I duck into my room and flop onto the bed Caleif gave me, exhaling hard. "Estingoth, if I keep using this power, am I going to end up like you?" The words tumble out before I can rethink them.
A beat later, his voice echoes from the gauntlet. "Right now it's fifty–fifty. I don't honestly think you'll finish as me. When I first bound to the gauntlet, my soul overrode its old nature."
He pauses, and I swear I feel the gauntlet shift against the wall. "Sounds like a win, doesn't it? But over time our minds swap—one of us stays in control while the other drifts away. I hate that for you, after everything you've been through this week. Truth is, I planned to take your body, get my revenge. But after seeing you struggle, I'd rather team up than betray you."
I shoot up and bang the gauntlet against the wall. "Are you kidding me? I just lived through your memories—I felt for you! And you'd still try to stab me in the back?"
Estingoth laughs, low and rough. "At first, yes. But now…" He clears his throat. "There are ways to keep me from dominating you. First, train. Get stronger, learn to master your emotions. Or, there's an easier—though scarier—option."
I stare at the gauntlet, my foot tapping. "Go on."
"Heal our souls together. You'd choose who leads and who follows, like now. But if you pick that, I can't predict what happens. You might grow more powerful, or you might break—become something dark."
I laugh, but it's hollow. A tear drips down my cheek. "Jesus. You're joking."
He's silent a moment, then answers, "Deadly serious. Those are your only paths."
My voice cracks. "If we meld, will I get any of your powers?"
A cough rumbles through the gauntlet. "Some—basic spells, minor abilities. The real heavy stuff? You'll need time, strength, endurance first."
I swallow. Both options terrify me. And neither promises safety.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing with possibilities—none of them particularly comforting. The weight of everything crashes down on me: my dead parents, my demon status, and now this bombshell about potentially merging souls with an ancient being who just admitted he wanted to steal my body.
"So you're telling me I either train until I drop or risk fusing our souls together?" I mutter, rubbing my temples. "Great options, really stellar."
The gauntlet pulses with a faint crimson glow. "If it helps, I'm not thrilled about it either," Estingoth replies, his voice carrying an unexpected weariness. "I've watched countless wielders come and go, but none have survived this long with the power you're channeling."
I roll onto my side, examining the dark veins that have spread further up my arm during our training. They pulse with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of what's happening to me.
"How long do I have before this becomes irreversible?" I ask, tracing one of the blackened lines with my finger.
Estingoth's sigh resonates through the metal. "Weeks, perhaps. Maybe months if you're exceptionally disciplined. The transformation accelerates with each use of my power."
I sit up abruptly. "And you didn't think to mention this earlier? Before I started blasting things with your energy?"
"Would it have changed anything?" he counters. "You needed power to survive. I provided it."
He's right, and that only makes me angrier. I pace the room, my reflection in the mirror catching my attention. I look haggard, older somehow. The veins haven't reached my face yet, but I swear my eyes flash with an unnatural light when the anger surges.
"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. "I should just cut off my arm and be done with it."
The gauntlet tightens painfully around my wrist. "That would kill us both," Estingoth growls. "The bond is too deep now."
A knock at the door interrupts our conversation. I quickly pull down my sleeve to cover the spreading darkness and call out, "Come in."
Caleif enters, carrying a tray of food and a thick, ancient-looking book. Her eyes immediately fix on my concealed arm.
"Hiding it won't slow the progression," she says matter-of-factly, setting the tray on the nightstand. "You need to eat. Maintaining your strength is essential regardless of which path you choose."
I eye her suspiciously. "You knew about this, didn't you? About the soul-melding thing?"
She sits on the edge of the bed, her weight barely registering on the mattress. "I suspected. The lore surrounding Estingoth is... incomplete. But there are mentions of wielders who became more than human."
"And less than human too, I bet," I mutter, grabbing a piece of bread from the tray and tearing into it.
Caleif opens the book, revealing pages covered in symbols I can't comprehend. "This contains accounts of previous wielders," she explains. "Most lasted only days before the gauntlet consumed them. A few survived weeks. One—a warrior queen from six centuries ago—managed three months before she..."
"Before she what?" I prompt when she hesitates.
"Before she transformed completely and had to be destroyed by her own army," Caleif finishes quietly.
My appetite vanishes. I drop the half-eaten bread back onto the tray. "So I'm fucked either way."
"Not necessarily." Caleif turns a page, pointing to an illustration of a figure with a gauntlet much like mine, surrounded by a glowing aura. "There are references to a ritual that could stabilize the bond between wielder and artifact. It would require immense power and preparation, but it might offer a third option."
