owe me."

Reed only grunted, gaze sliding from one patch of shadow to the next. His mind worked faster than his body, already charting which routes would swallow him whole.

"How long?" he asked.

"Eleven minutes before the loop desyncs."

He smirked. "That's generous."

She didn't look up. "It's not generous. It's math. The moment it drifts, they'll know someone tampered."

Reed adjusted the strap across his chest, the shadow-suit molding like a second skin. "Then let's not drift."

Jasmine zoomed in on a sector closer to the prison wing. "Two guards at the lower stairwell, three more near the sanctum gate. The rest cycle wide. Take one wrong turn and you'll end up in front of an Apostle instead of Webb."

"Noted." His tone was lazy, but his eyes tracked the movements, storing them with the precision of someone who couldn't afford mistakes.

Jasmine leaned closer, her voice flat. "Remember — you're not here to make a statement. No theatrics, no killing unless you're cornered. In and out."

Reed's expression didn't shift. "I'll be a shadow."

"Good." She exhaled sharply, pulling her hands back. "I'll guide as far as the signal holds. After that, you're on your own."

Reed slipped over the edge without another word. The descent was silent — no rope, no scrape, just his body melting into the darker angles of the wall. Jasmine watched the monitor as his form flickered in and out of blind spots.

Her voice murmured in his earpiece: "Step left… wait… guard turning. Okay, go."

He followed without hesitation, flowing from one pool of darkness to the next. When two guards paused mid-conversation, Reed flattened against the wall, so still even the moonlight refused to outline him. Seconds stretched. Then he was gone again, sliding past before their laughter carried.

"Lower stairwell," Jasmine breathed. "Two men. Shift change in thirty seconds. Don't waste it."

Reed crouched above the entrance, watching the pair shuffle. When they turned to swap posts, their shadows crossed. He stepped into one and out through the other, already behind them. Neither man noticed the faint ripple that brushed their heels.

Jasmine's voice clicked low. "Nice trick."

"Not a trick," he muttered. "Practice."

He slipped down the stairwell, past wards etched deep into the stone. They shimmered faintly, the residue of angelic reinforcement. Reed didn't touch them — his shadows skirted close, never brushing, never breaking the delicate boundary.

Jasmine tracked his progress with a muttered stream: "Two corridors down, then left. Guard sitting at the door. Don't try to bluff him — just bypass."

Reed pressed himself into the wall where the torchlight failed. The guard leaned lazy in his chair, half-bored, half-alert. One blink later, his shadow stretched, thickened, and Reed slid across the wall like oil. By the time the guard scratched his neck, the hunter was already inside.

The underground air was heavier, muffled, the kind of silence built for prisons. Reed's steps carried him past rows of empty cells, until he stopped at the reinforced gate at the far end.

Jasmine's tone sharpened: "That's it. They built this one for something stronger than your average warlock. You're in the right place."

Reed exhaled once, low and steady. "And she's still alive."

"Better be," Jasmine muttered. "Otherwise this whole game ends before it starts."

The gate loomed ahead, etched in lines that pulsed faintly with angelic light. Reed let his hands fall into the shadow pooling below it, shaping the dark like clay. The lock clicked once, twice — then sighed open with a whisper that only he could have pulled.

Inside, he saw her. Webb — Ava — chained but upright, eyes half-shut, body lean but steady. Not broken. Waiting.

Reed stepped forward, shadows curling tight around him like loyal dogs.

Webb's head lifted the moment the door opened. Her eyes, hazy at first, focused on the silhouette framed by shadow. Recognition hit, sharp as a blade.

"Took you long enough." Her voice was dry, but steady.

Reed stepped inside, letting the door seal behind him. "You look comfortable."

"Chains are flattering. Very slimming." She tugged against the manacles, the sound grating against stone. "Get me out before they come back with their holy water routine."

Reed knelt, shadows snaking from his hands to the locks. The runes hissed as if insulted, but the dark seeped in anyway, splitting metal apart soundlessly.

Ava flexed her wrists the second they dropped, rolling out the stiffness. "Still smooth. Haven't lost your touch."

"Didn't come here for compliments," Reed muttered, moving to her ankles.

"Of course not." She leaned down, lowering her voice. "What's the play? Because you don't just stroll into an Apostle vault unless you've already got an exit plan."

Reed didn't answer right away. The final chain clattered softly against the floor. He straightened, scanning the cell once more, then pressed two fingers against his comm.

"Package recovered," he said.

Jasmine's voice crackled through, tired but sharp: "Good. Now move. I've got you a three-minute gap before the next guard loop. Basement stairs will close fast."

Ava arched a brow. "You brought her?"

Reed ignored the jab. "Stay close. No noise. Shadows will cover us, but only if you move like one."

She smirked faintly. "Always the poet."