I wake with a scream dying in my throat, sweat-soaked sheets tangled around my legs like serpents. The gauntlet pulses against my skin, responding to my panic with a crimson glow that illuminates the unfamiliar walls of our sanctuary.
"Just a dream," I whisper, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.
It's been two weeks since we fled the academy, since the Purifier shattered into particles of light and scattered on the wind. Two weeks of nightmares where I watch Caleif die over and over again, only to awaken and find her miraculously alive—a resurrection that still feels too good to be true.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, pressing my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids. The dark veins crawl up my arms like shadowy rivers, no longer painful but a constant reminder of what I'm becoming. What I might already be.
"Bad dreams again?" Estingoth's voice rumbles through my consciousness, gentler than it used to be.
"Same one," I admit, reaching for the water beside my bed. "Caleif dying. Me not being fast enough to save her."
"Yet she lives," he reminds me. "The Creator saw fit to return her to us."
I nod, draining the glass in three desperate gulps. "That's what scares me. Gods don't give gifts without expecting something in return."
The sanctuary Valen brought us to is ancient—a sprawling underground complex carved directly into a mountainside. Its location remains a mystery to most; we arrived through portals, disoriented and exhausted from battle. All I know is that we're somewhere remote, somewhere the Purifier's forces won't easily find.
I pull on a shirt, hiding the veins that have spread across my chest and back. They've stabilized since the battle, neither advancing nor retreating, but I can feel the power they contain pulsing just beneath my skin, waiting to be released.
The corridors are quiet at this hour, lit by strange phosphorescent fungi that grow along the stone walls. I make my way toward the central chamber, drawn by the faint golden glow I can somehow sense even through solid rock—Caleif's aura, a beacon calling me home.
I find her sitting cross-legged in the center of the chamber, eyes closed, golden light swirling around her in patterns too complex to follow. She looks peaceful, ethereal, barely touching the physical world.
"You're staring," she says without opening her eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"Hard not to," I reply, leaning against a stone pillar. "You're kind of glowing."
She opens her eyes, the bluish-red irises now permanently flecked with gold since her resurrection. "I'm trying to understand it—this power The Creator gave me along with a second chance."
I move closer, watching the golden energy respond to my presence, reaching toward the crimson glow of the gauntlet like opposite poles of a magnet. "Any insights?"
"It's not just power," she says, uncrossing her legs and rising gracefully to her feet. "It's... purpose. I can feel it guiding me, showing me fragments of what might be."
"Sounds cryptic."
She laughs, the sound echoing off the ancient stones. "That's exactly what it is. I get these... visions. Flashes of possible futures. But they're incomplete, like looking through a shattered mirror."
I reach for her hand, our energies intertwining where our skin meets. The sensation still takes my breath away—like completing a circuit I never knew was broken.
"What do you see for us?" I ask, suddenly desperate to know if there's any future where this ends well.
Her expression grows somber. "War," she says simply. "On a scale neither realm has seen before. Angels and demons locked in conflict, with humanity caught in the crossfire."
My stomach tightens. "Because of me? Because of what I've become?"
"No." She squeezes my hand. "Because of what we've all become. The balance between realms has been shifting for centuries. You're a symptom, not the cause."
"That's not exactly comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." She steps closer, her free hand coming up to trace the veins visible at my collar. "But I also see hope. Specifically, you."
I snort, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "Me? The half-demon freak with a warlord living in his head? That's what passes for hope these days?"
"Yes." Her eyes hold mine, utterly serious. "Because you stand between worlds, Kamen. Not just human and demon, but angel too, since Azazel's blood ritual. You're becoming a nexus of realms that have been separate for too long."
The weight of her words settles over me like a physical burden. "I never asked for any of this," I whisper.
"None of us did," she replies softly. "But here we are anyway."
The moment is interrupted by footsteps approaching from the eastern corridor. Elara emerges from the shadows, her face grim in the mixed light of our auras.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says, though her tone suggests she's not sorry at all. "But we have a situation."
I reluctantly release Caleif's hand. "What kind of situation?"
"The kind where Roshan's just arrived with news about angelic movements. And he's not alone." Her green eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "He's brought Seraphine Hallow with him."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Seraphine Hallow—the exiled demon noble who's spent centuries accumulating knowledge about both realms. The one person who might understand what's happening to me, what I'm becoming.