Hope flickers in my chest. "What kind of ritual?"
"One that would establish clear boundaries between your soul and Estingoth's," she explains. "Neither dominating the other, but coexisting in balance."
The gauntlet warms against my skin. "She speaks of the Equilibrium Rite," Estingoth says, his voice loud enough for Caleif to hear. "It's... theoretically possible. But the components required are rare and dangerous to obtain."
"I don't care," I say firmly. "If there's even a chance it works, I want to try."
Caleif's expression remains guarded. "The ritual requires the blood of a celestial being, Kamen. An angel."
My mind flashes to Claire—the angel I killed. "Would Claire's blood have worked?"
"Perhaps," Caleif admits. "But it's too late now. We would need fresh blood, freely given."
I laugh bitterly. "Right, because angels are just lining up to donate blood to demons."
"There might be one who would help," Estingoth says slowly. "My wife had a... connection to the celestial realm. A half-sister among the angels. Azazel."
Caleif's eyes widen. "Azazel still lives? After all this time?"
"Last I knew," Estingoth confirms. "She was always... different from the others. More willing to understand our kind."
I stand up, a newfound determination filling me. "Then we find her. How hard can it be to track down one specific angel?"
Caleif's laugh is hollow. "Harder than you can imagine. Angels exist on multiple planes simultaneously. Azazel could be anywhere—or everywhere."
"But we have to try," I insist, rolling up my sleeve to reveal the blackened veins that now reach my elbow. "I'm not going to sit around waiting to turn into... whatever this is leading to."
Estingoth's voice grows stronger, more resolved. "There's a way to call to her, but it will alert other angels to our presence. We would be making ourselves targets."
"We're already targets," I point out. "At least this way we're doing something about it."
Caleif closes the book and stands. "I'll gather what we need for the summoning. But Kamen..." She places a hand on my shoulder, her touch sending warmth through my body. "You should prepare yourself. Estingoth's connection to Azazel is ancient. She may not remember, or worse, she may remember too well."
I nod, understanding the implication. Estingoth wasn't just powerful in his time—he was feared, even by angels. His name alone might be enough to turn potential help into certain hostility.
As Caleif leaves, I turn back to the gauntlet. "Tell me everything about Azazel. If I'm going to convince her to help us, I need to know what I'm walking into."
Estingoth's voice grows distant, almost wistful. "Azazel was... complicated. She believed in balance above all else. When I began my conquest, she opposed me not out of hatred, but because she thought I threatened that balance."
"Did you?" I ask.
The gauntlet grows uncomfortably hot. "Perhaps. I was... less concerned with cosmic equilibrium than with protecting what was mine."
I sit back on the bed, feeling suddenly exhausted. "And now? What do you want now, Estingoth?"
There's a long pause before he answers. "Freedom. Redemption, maybe. But mostly, I want to see my family again, even if only to say goodbye properly."
His words strike a chord within me. Despite everything, I understand that longing all too well.
"Then we'll find Azazel," I promise, staring at the spreading darkness on my arm. "And if this ritual works, maybe we both get what we want."
The gauntlet pulses once, almost like a heartbeat. "And if it doesn't?"
I close my eyes, accepting the possibility I've been avoiding. "Then at least we tried. Better than waiting for the inevitable."
As night falls outside my window, I can feel the gauntlet's power stirring within me, stronger than before. The darkness spreads another inch up my arm while I watch, and for the first time, I feel Estingoth's consciousness brush against mine—not as a voice, but as a presence, a shadow at the edges of my thoughts.
The transformation is picking up speed, and we're running out of time quicker than we thought. Caleif starts the ritual while Estingoth fills me in on how to reach Azazel. "Hold on. Isn't Azazel the same as Lucifer?" I ask, puzzled. Caleif glances at me, and Estingoth lets out a sigh. "People often confuse Azazel with Lucifer, but they're not the same," Estingoth clarifies. "Lucifer was full of malice and rebellion against the Almighty. Azazel was more of a misguided angel who followed Lucifer and ended up being cast down too. Lucifer ended up in hell, but Azazel was sent somewhere else. For a long time, no one knew where Azazel was, until recently. She was in purgatory before managing to escape. Fortunately, the Almighty didn't see Azazel as a threat without Lucifer around, so He allowed her to live in peace elsewhere." Caleif elaborates, and Estingoth grunts in agreement. Caleif spouts out the ingredients to the ritual to find and summon Azazel.
