fabrayist

In an alternate 21st century, unseen by the eyes of ordinary men, a war rages in the shadows.
The Order of the Silent Flame, an ancient brotherhood of exorcists, stands as humanity’s last line of defense against the demonic forces led by Centurion, the fallen warlord of the underworld. Armed with sacred relics, forbidden rituals, and unbreakable vows, the exorcists work in secrecy to protect a world that does not even know it’s under siege.
As the darkness spreads and Centurion’s legions grow bolder, cracks begin to form in the veil that hides the truth from humanity. And among the Order, a new generation must rise—one that will uncover long-buried secrets, face the betrayal of old allies, and decide whether the Silent Flame will continue to burn… or be snuffed out forever.

Apostles' War

Tagaytay City – 6:14 AM

The scent of pine hung thick in the morning air. Somewhere down the slope, the hum of motorcycles began. Life continued — as if nothing had happened.

But Elian Reyes sat curled on his kitchen floor, back to the counter, unmoving.

He hadn't changed out of his clothes from the night before.

He just sat there — gripping his wrist with white-knuckled hands, eyes fixed on the faintly glowing sigil burned into the back of his left hand.

Not after the voices that tried to hollow him out from the inside.

"It's exhaustion. Hallucination. Stress."

He tried to convince himself as he rinsed his face in the sink. Cold water offered no clarity.

When he dared to look up — the mirror above the sink showed the dark bags beneath his eyes, the tremor in his jaw...

And behind him, the vague outline of something grinning.

7:23 AM – The Cloud Nine Café

Tagaytay's small hillside café was already warm with the scent of espresso and cinnamon pastries. The grind of beans. The chatter of tourists. The clang of metal cups on the bar.

Elian stepped in through the staff door, adjusting his apron with shaking hands.

"Bro, what happened to you?" asked Mico, the head barista, pausing mid-shift. "You look like you wrestled a ghost."

"Didn't sleep," Elian muttered. "Bad dreams."

But even behind the coffee bar, surrounded by the comfort of routine — the espresso machines, the hiss of steam, the hum of playlists — he couldn't shake it.

The sigil on his hand felt cold beneath the glove.

Every time he turned, he thought he saw something — a flicker in the reflection of the grinder, the glint of motion in the glass case.

The voice wasn't spoken. It sank directly into his bones.

10:42 AM – Breakroom

He sat in the tiny breakroom, head between his hands.

Mico peeked in, frowning. "Look, man… you're clearly not okay. Go home. I'll cover."

Elian nodded. "Yeah… yeah, thanks."

He didn't know how he made it out the front door.

11:14 AM – Alone, again

Elian sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the light coming through the blinds.

I don't believe in ghosts. Or demons. I never have. That stuff's for old priests and weird kids.

But what happened last night wasn't just fear.

The voices. The mark. The sense that something ancient had cracked open.

"You are the first to see," the memory echoed.

He turned it off and threw it under a pillow.

1:03 PM

The wind rustled through the banana trees outside. Distant barking. A single bell chime. He flinched.

Elian couldn't shake the sense that something was drawing closer.

Chapter 5 – Cracks in the Mirror