The silence was shattered by a sharp crack as the crystal rod snapped in two. The seventh finger held it in his right hand as its emerald light chased away the darkness. The air reeked of iron and death, the smell chasing away the sewer's putrid odour.

Crouched with his back against the sewer wall, Seven listlessly peered at the carnage before him. Eleven corpses lay scattered about, fellow fingers of the Hand of Providence.

Six were mangled, missing limbs and other body parts, while one, number Twenty-Eight, had been torn in two. Dead at the Breaker's hand. Number Seven had killed the other five. It wasn't his first time snuffing his own, and it wouldn't be his last.

Romulus lay in ruins a few feet away. Ichor poured out of his eyes, nose, and mouth as he gasped for air. His right leg was gone, Fifteen's work, and fresh blood mingled with old scars. Still, the most damning injury was the one to his chest, now devoid of a heart. It was a self-inflicted wound, a final act of resistance, a step taken in spite.

How had things gone so wrong?

Number Seven did not understand. Romulus should not have been able to stand, let alone fight, while afflicted by Peacemaker. It was among the most insidious of Providence's poisons.

It stilled the blood, weakened the bones and ate away at the flesh. The poison could fell the lineage of a god, afflicting even the children of Helios. It had been administered through the smoke screen used to hide the Breaker's escape, a dagger hidden in the dark.

"W-why?" the finger croaked, his voice broken by disuse.

The Breaker wheezed a mocking laugh. "I…should be asking that question," he said.

The Breaker already knew why he had to die. Everyone did.

"You should've taken my head." Seven rasped, pressing against the gash the Breaker had carved out with his bare hands. The wound ran across the finger's abdomen. But he had survived worse.

It was a reminder that although the blessing of Aegis flowed through his veins, Number Seven was far from invulnerable.

"Now...where would be the fun in that?" Romulus spat out.

"Damn you," the finger rasped, his tone listless. "You've killed me twice over." There was no anger in his words.

"I thought you were already dead." The Breaker laughed, coughing up blood.

"I thought so, too." Seven said, looking up.

Was it when he was six, left to rot at the bottom of the iron pit with nearly every bone in his body broken?

Was it when he was eight, and his voice was taken for the first time? They had burnt him from the inside out.

Or was it when he was ten and had the faceless mask seared onto his flesh? The final rite on the path to joining the Hand of Providence.

A moment passed between the two.

"You're kind cannot speak." The Breaker garbled, the statement a matter of fact.

"We can't." Number Seven acknowledged, his attention taken by memories of burning ash clawing down his throat and raging embers biting his tongue. The procedure was a near-daily occurrence now.

But, the alternative was worse, though he wasn't sure how much he had managed to hide from Providence.

"You're a strange one." Romulus eeked out. "I wish I could have heard your story."

Seven remained silent.

"I-I don't know if I lived a good life," Romulus said. "But, I think I lived a life worth living."

"I guess...I'll be going first." He rasped smiling, and with that, the King of Scorched Earth took his last breath.

***

To the seventh finger, death was a familiar stranger. No matter how often he faced it, its weight never sunk in. As he sat, slumped in the muck among the lifeless bodies, none friend or foe, he felt empty.

But he could not stop, or all his suffering would have been for nothing. So, after a moment, he stood, clutching his bleeding wound. As he stumbled through the sewer tunnels, he racked his brain for a way out of this mess, clawing at the makings of a plan. The idea was ridiculous. It would be hard but not impossible.

He was out of the sewers ten minutes later, and his choice was made.

There was always a stark disconnect, stepping from darkness into light. It was too bright and revealing, but the finger's blood pulsed with the sun's warmth. Leaving the shadows was as unnerving as it was liberating.

Fortunately, the sun's influence on the dingy alley into which the finger had stepped was small, allowing him to quickly adjust. While past its zenith, it was still high in the sky.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

A few moments later, the gash across Seven's abdomen closed. With a purpose, he stalked through the winding streets, ignoring the pests and vagrants, their gazes clouded, that called the back alleys home.

