Inkaris did not raise his voice.
He did not draw a circle, spill blood, or invoke ancient syllables that rattled the air. There was no ritual, no spectacle. Anyone watching would have thought he was simply… deciding something.
That was enough.
The space in front of him creased.
Not tore. Not broke.
Creased—like reality itself had folded, just slightly, to make room.
Aiden felt it before he saw anything. A pressure behind his eyes. A sensation like standing too close to a cliff edge without looking down.
Seris stiffened, hand drifting toward instinctive defenses she knew wouldn't matter.
Liora's breath caught.
And then Caelum was there.
He appeared standing casually atop an overturned crate, posture relaxed, hands clasped loosely behind his back as if he'd been waiting to be invited inside all along. His wings were visible this time—not spread, not threatening, just present, pale and impossibly clean against the grime of the warehouse district.
He smiled.
"Oh," Caelum said pleasantly. "You're upset."
Aiden's heart slammed into his ribs.
This was not the stranger from the parlor. This was not a rumor. This was something old, something that wore charm the way a blade wore an edge.
Inkaris faced him without flinching.
"You granted political weight to an incompetent noble," Inkaris said evenly. "Without disclosure. Without mitigation."
Caelum tilted his head. "I granted desire," he corrected. "Weight was simply the shape it took."
Seris found her voice. "You caused this."
Caelum looked at her with polite interest. "Caused? No. I accelerated."
He gestured vaguely toward the warehouse, the injured, the arguing guards. "This was already going to happen. I just made it… educational."
Aiden felt sick.
"You did this on purpose," he said.
Caelum's gaze slid to him, bright with curiosity.
"Yes," he said easily. "And no."
He stepped down from the crate, boots crunching softly on broken wood. The crowd nearby—those close enough to sense something was wrong—instinctively backed away without knowing why.
"I didn't choose how it would hurt," Caelum continued. "I chose that it would."
Aiden's fists clenched. "People could've died."
Caelum nodded. "They still might."
Liora sucked in a sharp breath. "How can you say that so calmly?"
Caelum considered her for a moment—really looked at her.
"Because I am not here to prevent ruin," he said gently. "I am here to observe which structures deserve to survive it."
Aiden felt Inkaris shift beside him.
"You stirred chaos to see who would bleed," Inkaris said. "That is not balance. That is indulgence."
Caelum laughed—a light, delighted sound.
"Oh, don't be so dour. Balance is boring without movement." He spread his hands. "Besides, you taught him the rules."
His gaze flicked to Aiden again.
"He's learning beautifully," Caelum added. "Running into falling crates instead of granting a miracle? Very tasteful."
Aiden stared at him. "You watched that?"
"Of course."
Seris stepped forward despite herself. "You enjoyed it."
Caelum's smile softened. "I enjoyed the honesty."
---
Aureline arrived moments later.
She did not approach quickly. She did not raise her voice.
The moment her eyes landed on Caelum, the color drained from her face.
The Duchess of the city—who had stared down mobs, councils, and armed rebellions—went very, very still.
"Caelum," she said quietly.
The name carried weight in her mouth. Not rumor. Not speculation.
History.
The nearby guards sensed it immediately. Some stiffened. Others stepped back without realizing they'd moved.
Caelum turned toward her with polite delight.
"Oh," he said warmly. "You recognize me."
Aureline swallowed.
"The Angel of Ruin," she said.
Aiden's breath hitched.
Seris froze.
Liora felt cold all over.
Caelum bowed shallowly. "A dramatic title. I never chose it."
"You didn't reject it either," Aureline replied.
Caelum smiled. "No."
Aureline's hands trembled—just slightly—before she clasped them together.
"You're forbidden from direct interference," she said. "The Accords—"
"I haven't interfered," Caelum interrupted pleasantly. "I granted a wish. Entirely within acceptable parameters."
Her voice hardened. "You destabilized my city."
Caelum met her gaze calmly. "Your city was already unstable."
Silence fell like a held breath.
"You fear me," Caelum observed.
Aureline didn't deny it. "You are what remains when systems fail."
He seemed pleased by that. "An accurate summary."
---
Across the city, Varros laughed himself hoarse.
"Oh, this," he said, wiping his eyes as reports poured in. "This is better than I imagined."
A servant hesitated. "My lord… the Duchess is involved now. And there are… rumors."
"Of course there are." Varros leaned back, hands laced behind his head. "Ruin always brings myth out of hiding."
He grinned. "And I didn't even have to summon him."
Varros picked up a fresh parchment and began writing.
"Let Halvren scream," he murmured. "Let Aureline panic. I'll simply keep moving."
His eyes gleamed. "If angels are walking the board, then the game has become honest."
---
Elsewhere, in a lavish parlor now stripped of its earlier confidence, Halvren raged.
"This is Varros' fault!" he shouted, pacing. "He set me up!"
His aides exchanged uneasy glances.
"You were the one who called the demonstration," one ventured.
"I was guided," Halvren snapped. "Given momentum!"
He clenched his fists. "Varros wanted this. He wanted me to fail."
He straightened suddenly, jaw set.
"I won't be his scapegoat."
Halvren turned toward the window, where the city flickered uncertainly below.
"I'll expose him," he said. "I'll show them who really benefits from chaos."
His confidence returned—not because he understood the situation, but because incompetence often mistook noise for strength.
---
Back in the warehouse district, Caelum stretched languidly.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "this has been delightful."
Inkaris' voice was low. "You will not touch the boy again."
Caelum laughed softly. "Oh, I won't need to."
He looked at Aiden one last time—really looked.
"You're already doing my work for me," he said kindly. "Every time you act, you reveal which structures crack under pressure."
Aiden felt something cold settle in his chest. "You're not helping anyone."
Caelum shrugged. "Help is a moral category. I operate on outcomes."
Aureline spoke sharply. "Leave."
Caelum inclined his head. "For now."
He stepped back—and reality folded again, gently, politely, like a door closing in a room that had never been meant to contain him.
He was gone.
---
The silence afterward was oppressive.
Aureline exhaled shakily.
"That," she said, "is why the Accords exist."
Seris swallowed. "He's real."
"Yes," Aureline replied grimly. "And when he shows interest, cities fall."
Aiden stared at the space where Caelum had stood.
"He thinks this is a game," Aiden whispered.
Inkaris' voice was quiet but firm. "No."
Aiden looked up.
"He thinks this is truth," Inkaris said. "Stripped of comforting illusions."
Aiden's hands trembled. "Then how do we fight that?"
Inkaris met his gaze.
"You don't," he said. "You outlast it."
Aureline turned toward Aiden then, fear and resolve warring in her expression.
"You are now a factor in something far older than my city," she said. "And far crueler."
Aiden swallowed hard.
"I didn't ask for that."
"No," Aureline agreed. "But neither did the cities he ruined."
Somewhere far away, Varros raised a glass.
And somewhere else, Halvren sharpened accusations he didn't understand.
The board was no longer just political.
It was mythic.
And everyone still standing had just learned the same terrible truth:
When angels of ruin smile, it is because something is finally interesting.
---