"Dragon's blood, silver blessed by moonlight, a fragment of celestial glass, and..." Caleif pauses, her finger tracing down the ancient text. "The tears of one who has lost everything." She looks up at me meaningfully.
I wipe my cheek, realizing I've been crying without noticing. "Fresh out of the oven, I guess."
"This isn't a joke, Kamen," she says sharply. "The ritual requires genuine grief, not forced emotion. The magic can tell the difference."
The gauntlet grows warm. "She's right," Estingoth confirms. "I've seen summoning circles fail because the components weren't authentic. Your pain over your parents... that's what we need."
I nod, swallowing hard. The grief is always there, just beneath the surface. "What about the other stuff? Please tell me we don't have to hunt down a dragon."
Caleif smiles grimly. "I have most of what we need. The celestial glass is rare, but Mira acquired a piece from a fallen meteor last year. The silver..." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a delicate chain. "This belonged to my grandmother. It's been blessed by thirteen full moons."
"And dragon's blood?"
"Easier than you'd think. There's a black market for such things among demons." She stands, brushing dust from her skirt. "I'll need two hours to prepare the circle. Use that time to center yourself. The summoning will be... intense."
After she leaves, I sit alone with my thoughts and the growing darkness creeping up my arm. The veins have reached my bicep now, and I can feel something changing in my chest—a tightness, like my heart is learning to beat to a different rhythm.
"Estingoth," I say quietly, "what was she like? Azazel?"
His voice grows soft, almost reverent. "Beautiful, in the way only angels can be. But more than that—she was kind. Even when she stood against me, there was no hatred in her eyes. Only sorrow for what I'd become."
"Did you love her?"
The question hangs in the air for a long moment. "I loved my wife," he says finally. "But Azazel... she was the sister I never had. The one person who could see through my rage to the man beneath."
"And you think she'll help us?"
"I think she'll listen. Whether she helps..." The gauntlet pulses uncertainly. "That depends on whether she believes we can be saved."
Two hours later, I stand in Caleif's basement before a complex summoning circle carved into the stone floor. Candles flicker at precise intervals, and the air thrums with barely contained energy. The smell of sulfur and something floral—jasmine, maybe—fills my nostrils.
"Step into the center," Caleif instructs, her voice taking on a ritual cadence. "Keep your mind focused on Azazel. Picture her as Estingoth remembers her."
I close my eyes and let Estingoth's memories wash over me—golden hair that moves like liquid light, eyes the color of storm clouds, wings that span wider than any earthly bird's. Power radiates from her like heat from a forge, but tempered with compassion.
Caleif begins to chant in a language that predates human civilization. The circle ignites with silver fire, and I feel the pull of otherworldly forces. The gauntlet burns against my skin as Estingoth's consciousness reaches out, adding his voice to the call.
The basement walls fall away, replaced by swirling mists of gold and silver. I'm no longer standing on stone but floating in a space between worlds. And there, materializing from the cosmic fog, is Azazel.
She's exactly as Estingoth remembered, but older somehow—not in appearance, but in the weight of centuries in her eyes. Her gaze finds mine, then shifts to the gauntlet on my arm, and her expression hardens.
"Estingoth," she says, her voice like distant thunder. "I wondered when you would call."
"It's been a long time," I say, though the words aren't mine—they come from Estingoth, using my mouth as his vessel. The sensation is jarring, like being a passenger in my own body.
Azazel's wings spread wide, their ethereal light casting long shadows across the misty void. "Not long enough, old friend." Her eyes narrow as she studies me. "You've found a new host, I see. Young. Strong. But already corrupted."
I wrestle back control, pushing Estingoth to the background of my consciousness. "I'm Kamen," I manage, my voice strained. "And I didn't ask for any of this."
Her expression softens slightly. "Few do. The gauntlet has always been drawn to those caught in tragedy's web." She circles me, her feet never quite touching the ground. "You're further gone than the others were. The darkness has reached your heart."
My hand instinctively moves to my chest. I hadn't realized the transformation had progressed that far internally, though it explains the strange rhythm I've been feeling.
"That's why we called you," I say. "We need your help—your blood, actually—for the Equilibrium Rite."
Azazel freezes mid-step, her wings folding tight against her back. "That ritual hasn't been performed in millennia. For good reason." She turns to face me fully. "It requires perfect balance between the souls involved—a harmony rarely achieved, especially with one as dominant as Estingoth."