First things first, he needed a new face. At this point, changing faces was a near addiction. For specters that danced in the dark, anonymity was life, and the mask provided it in spades. Seven knew neither how it was made nor by whom. But he suspected, as with the Bloodbanes, that it was tied to the Blood Forgers.

The face he currently wore had been taken from the corpse of a boy around two years younger. Right now, simply blending in was not enough. He needed people to turn their attention away. Which was why he picked the slums as his hunting ground.

Carefully, he stepped past the first wooden door he found ajar, his victim chosen by fate. As he entered the room, he was assaulted by a rancid odor, a blend of liquor vomit and who knew what else. He closed the door behind him, cutting off most of the light. Though the sun did creep in through gaps in the rotting wood of the ceiling.

A cracked table in the corner to his right occupied most of the space, while much of the wall was covered in mold. Across the table, to his left, was a curtain of rags that led into another room.

As Seven made for the second chamber, he paused at the sound of gentle breathing. Turning back, he examined the table for a moment before crouching. He met a pair of dull blue eyes. The child couldn't have been more than nine, and he couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. The face was too young for him to pull off.

Clothed in rags, the child sat crouched, hugging its knees, its gaze empty. Welts and bruises peppered its arms and legs. It did not flinch as it stared at the finger. Seven stood, turning back to face the curtains. Carefully, he stepped through into the other room. It was smaller than the one he had just left.

It was a bit darker here, but the light from the leaking roof was still enough. Bottles and jars littered the floor. The acidic scent of mingling vomit, alcohol and urine was overwhelming. At the center of the room was a pile of rotting cloth fashioned into a makeshift bed.

The room's only occupant lay sprawled on the fabric, snoring loudly. The rake-thin man, covered in sweat and filth, clutched a bottle in his right hand. His face was gaunt and hollow, while whisps of matted hair clung to his balding head.

Something about taking the face of a person still alive always made Seven uncomfortable. But beggars can't be choosers. Without hesitation, he stepped forward. Once close enough, he reached out, grabbed the man's stringy hair and pressed their foreheads against each other.

The mask grew warm and began to bubble, with droplets of blackened iron dripping onto his target's flesh. The victim opened bloodshot eyes and began to scream, but no sound came out.

The two faces were connected by liquid threads. The mask had grown scaldingly hot, and the man had begun to thrash, desperate to rid himself of the mounting pain.

There was a low hiss. At the cue, Seven pulled back, and the iron mask came away with newfound flesh. The finger wore a new face while its previous owner lay squirming on the floor, still alive but better off dead.

Seven drew his second sword. The one used for more mundane ends. It was quick and easy, likely a better death than the man deserved. Crimson blood rolled off the silver as the finger sheathed his blade.

He picked up a half-empty bottle of wine and a few clothes from the filthy pile. Turning, he found the child standing behind him a few feet away, gaze locked on the faceless corpse.

Should he kill it? That was the safest option.

Seven considered the crimson pool at his feet. He'd stolen a life from the child, so he would give one in return. It was not a kindness, merely a balancing of the scales. The child's gaze did not shift from the dead body as the finger walked past. Neither turned to look back.

At the door, Seven paused, taking time to layer the stolen rags on top of his cloak. He donned a mask of drunken haze over his new face and staggered out, stumbling through the alley to his next destination.

The reason Providence and like-minded parties had such a vested interest in the Breaker's death hadn't been because he was a rebel. Their desire to see his demise stemmed solely from greed. They wanted his breath.

Some said they were the final sighs of a fallen god. Some claimed they were the captive whispers of time. Breaths were power incarnate and the cause of countless wars. But, to Seven, it was a burden. One he now had no choice but to carry.

The Breaker, in his madness, had torn out his own heart. In his dying blaze, the King of Scorched Earth had outshone the sun, and the fingers had been rendered helpless.