"When?" I ask, already moving toward the entrance hall.
"Now," Elara replies, falling into step beside me. "And Kamen? She's been asking for you specifically."
I exchange a glance with Caleif, whose expression has grown cautious. "What does she want with me?"
"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Elara's hand brushes against the hilt of one of her daggers—a nervous habit I've noticed when she's uncertain. "But Roshan trusts her, which is saying something."
We make our way through the winding corridors, the sanctuary's strange architecture designed to confuse intruders. I've gotten lost more than once in the two weeks we've been here, but now I follow the subtle markers Valen taught us—symbols carved into the stone that guide those who know what to look for.
The entrance hall is a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness above. Roshan stands near the center, his tall frame rigid with tension as he converses with Valen. Beside him is a woman I've never seen before, but whose presence seems to fill the space like a physical force.
Seraphine Hallow is tall, ethereally beautiful in a way that makes my human instincts scream danger. Her silver hair falls to her waist in a straight curtain, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—shift colors like opals as she turns to watch our approach.
"Kamen Driscol," she says, her voice melodic yet somehow ancient. "The Gauntlet-Bearer. We meet at last."
I stop a few paces away, instantly wary. There's something about her that sets my teeth on edge—a power that feels older, deeper than anything I've encountered before.
"You have me at a disadvantage," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "You know who I am, but I only know your reputation."
A smile curves her perfect lips. "And what reputation is that, I wonder?"
"That you know things," I say bluntly. "Things about demons, angels, artifacts like this." I raise my gauntleted arm slightly. "And that you don't share that knowledge without a price."
Her laugh is like crystal bells, beautiful and sharp enough to cut. "Direct. I appreciate that." Her opal eyes shift to Caleif, narrowing slightly at the golden aura. "And you must be the resurrected one. How fascinating. The Creator has not directly intervened in such matters for... millennia."
Caleif inclines her head but doesn't reply, her wariness evident in the way her aura pulses around her.
"Why are you here?" I ask, bringing Seraphine's attention back to me.
"Because, Kamen Driscol, we are standing at the precipice of something unprecedented." She moves closer, her flowing robes of deep emerald whispering against the stone floor. "The Purifier's defeat was merely the opening move in a game that has been centuries in the making."
"What game?" Elara interjects, her stance subtly shifting to protective mode beside me.
Seraphine's gaze flicks to her dismissively. "One far beyond the understanding of demon hunters, child." She refocuses on me, those color-shifting eyes seeming to peer directly into my soul. "But not beyond yours, Gauntlet-Bearer. You feel it, don't you? The confluence of powers within you? The way they're changing you into something... new?"
I resist the urge to step back, to put distance between myself and this creature who sees too much. "If you know what's happening to me, just say it."
"Very well." She gestures, and the air between us shimmers, forming images that hover like smoke. "You are becoming a Nexus Being—a living bridge between realms that have been separate since the Beginning. Human. Demon. Angel. All flowing through you, changing you, making you into something that should not exist... but does."
The images shift, showing a silhouette that might be me, wreathed in energies of different colors—crimson, gold, and a cold blue I associate with angels.
"The Purifier sensed this potential in you," Seraphine continues. "That's why they were so determined to destroy you. Nexus Beings threaten the established order. They can reshape reality itself, given time and proper... guidance."
My mouth goes dry. "Reshape reality? That's impossible. I'm just—"
"Just what?" she interrupts, those opal eyes gleaming. "Just a human with a demonic artifact? Just a half-demon learning to control his powers? Just a man who witnessed a divine resurrection and battled celestial forces to a standstill?" She laughs again, the sound raising goosebumps on my arms. "You are 'just' nothing, Kamen Driscol. You are becoming everything."
The gauntlet pulses against my skin, warming as if in response to her words. I feel Estingoth stirring, his consciousness pressing closer to the surface of our shared mind.
"She speaks truth," he rumbles, his voice resonating through my thoughts. "I have suspected something like this since our integration stabilized. You are... different from my previous wielders. More adaptable. More capable of containing multiple energies without being consumed by them."
"And what happens to Nexus Beings?" I ask aloud, my voice steadier than I feel. "What's the endgame here?"
Seraphine's expression grows solemn. "That depends entirely on you. Some become gods. Others, monsters beyond comprehension. Most are destroyed before they fully manifest—hunted by those who fear change, like your Purifier."