The gauntlet pulses angrily, and I feel Estingoth straining to speak again. I grit my teeth, fighting to maintain control.
"I understand the risks," I say. "But without it, I'll either become like him or something worse."
"And why should I care?" Azazel's voice turns cold. "Estingoth brought destruction wherever he walked. Perhaps his imprisonment was justice, not tragedy."
I feel Estingoth's rage boiling beneath my skin, the veins on my arm darkening further. Before I can respond, Caleif materializes beside me, her form translucent in this between-place.
"Because he's innocent," she says, gesturing toward me. "Kamen didn't choose this burden. And because no matter what Estingoth did, eternal suffering wasn't the sentence passed on him. Redemption should always be possible."
Azazel studies Caleif with ancient eyes. "A demon advocating for redemption? Times have indeed changed." She moves closer to me, close enough that I can feel the static electricity of her presence raising the hairs on my arms. "Show me your memories, boy. Let me see what brought you to this desperate gambit."
Before I can protest, she places her palm against my forehead. The contact burns like ice and fire simultaneously. My knees buckle as my life flashes behind my eyes—my parents' deaths, Claire's betrayal, the spreading darkness, my growing fear of losing myself.
When she withdraws her hand, there are tears in her storm-cloud eyes. "Such pain," she murmurs. "And courage, despite it all." She turns away, wings trembling slightly. "I will consider your request. But first, I must speak with Estingoth alone."
"How?" I ask. "He's bound to me."
"Not here," she says, gesturing to the misty void around us. "In this place, souls can be temporarily separated."
Fear grips me. "If you pull him out, will I—"
"Die? No. But it will be... uncomfortable." She looks to Caleif. "The demon must leave. This is between old adversaries."
Caleif hesitates, then nods. "I'll monitor from outside. Kamen, if anything feels wrong—truly wrong—call for me." Her form shimmers and vanishes.
Azazel raises both hands, palms facing me. "Brace yourself, Kamen. This will hurt."
She begins to sing in that ancient language, her voice resonating through the void. The gauntlet burns white-hot against my skin. I scream as Estingoth's consciousness is torn from mine—not completely, but enough that I can see him materializing beside me, a shadowy echo of the warrior he once was.
I collapse to my knees, gasping. The separation feels like having a limb amputated without anesthesia. Estingoth doesn't look much better, his spectral form wavering like smoke in a breeze.
"Leave us," Azazel commands me, though her tone has gentled. "Walk twenty paces in any direction. You'll find a place to rest."
I stagger away, each step sending jolts of phantom pain through my body. True to her word, I soon encounter a stone bench that wasn't there before. I sink onto it gratefully, watching from a distance as Azazel and Estingoth confront each other.
Their voices don't carry to me, but their body language speaks volumes. Estingoth gestures forcefully, his spectral form growing more solid with his passion. Azazel's wings flare and contract with her emotions. At one point, she strikes him—her hand passing through his chest like he's made of mist—and he recoils as if physically wounded.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. The separation grows more painful with each passing moment, a hollow ache spreading from my arm throughout my body. Just when I think I can't endure it any longer, Azazel turns and beckons me back.
I stumble toward them, relief washing over me as Estingoth's presence flows back into the gauntlet and, by extension, into me. The reunion is almost as painful as the separation, but the hollow feeling subsides.
"Well?" I ask, my voice hoarse from screaming.
Azazel's expression is unreadable. "He has changed, in some ways. In others, he remains as stubborn as ever." She extends her hand, palm up. A small dagger materializes above it, hovering in the air. "I will give you my blood for the ritual, but with conditions."
"Name them," I say immediately.
"First, you must swear that if the ritual fails—if the balance cannot be maintained—you will surrender yourself to me for judgment."
I swallow hard. "What kind of judgment?"
"The final kind," she says simply. "I will not allow another corrupted version of Estingoth to walk the earth."
The gauntlet pulses in acceptance before I can respond. I nod slowly. "And the other conditions?"
"If you succeed, you must use your combined power for balance, not dominance. No conquests. No vengeance." Her gaze intensifies. "Maybe, once this is done, you will consider me, one of yours?" Azazel says with a blush creeping up on her angelic form as she reaches out and runs her hand under my chin as she let's out a seductive "ara ara"
Confusion washes over me, "Consider you for wh— ah, okay. Yeah I understand now, this just got awkward." I say as a feel a flush run up my face.
Estingoth's laughter reverberates through the gauntlet, a sound like grinding stone. "She's propositioning you, boy. After all these centuries, Azazel still has... appetites."
