Among the stack of files, Harlow uncovered one labeled 'Lillian Lionheart.' She was an infamous figure among the older ranks of the pantheon – a remarkably talented and blessed mystic, known for her lethal battle intelligence.
Once an executioner for the Church of Knowledge decades ago, she had defected and gone into exile. Most believed she was long dead, but here she was, her file in Harlow's hands.
What stirred Harlow's concern even more was the realization of how much information had been omitted or remained unknown until the eleventh hour. Today, he vowed to rectify that.
As he approached the main building, it loomed tall against the backdrop of relentless rain and ominous clouds. In the days of old, it had served as a mental asylum. The church, in an ostensible act of charity to the public, acquired the compound along with its staff and patients.
However, beneath the façade of benevolence, the facility concealed the darkest experiments orchestrated by the Church of Death. The air of secrecy and foreboding history clung to the imposing structure, setting the stage for Harlow's determined mission to unveil the concealed truths.
Harlow had one purpose. The dungeons. A few members of the resistance had been rounded up from Westbrook; he had to get his hands on them before the bureaucracy of the church took over. This was personal at this point, his competence had been put to question.
As he walked into the building, he nodded to the guard by the metal doors and adjusted his cuffs as they hissed open for him. Moving through several levels of security, the memories hit him. Harlow had spent a lot of his formative years here. His particular twisted skillset proved more valuable here than anywhere else. Now in the field, he had to hold back.
The muffled screams of agony began to seep through the walls the deeper he got. It was like divine hymns to his ears. He felt at home.
The stench of burnt flesh and fear hung heavily in the interrogation chamber, acrid and cloying against Harlow's throat. On the crude metal table, a young woman writhed, her screams raw and desperate as the red-hot branding iron sizzled against her skin. Her name was Wren, a sparrow caught in the bishop's iron talons, a mere cog in the vast, rebellious machine called the resistance.
Harlow watched as the masked members of the pantheon continued to pierce her skin with hot rods, a beautiful sizzling sound gracing his ears as it burnt her flesh on impact. He would give these amateurs a few minutes. Looking at her wounds, he knew that if she hadn't talked by now, she was trained and would need a more steady hand—his hands. It excited his twisted psyche.
Harlow circled her like a wolf pacing its prey, his every step weighted with the oppressive silence between tortured screams. He wasn't a sadist, not by nature, but this wasn't a simple interrogation. It was a baptism by fire, a desperate attempt to claw information from the heart of the resistance before it burst into bloody rebellion.
They had already shown their hand; the show at the train station was an act of war. The church wouldn't let it slide; someone had to pay, and Wren was just the first of many to pay.
A few moments passed, and all Wren did was scream, never answering the questions that the masked men screamed at her. From the corner of her eye, she saw a man standing in the corner, with no mask on and eerily calm. Her thoughts were interrupted by multiple jolts of pain as the men continued.
Harlow raised one hand, signaling to the others to leave. With zero hesitation, the other masked men left the chamber, giving Wren a moment to whimper in relief, grateful for the momentary pause.
Even though Harlow's demeanor didn't give her much hope, she bit her lip defiantly, making a stand in her head to keep her vow no matter what. Her mission was more important, and the fact that the pantheon had not executed her yet only signaled to her that they were scared or at least embarrassed that Lilly and the boys had escaped.
A smile made its way to her face as she thought of her fallen comrades, like Anya and Nikolai, whose deaths now served a purpose. 'Mine would too,' she thought to herself.
"Is that a smile I see?" Harlow started to say abruptly as he circled the table. "Hmm, somehow you believe you're meaningful because of all this."
Wren's eyes widened as Harlow got closer, and she could actually see his face garnished with scars. What surprised her even more was how he knew what she was thinking. 'Probably an artifact,' she thought as she fortified her mind by closing her eyes.
"You all do this, close your eyes; it always intrigued me. I guess windows are the eyes to the soul, but what is the logic in that, Wren?" His voice echoed in the metal chamber, sending chills down the entirety of Wren's body.
"Where are they, Wren?"
Silence.
The way he said her name terrified her. None of her other torturers had called her by name, just a multitude of slurs. Nothing about this made sense; nothing about this was in her training.
She felt herself sinking deeper into a state of utter despair and hopelessness. All her hope was gone; she just wanted to get away from this man.
"Tell me about Matthew and Theodore. Their whereabouts, their plans, everything you know," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.
"I don't know," Wren answered almost on instinct.
She didn't want to find out what Harlow would do to her if she lied. She was truly terrified. And this was true; she knew nothing about the whereabouts of Lilly or the boys everyone claimed would liberate them.