The man had dug the breath out of his heart and shoved it down Seven's throat, and he had been powerless to stop it. The worst part was that he still couldn't understand why.

Breaths could only be taken from their hosts in death. He was one of the ten singularities. But, Seven didn't think himself worth more than a breath in Providence's eyes.

The only way out of this situation was death. So, he would have to die. Again.

But, to do that, he needed help. Few could contend with Providence, but even gods had enemies. And those foes had eyes scattered across the city.

There was a marked difference as Seven made his way out of the slums back to the city proper. The buildings rose higher and grew proud. Once again, he was on streets swept and paved. He took a breath, savoring the rush of clear, crisp air.

As expected, those he met along the way did their best to evade the drunken beggar stumbling towards them, with their noses wrinkled and their eyes averted. Sometimes, the best way to hide was not to hide at all. People would not see what they did not want to see.

The air was tense. Guards roamed every corner. There was muted chatter as people went about their daily lives with hurried steps and fearful eyes. Stalls lay abandoned, and streets nearly deserted. An oddity for a city that thrived on trade.

By now, nearly all exits out of the city would be covered by one faction or another. Not even the sewers would be safe from inspection. And after they found the corpses...

The clock was ticking.

Eyes rolled off him. His disguise was good. But, the finger did not believe all would be fooled. He needed a new face to get to where he needed to go.

So, a tramp covered in rancid rags stepped into the gap between two buildings, and ten minutes later, a young man decked in white linen, a tunic of blue wool, and a cloak of brown leather stepped out.

His latest victim had been a budding merchant. He had started selling grain but had recently branched out, trading liquor, silk and slaves.

Briskly, Seven walked along, his expression mirroring those of passing civilians. He arrived at his destination five minutes later.

No one knew the Breaker was dead, and no one knew he had the breath. Yet. Controlling how that information was spread would be critical.

Seven pushed open the shop's wooden doors to the sound of a tinkling bell. Stepping inside, he was greeted by the smell of parchment, ink, and leather. He looked around and saw shelves upon shelves of books stacked neatly.

Some were bound in cloth, others in cases of wood. There weren't many customers at the moment. Confidently, he headed for the counter.

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?" said the cashier, a plain-looking young man with a neat head of pale blond hair.

"I'd like three rolls of parchment. Two plain and one of Venician leather. Also, get me three wells of ink from Arbridge." Seven said, his voice still hoarse.

The cashier moved quickly, packaging the requested items. It cost him a total of thirty-eight coppers. Seven visited three more bookshops after that. He varied the type and quantity of items he purchased each time. Once satisfied with his haul, it was time to take action.

Ten minutes and three break-ins later, Seven had found himself a quiet place to write. The room was modest but neat. The fireplace in the corner was dark and empty. While a cream-coloured rug covered the wooden floors.

Seven took a seat at a table beside the window. There was a half-eaten loaf and a jug of water on it. The finger did not dally, as the apartment's owner could return anytime.

He penned twelve letters, changing his handwriting for each one. Once sent out, it was only a matter of time before they were 'intercepted'. There would be suspicion, but like moths to the flame, his targets would not be able to resist.

He left the first letter under the pillow of a tavern wench. The second was placed at the bottom of a basket of bread one of the local bakers never managed to sell. The third, he slid between the pages of a book. The Weeping Willow.

The fourth letter was left under the bench of the fourth confessional in the local branch of the Illuminarian Church. The fifth was left at the altar in the temple of Avantgarde. The sixth letter was addressed to Lysander himself.

The rest? They were sent to a maid and a noble, a fisherman and a carpenter, a merchant and a thief. With that taken care of, it was time to meet the others.

Two cells had been assigned to this operation. The team led by Seven had taken the neater approach. There was speculation regarding their chances of success.

That was why, if all else failed, the task would be handed over to team two. There was no doubt Number Six could handle the other nightmares mixed up in this mess. It was time to meet the mother of monsters.