My face burns hotter, and I can feel the pink gauge on my gauntlet starting to climb. "This is really not the time for—"
"Time moves differently here," Azazel interrupts, her hand still tracing my jawline with ethereal fingers that feel both there and not there. "And I have been alone for so very long. A beautiful young man with such... potential." Her storm-cloud eyes darken with something that makes my pulse quicken despite the bizarre circumstances.
I step back, nearly tripping over my own feet. "Look, I'm flattered, really, but I'm kind of in the middle of a life-or-death situation here. Can we maybe table the... whatever this is... until after I'm not slowly transforming into a demon?"
She tilts her head, wings rustling with amusement. "You reject me?"
"I'm not rejecting you! I'm just—" I gesture frantically at the spreading darkness on my arm. "Priorities!"
Azazel's expression shifts, hurt flickering across her perfect features before hardening into something more dangerous. "I see. You find me... lacking."
"No, that's not—" I start, but the temperature in the void plummets. Frost begins forming on my breath.
"Kamen," Estingoth's voice carries a warning. "Angels don't handle rejection well. Especially not ones who've been in exile for millennia."
The dagger hovering above Azazel's palm begins to glow with menacing light. "Perhaps I was too hasty in offering my aid."
Panic grips me. Without her blood, the ritual is impossible. I'll transform completely or die trying to resist it. "Wait! I didn't mean—you're incredibly beautiful, and in any other circumstance I'd be honored, but—"
"But?" Her voice could freeze hellfire.
I run a hand through my hair, desperately trying to find the right words. "But I don't want to start something I can't finish. If this ritual works, I'll need time to figure out who I am. And if it doesn't..." I meet her eyes. "You'll have to kill me. That's not exactly the foundation for a healthy relationship."
Azazel stares at me for a long moment, then throws back her head and laughs—a sound like silver bells in a thunderstorm. "Honesty. How refreshing." The frost melts away, warmth returning to the void. "Very well. We shall postpone such matters until after your fate is decided."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"But," she continues, that seductive edge returning to her voice, "if you survive, I will expect... consideration."
The pink gauge on my gauntlet hits sixty percent. I clear my throat. "Right. Consideration. Got it."
She nods approvingly, then slices her palm with the floating dagger. Golden blood wells up, glowing with inner light. "For the ritual," she says, collecting the luminous drops in a small crystal vial that materializes in her other hand. "Use it wisely."
I reach for the vial, but she pulls it back slightly. "One more thing, Kamen. The ritual will force you to confront the darkest parts of both your souls. You must be prepared to accept not just Estingoth's power, but his sins as well."
"What do you mean?"
"Every life he took, every choice he made in anger—it will all become part of you. Can you live with that weight?"
I think of my parents, of Claire, of all the violence I've already witnessed. "I don't know. But I have to try."
She extends the vial again. This time, when I take it, our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity up my arm, and for a moment I see flashes of her memories—endless years of exile, loneliness that could drive anyone mad, hope slowly dying until she became something harder than the original angel.
"I understand," I whisper.
Her eyes widen slightly. "You saw—"
"Enough." I pocket the vial carefully. "We're both carrying more than we should."
The void begins to shimmer around us, reality reasserting itself. "The summoning is ending," Azazel says. "But before you go—a warning. Other angels have sensed this ritual. They will come for you, and they will not be as... understanding as I."
"How long do we have?"
"Hours. Perhaps a day if you're fortunate." Her form begins to fade. "Do not waste this gift, Kamen. It may be the only chance any of us have at redemption."
The misty void collapses, and I'm back in Caleif's basement, gasping and disoriented. The stone floor feels shockingly real after the ethereal space I just occupied. Caleif rushes to my side, her hands checking me for injuries.
"How do you feel?" she asks, helping me to my feet.
"Like I just got hit by a truck," I groan, then hold up the vial of glowing blood. "But we got what we needed."
Her eyes widen at the sight of the golden liquid. "Celestial blood. I've never seen it before." She takes the vial reverently. "This changes everything. We can perform the ritual tonight."
"Good, because apparently we're about to have company." I fill her in on Azazel's warning about other angels coming.
Caleif's expression darkens. "Then we have no time to waste. Gather the others—we'll need all the protection we can get while the ritual is in progress."
As we head upstairs, I feel the gauntlet pulse with what might be anticipation or fear. "Ready for this, Estingoth?"
"As ready as one can be for something that might destroy us both," he replies grimly. "But Kamen... whatever happens, know that I'm grateful. You've given me more hope than I've had in centuries."
