THE UNBROKEN

The Holy See never knew what hit them.

Dawn had just begun to crawl across the towers of Puerto Cuidad when the wind shifted. Birds rose in alarm. Bells rang out across the plaza-

first for morning prayer, then in panic.

But by then, it was too late.

High above the cathedral spires, cloaked in clouds, Elena rose into the storm. Her arms outstretched, her fingers alight with crackling mana. Rain slicked her armor. Lightning danced between her palms. The Blade of Boinayel, forged in prayer and pain, dripped with rainwater and righteous fury.

Her spiraling scars, pearl-toned and divine, blazed along her hands, arms, back and collar bone, glowing like the runes of old under her armor. Her hair whipped wildly around her face. Her eyes were not hers anymore. They shone like thunderstones.

She was no longer just Elena Matteo.

She was La Doña Guabancex. Goddess of storms, wrath of the wind, holy judge of blood debts unpaid.

And she had not come for vengeance.

She had come for justice.

Above her, clouds churned with impossible speed. Wind howled through the towers like a chorus of ancestors unleashed. With a single downward swing of her blade, Elena cleaved the northern wall of the High Cathedral in two; stone and stained glass shearing open like wet parchment. Thunder cracked in response, loud enough to rattle bone.

When the dust settled, it looked, to outsiders, like nothing more than a freak accident. A storm's tantrum. A random act of nature.

But those who stood beneath that sky, who had seen her rise, they knew.

Below, chaos unfolded.

While all eyes turned skyward, cloaked magic practitioners shimmered into visibility, peeling back layers of enchantments and illusion. They had slipped in hours before, casting silence spells and warding glyphs, preparing the true path of invasion.

The explosions, the lightning, the crumbling tower. All distractions.

The army came from below.

Ancient tunnels, carved in the city's founding days and long forgotten, even by the Church itself, had been reopened by rebel hands. Dank stone halls roared to life again with boots and blades, war drums pounding in muffled rhythm beneath the holy floors.

And then, they rose.

Like a tide of ghosts returned from exile.

From below and behind, the rebels surged into the cathedral compound. Soldiers wearing the sigil of the Unbroken emerged from beneath altar platforms, confessionals, and tombs. No quarter was given. Arrows sliced through the incense-heavy air. Bullets whistled through pews and courtyards. Magic burst in colors both sacred and blasphemous.

The Church had nowhere to go.

Trapped by the storm above and the army below, they had no option left but to fight.

And fight they did.

Swords clashed with blessed halberds. Spell met counterspell. Smoke choked the ancient marble halls, ash settled over gold leaf and glass.

And at the center of it-

Elena and Niegal.

They fought back-to-back, blades flashing like lightning, wards blooming mid-air, never straying more than a step from one another.

She raised the Blade of Boinayel and carved through a priest with molten speed.

He sent a flaming axe crashing into the sanctum stairs, collapsing the path behind them.

Niegal shouted commands between parries.

Elena summoned storms with her voice alone.

They moved like storm and ocean- unrelenting. Mythic. In sync.

They had promised once, quietly, with their precious daughter in their arms, "Together. Always."

And so it is.

The battle raged through sunrise, through the blood-wet afternoon, into the bones of night.

The rebels did not stop.

They could not stop.

There was too much to avenge.

Too many burned towns. Too many executed innocents. Too many children torn from arms, too many names forgotten under marble tombs built on lies.

The skies opened, and the rain became a flood.

Torrential downpour drenched the city, rivers pouring from rooftops and gutters. Thunder cracked again and again, as if Guabancex herself was calling out the count.

Elena's hair clung to her skin. Mana licked up her arms.

Niegal's armor steamed from heat and rain.

And still they fought.

By the time it ended, only two remained of the Church's sacred leadership.

The last high priest and priestess—once proud, once divine—now trembled in white robes soaked through, faces streaked with soot and blood.

The rebels stood in a loose semicircle around them, weapons lowered but not sheathed.

Niegal stood to Elena's right.

His jaw was tight. His eyes silver with fury.

But it was Elena they turned to.

Her face was unreadable.

Rain dripped from her chin.

The Blade of Boinayel still shimmered in her hand.

And when she spoke, it was not her voice alone:

"100 lashings each."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

The priestess collapsed to her knees, her lips trembling. "You wouldn't… you're one of us. You're the descendant of the Saintess Yidali."

Elena stepped forward, kneeling before them, eye level.

Her gaze cut like obsidian.

"I am not your saintess," she said softly.

"I am her storm."

They were chained by their wrists—arms above their heads, suspended from the charred remains of the cathedral's altar scaffolding. Their feet just barely grazed the blood-soaked stones.

The rebels formed no cheering mob.

They watched in silence.

Justice does not scream.

It strikes.

Niegal stood behind Elena now, one arm wrapped protectively around her, his other hand gripping her wrist as if to keep her from bearing the full weight of it.

She placed one hand over her stomach.

The other stayed on her hilt.

And then—

WHIP.

The sound cracked like lightning across the square.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

Each strike mirrored one they had ordered in sanctified halls.

Each cry an echo of the hundreds silenced beneath their sermons.

Each lash a prayer sent skyward, demanding no more saints. Only truth.

Elena did not flinch.

But her tears mingled with the rain.

By the time the lashes were done, and the priests hung limp and weeping in their chains, Guabancex sent one final thunderclap across the city.

The storm began to break.

The rain slowed. The wind softened. A sliver of moonlight pierced the clouds.

Niegal kissed Elena's temple, whispering something too quiet for any ears but hers.

"My tempest, we've done it."

She closed her eyes. Just for a breath.

Then opened them.

The people erupted into movement, not celebration, but sacred motion. Fires were put out. The wounded were lifted. Songs began to rise; low, ancient, wordless.

And Elena stood there, not weeping, not smiling.

Just present.

Finally, it was done.

The Church of Saintess Yidali had fallen.

And from its ruins rose something older, truer, wild and luminous.

A new era.

One built not by holy decree, but by hands. Scarred, strong, and unbroken.