Harlow asked a few more questions, always met with 'I do not know.' Harlow slammed his fist against the table, the metal jarring and the heat of it radiating through his veins.
"Lies! You're playing games, bird. Games you can't afford to lose." He gestured to the guard beside him, a hulking brute named Bonefist with a grin as cruel as a chipped blade.
Bonefist hefted a spiked maul, its iron teeth glinting under the flickering gaslight. Wren whimpered, her eyes pleading, but Harlow pressed on.
"One more chance, Wren. Speak, and perhaps your suffering will end swiftly. Refuse, and trust me, Bonefist has ways of making birds sing even the most discordant tunes."
The maul swung in a slow, menacing arc, casting grotesque shadows on the grimy walls. Wren flinched, tears blurring her soot-streaked face. A part of her was screaming at her to survive, and another, urging her to end it all.
Then, in a choked whisper, she spoke.
Wren's voice trembled, her words barely audible over the oppressive ambiance of the chamber. "I... I truly don't know where they are. Lilly never disclosed their destination to me, I am no one in the ranks of the Resistance. She kept their movements secretive, even from her closest allies."
Harlow scrutinized Wren, searching for any sign of deceit. The room remained silent for a moment, the only sound being the distant echoes of the rain against the metallic exterior of the building.
"You're either an exceptionally resilient liar or a pawn in a grander scheme," Harlow mused, circling her once more. His eyes, intense and probing, bore into Wren's, seeking the truth. "If you're not lying, you're of no use to me." He gestured to Bonefist, whose sadistic grin widened."Bring in the next one."
"Wait!" Wren pleaded, her eyes desperate. "Even if I can't provide information on Lilly and the boys, I have valuable intelligence about the Resistance's plans. I can help you, but I need to live for that."
Harlow paused, considering her words. "Continue, but tread carefully. Your life hangs in the balance, and I have no patience for mundane games, waste my time and well … you will find out."
Wren took a shaky breath, recounting fragments of information she had gathered during her time with the Resistance.
She spoke of hidden safe houses, planned gatherings, and potential allies. Harlow listened attentively, occasionally prompting her for more details. Bonefist, still wielding the spiked maul, maintained a menacing presence.
As Wren divulged her knowledge, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was dancing on a tightrope suspended over an abyss. Harlow's scrutiny remained unrelenting, and every word she uttered could tip the scales between life and death.
Meanwhile, outside the chamber, the rain intensified, adding a percussive rhythm to the air. The metallic clang of Bonefist's maul against the cold floor echoed in the confined space, emphasizing the gravity of the situation.
Harlow, absorbing the information, finally nodded in acknowledgment. "Your cooperation might save your life, Wren. However, remember this precarious alliance; it can be severed as swiftly as a guillotine's blade the moment you become useless."
As Bonefist lowered the maul, Wren sighed in relief, feeling the weight of imminent doom momentarily lifted. Harlow turned to leave the chamber, leaving Wren alone in the dimly lit room.
As the heavy metal door closed behind him, Harlow pondered the newfound intelligence.
The Resistance's plans unveiled, though partially, provided a valuable advantage. Yet, questions lingered about Lilly and the boys' whereabouts, and their importance to the Resistance, leaving a frustrating gap in the puzzle.
Even the people who were guarding them didn't know why they were doing so, only taking orders from above.
This was a great start, he had a string to pull that he was convinced would lead him directly or indirectly to the heart of his prey.
In the corridors of the church's facility, Harlow navigated the labyrinthine passages with purpose. His thoughts churned with conflicting emotions — the anticipation of victory and the gnawing uncertainty about the elusive figures he pursued.
Back in the chamber, Wren remained restrained, the echoes of Harlow's footsteps fading into the distance. She contemplated the thin line she walked, balancing on the edge of survival. Her commitment to the Resistance clashed with the necessity of self-preservation and the subtle itch for revenge.
As the rain outside continued its relentless assault, each drop seemed to carry the weight of unspoken truths and impending conflicts. The fate of Wren and the unfolding events within the church's walls intertwined, setting the stage for a complex swirl of allegiances and betrayals.
The chamber's oppressive atmosphere enveloped Wren once more, her mind racing with the intricacies of the dark game she had become an unwitting participant.
The walls, witness to countless stories of suffering, seemed to close in, amplifying the isolation of her predicament.
Unknown to both Wren and Harlow, the storm outside mirrored the turbulent journey that awaited them. The battle lines were drawn, destinies intertwined, as the Church of Chaos had begun a crusade that would reveal more to the world.