I nod, steeling myself for what's to come. In a few hours, I'll either achieve perfect balance with an ancient warrior's soul, or I'll die trying. Either way, at least I won't transform into something monstrous.
The thought should be comforting, but as I look at the spreading darkness on my arm, I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something crucial about this ritual. Something that might make Azazel's kiss of death seem like a mercy.
But there's no time for second-guessing now. The ritual circle beckons, and I can feel time slipping away like sand through my fingers. Each heartbeat brings the transformation closer to completion, and the spreading darkness on my arm pulses with increasing intensity.
"Mira!" Caleif calls out as we reach the main floor. "Gather everyone in the basement. Now."
Within minutes, the basement fills with Caleif's servants—all twelve of them arranged in a protective circle around the ritual space. Their faces are grim but determined, each one understanding the stakes without needing explanation.
"The process will take approximately thirty minutes," Caleif explains, placing the vial of Azazel's blood at the center of the summoning circle. "During that time, Kamen will be completely vulnerable. If angels attack, our job is to hold them off until the ritual completes."
I step back into the circle, feeling the ancient stone cold beneath my feet. The gauntlet thrums with nervous energy, and I can sense Estingoth's consciousness stirring restlessly within the metal.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask him quietly.
"No," he admits. "But uncertainty is better than the alternative."
Caleif begins arranging the other components—dragon's blood in a small obsidian bowl, the moonlight-blessed silver chain coiled around it, and the fragment of celestial glass that catches the candlelight like a prism. She looks up at me, her expression unreadable.
"Once I begin the incantation, there's no stopping it," she warns. "The ritual will either succeed or kill you. There's no middle ground."
I nod, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "I understand."
She raises her hands, and the basement fills with an otherworldly humming. The candles flicker in unison, their flames turning from orange to silver. The carved symbols on the floor begin to glow with the same ethereal light.
"Kamen," Caleif's voice takes on that ritual cadence again, "focus on the connection between you and Estingoth. Feel where your souls overlap."
I close my eyes, reaching inward. The gauntlet grows warm, then hot, then burning. I can feel Estingoth's presence more clearly than ever before—not just his voice, but his memories, his emotions, his very essence bleeding into mine.
The pain starts as a whisper, then builds to a roar. It feels like my soul is being torn apart and rewoven at the same time. I scream, but the sound seems to come from someone else's throat.
"Hold on," Caleif's voice sounds distant, as if she's speaking from the other end of a long tunnel. "The souls are beginning to separate."
But something's wrong. The separation isn't clean—it's jagged, violent. I can feel pieces of myself being pulled away while foreign fragments embed themselves in the gaps. This isn't balance; it's chaos.
"Stop!" I try to shout, but my voice is gone. The basement spins around me, reality fracturing into kaleidoscope patterns.
That's when I feel it—another presence in the ritual space. Not Estingoth, not Caleif, but something else entirely. Something that's been waiting for this moment.
The gauntlet explodes with dark energy, and I'm thrown backward, crashing into the stone wall. Blood fills my mouth as I struggle to focus. Through the swirling chaos of the disrupted ritual, I see them—three figures in white robes, their faces hidden beneath hoods, standing where moments ago there had been empty air.
"Angels," Mira snarls, drawing twin daggers from her belt. "They've found us."
The lead figure pushes back his hood, revealing a face of terrible beauty marred by righteous fury. "Kamen Driscol," he intones, his voice carrying the authority of divine judgment. "You have violated the natural order. Surrender yourself for cleansing."
I try to stand, but the failed ritual has left me weak and disoriented. The gauntlet sparks erratically, and I can barely hear Estingoth's voice through the static.
"I don't think so," I manage to rasp, forcing myself upright. "We're not done here."
The angel's expression doesn't change. "The ritual has failed. Your soul is now in flux—neither fully human nor properly bound to the artifact. You are an abomination that must be corrected."
"Corrected?" Rage flares within me, and the gauntlet responds, crackling with crimson energy. "You mean murdered."
"Purified," the angel corrects. "Your suffering will end, and the cosmic balance will be restored."
The other two angels spread their wings—massive, pristine things that seem to absorb light rather than reflect it. The temperature in the basement drops twenty degrees in seconds.
"Like hell," Caleif snarls, stepping between me and the angels. Her own form begins to shift, revealing her true demonic nature. Horns sprout from her temples, her nails extend into claws, and her eyes blaze with infernal fire. "You want him? You go through me."