The world between worlds was not made for flesh, even celestial flesh. It groaned and shimmered with a dissonant hum as Serethiel emerged, clutching his shoulder where Avesari's lance had burned through him. The wound still seethed—more than pain, it was humiliation. Her light, though dimmed by her fall, had still been enough to scar him. To drive him from the council chamber. From victory.
The void surrounding him twisted like a living storm, black with shades of gold that had long since dulled into rot. Serethiel stood on nothing, surrounded by strands of broken law—symbols from Heaven's first edicts, floating like dust motes in the dark.
He knelt.
"I return, my lord."
The corrupted archangel stepped forth from the shadows, towering in silence. His form flickered between divine brilliance and ruinous distortion—wings that melted into voidstuff, a face that struggled to hold symmetry. Light pulsed from within his chest, distorted and unstable, the remnants of a once-pure core now infected by his own ambitions.
"You failed."
The voice wasn't thunder—it was the space between lightning strikes, that breathless silence before devastation.
Serethiel did not rise. "She was more healed than we expected. And the human… his music. It summoned an old harmony."
"A memory," the archangel muttered, stepping past him, gazing into a splinter of mortal reality. "A tether to the old order. To the Creator's harmony. You said he was nothing."
"He was," Serethiel said quickly. "He is. But something in him… responded. As if his soul had known the song once. As if it remembered the sacred tones."
A silence followed.
Then, the corrupted archangel's voice slithered low. "And Avesari?"
"Wounded. Slower. But still dangerous." Serethiel's lips curled into a sneer. "She fights like she still believes in mercy."
The archangel turned his burning gaze upon him. "Then she's more dangerous than before."
Serethiel swallowed his next thought.
A dark pulse spread across the void. Beneath them, reflections of reality rippled—the Faithbound cities trembling with growing unrest, Machinist towers humming with new rituals, and the Ashen Creed sharpening blades in the ruins.
"She's moving," the archangel said, his eyes narrowing. "To the sanctuary."
Serethiel looked up, startled. "How do you—"
"She would have nowhere else to go. That place is older than she is. The remnants of the Creator's breath still linger there." He paused. "And so do the Chroniclers. The girl. The prophecy."
Serethiel blinked. "You believe it?"
"No," the archangel said with finality. "But others do. And belief shapes the fabric of this world more than truth ever could."
He turned, shadows peeling away from his form. "You will follow them. Wounded or not. Let them believe they've won something. Let them move forward. But you will not fail me again."
The weight of that command drove Serethiel's face to the ground. "Yes, my lord."
"And Serethiel…" The archangel's tone dropped like a blade. "You will not return again until the boy is broken. Or you are."
The corrupted realm twisted shut around him.
---
Avesari leaned against the stone pillar, the morning sun bleeding red across the horizon.
She had only just begun to walk again.
The Council chamber was gone, its walls crumbled and scorched from the divine duel. Whatever remnants of holy or corrupted magic that had once adorned its halls had now been scorched clean. Caleb lay not far from her, cradling what remained of his broken violin. He had passed out briefly after the blast, but now sat awake, silent, his eyes distant. And beside him stood the girl.
Serenya.
She had arrived at the wrong moment—and yet, perhaps, the exact right one. Avesari had sensed her presence before she'd even stepped into the chamber. A curious song in the air. Old blood. Older purpose.
The girl had said nothing for a long while.
Now she stood a short distance away, arms crossed, her eyes fixed on Avesari with the kind of caution that only came from someone who'd read too much truth—and too many lies.
"You're one of them," Serenya said finally. "A celestial."
Avesari didn't look up. "Not anymore."
"That's not very reassuring."
Caleb stirred. "Serenya—"
"No, Caleb," she cut him off gently. "You don't know what she is. What she was. What she's capable of."
"She saved us," he said.
"She also led that thing to you."
"I chose to play the song," he countered. "I chose to answer the call."
Avesari watched the exchange in silence.
Serenya's gaze shifted back to the fallen angel. "Are you going to keep putting him in danger?"
"I don't plan to," Avesari said.
"That's not a 'no.'"
Caleb stood between them. "Can we not do this? Not now? Not when everything I thought I understood just cracked open and tried to kill me?"
That earned a small flicker of amusement from Avesari. A faint smile. "He's handling this better than most."
"I've read prophecies," Serenya said, her voice softer now. "About a dark star. A burning light. And a mockingbird. I didn't think they'd bleed and breathe."
"We do," Avesari said. "Too much."
They stood in silence again.
Then Caleb cleared his throat. "Where do we go now?"
Avesari looked to the east, toward lands where the sun still dared to rise untouched. "We head to the Sanctuary."
Serenya flinched. "That place is forbidden."
"Because it hides what must now be remembered," Avesari said. "And what he will try to erase."
"He?" Caleb asked.
But she didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, she stepped forward, gathering the strength to unfurl her fractured wings once more. They flared dimly—tattered shadows and faint gold lining.
She looked at them both.
"You are free to come. Or not. But the road ahead is shifting. And the music has only just begun."
And with that, she walked forward, leaving behind the ruins of the council chamber, and stepping into the dawn that had no promise of warmth.