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."
"Caleif, stand back. I think it's time chicken fucker and I see who's stronger." I say as I feel a wide grin appear on my face and power slowly flowing into me. I can feel it, the angel was wrong, it worked.
The angel's expression shifts from righteous fury to something like amusement. "You think you're strong enough to face me? The ritual has failed."
"That's where you're wrong," I say, feeling a strange new confidence surging through me. The pain is still there, but underneath it—power. Raw, electric, and somehow both foreign and familiar at once. My vision sharpens, colors intensifying until the basement seems to glow with hidden energies I've never noticed before.
Estingoth's voice rings clear in my mind now, no longer distorted by static. "It worked, Kamen. Not as planned, but it worked. We are... connected differently than before."
The lead angel takes a step forward, his perfect face contorting with disbelief. "Impossible. The equilibrium cannot be achieved without proper—"
I don't let him finish. The gauntlet responds to my will without hesitation, energy flowing through it like water through a broken dam. A blast of crimson light erupts from my palm, slamming into the angel's chest and sending him flying backward into the stone wall.
"Fuck your equilibrium," I snarl, feeling Estingoth's ancient rage mixing with my own. "And fuck your cleansing."
The other angels react instantly, drawing weapons that materialize from thin air—a flaming sword for one, a whip of pure light for the other. They move with inhuman speed, but somehow I can track their movements now, anticipating the attack before it comes.
I sidestep the sword thrust, the blade missing my face by millimeters. The whip cracks toward my legs, but I leap over it, higher than I should be able to jump, landing behind the second angel. The gauntlet pulses with dark energy as I drive my fist into his spine.
He screams—a sound like breaking glass—and drops to his knees. His wings flare out reflexively, but I grab one and pull, feeling feathers and something more substantial tear beneath my fingers.
"Kamen!" Caleif shouts, her voice cutting through the battle haze. "Don't kill them!"
I hesitate just long enough for the third angel to recover, launching himself at me with his sword aimed at my heart. Mira intercepts him, her twin daggers catching the flaming blade
with a screech of metal on metal. Sparks fly as they dance around each other, her movements fluid and deadly while his are precise and overwhelming.
The angel I knocked down is already recovering, golden blood trickling from his mouth. His eyes blaze with renewed fury as he raises his hand, and I feel the air around me begin to thicken, pressing against my lungs like I'm drowning in honey.
"You dare defile the sacred order?" he hisses, his voice multiplying into a chorus that echoes from every surface. "You corrupt the very essence of creation itself!"
I try to move, but my limbs feel like they're encased in concrete. The pressure builds until I can barely breathe, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. Behind me, I hear Caleif's servants engaging the other angels, the basement erupting into chaos as supernatural forces clash.
"Estingoth," I gasp, "I could use some help here."
His consciousness surges forward, and suddenly I understand what he means by being connected differently. Instead of him lending me power, I can feel our souls intertwining, sharing strength and knowledge. The angel's binding spell, which should have been unbreakable, begins to crack under the combined will of two souls working in perfect harmony.
"Now you see," Estingoth's voice rumbles through my thoughts, "what we can accomplish together."
The pressure shatters like glass. I surge forward, the gauntlet blazing with energy that's neither purely his nor mine, but something new—something that makes the angel's eyes widen with what might actually be fear.
My fist connects with his jaw, and I feel something crack. Not just bone, but the very essence of what he is. He stumbles backward, ichor streaming from his mouth, his perfect features marred by genuine shock.
"What are you?" he whispers, his divine composure finally cracking.
"I'm still figuring that out," I admit, then drive my knee into his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping, and I bring both hands down on the back of his neck. He crashes to the floor and doesn't get back up.
I turn to help Mira, but she's already finished with her opponent. The angel lies motionless at her feet, his sword extinguished, his wings spread at unnatural angles. She wipes her daggers clean on his robes, her expression coldly satisfied.
"Is he dead?" I ask, looking down at the angel I just dropped.
"Unconscious," Caleif says, appearing at my side. Her demonic features are already receding, though her eyes still burn with residual fire. "Angels are harder to kill than that. But they'll be out for hours."
I look around the basement. The other servants are securing the third angel, who's also been rendered unconscious. The ritual circle is completely destroyed, scorch marks and cracks radiating out from where I was standing.
"The ritual," I say, suddenly remembering. "Did it work? I feel... different."
Caleif studies me intently, her head tilted as if she's listening to something I can't hear. "Different how?"
I flex my fingers, watching the gauntlet respond with smooth, controlled energy. The chaotic static that usually accompanies Estingoth's voice is gone, replaced by a clear connection that feels as natural as breathing.
"I can feel him," I say, pressing my hand to my chest. "Not just hear him—feel him. Like he's..." I struggle for the right words. "Like he's become part of me, but still separate. Does that make sense?"
Estingoth's presence stirs in my mind, and when he speaks, his voice carries a wonder I've never heard before. "The ritual didn't create balance," he says, his words echoing through my consciousness. "It created synthesis. We are neither fully merged nor completely separate. We are... something new."
I relay his words to Caleif, who nods slowly. "The interruption might have actually helped. Instead of forcing a rigid equilibrium, it allowed for a more organic connection." She examines my arm, where the dark veins have stopped spreading but haven't receded. "The transformation has stabilized. You're not becoming like Estingoth was—you're becoming something entirely different."
"Better or worse?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know the answer.
"That," she says with a slight smile, "depends on what you do with it."
A groan from one of the unconscious angels cuts our conversation short. Mira kicks him in the ribs, and he falls silent again.
"We need to get out of here," she says, sheathing her daggers. "More will come. They always do."
I look down at the angels we've defeated, feeling a strange mixture of satisfaction and unease. The power flowing through me is intoxicating, but I can't shake the memory of Estingoth's transformation, of how power had ultimately consumed him.
"Where do we go?" I ask.
Caleif's expression hardens. "Somewhere they won't think to look. Somewhere we can figure out exactly what you've become." She pauses, studying my face. "And somewhere I can teach you to control it before it controls you."
The gauntlet pulses once, almost like a heartbeat, and I feel Estingoth's consciousness settling deeper into whatever we've become. For the first time since this all began, I'm not afraid of losing myself.