"I don't want to be a god, fuck that, that guy is a dick. I know he's a dick because he made me." I say firmly with a laugh as a small rock falls from the ceiling and hits me on the head. "Or… monsters," I finish awkwardly, rubbing my head where the pebble struck. "Real mature," I mutter, glancing upward.
Seraphine's lips quirk into what might be amusement. "The Creator has a peculiar sense of humor. Something you might understand better than most, given your... unique perspective."
I feel Caleif shift closer to me, her golden aura brushing against mine like a silent warning. She doesn't trust Seraphine—not completely—and her caution feeds my own.
"So what exactly do you want from me?" I ask, crossing my arms. "You didn't come all this way for a metaphysics lecture."
"Direct as ever," Seraphine observes, those opal eyes shifting from blue to violet. "What I want, Kamen Driscol, is to ensure that when you fully manifest as a Nexus Being, you reshape reality in ways that benefit us all—not just the angels, not just the demons, but the delicate balance that allows all realms to coexist."
"And you're just... what? Offering your services out of the goodness of your heart?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice.
Roshan steps forward then, his weathered face grave. "Seraphine has been monitoring angelic movements for centuries. She warned me about the Purifier long before they made their first move against you."
"And yet you didn't see fit to share that information until now," Elara interjects, her distrust evident.
Seraphine doesn't even glance her way. "Information shared at the wrong time is as dangerous as no information at all. You weren't ready to hear what I had to say—not until you'd experienced the truth of it firsthand."
I feel a headache building behind my eyes, the weight of everything pressing down on me. "Let's say I believe you about this Nexus Being stuff. What happens now? How do I control it?"
"You don't," she says simply. "Not yet. The transformation is still in its early stages. What you need is to understand the forces at play, to learn how they interact within you."
"And you can teach me that?" I ask, unable to keep the hope from my voice despite my suspicion.
"I can guide you, yes." She steps closer, and I notice that she moves with an unnatural grace, as if the normal laws of physics apply to her only by her consent. "But first, we must address more immediate concerns. The celestial forces are regrouping. The Purifier's defeat has created a power vacuum, and several factions are now vying to fill it."
"How many?" Valen asks, speaking for the first time since we entered.
"Three major ones," Seraphine replies, turning to include him in the conversation. "The Purifiers, who wish to continue their predecessor's mission. The Reconcilers, who believe coexistence with demons might be possible under strict conditions. And the Eradicators, who view the recent chaos as proof that both demons and humans have been corrupted beyond salvation."
"Let me guess," I say dryly. "The Eradicators are winning."
She inclines her head. "They have the most support among the angelic host. Their leader, Samael, is gathering forces for what they're calling the Final Cleansing."
"Dramatic," Elara mutters.
"But accurate," Seraphine counters. "If Samael succeeds, there will be nothing left of demon-kind. Or humanity, for that matter."
The room falls silent as we all absorb the implications. Finally, Caleif speaks, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.
"How much time do we have?"
"Weeks, perhaps a month," Seraphine replies. "They're methodical, gathering allies from unexpected quarters."
"Like the fallen angels who attacked the academy," I realize aloud.
"Precisely. Samael offers the fallen a chance at redemption through service. Many have accepted, despite knowing they'll be destroyed once their usefulness ends."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to process everything. "So we've got an angel death squad coming for us, I'm turning into some kind of reality-warping nexus thing, and our best hope is..." I gesture at Seraphine, "...no offense, but someone none of us really trust."
"An accurate assessment," she acknowledges with a slight smile. "Though I would add that you also have resources few others could claim. A resurrected demon carrying divine energy. A demon warlord's consciousness integrated with your own. And the backing of both the Academy and Roshan's network."
"It's still not enough," Roshan says grimly. "Not against the combined might of the angelic host."
"Perhaps not," Seraphine agrees. "But there is one more piece on the board we haven't discussed." Her opal eyes fix on me again. "Azazel."
The name sends a jolt through me, memories of our last encounter flooding back—her silver-white hair with those strange shadow streaks, the way she'd claimed me through the blood ritual, the connection I can still feel pulsing beneath my skin alongside Estingoth's presence.
"What about her?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
"She has her own agenda," Seraphine says carefully. "One that may align with ours, given the right... incentives."
"She used me," I say flatly. "Created some kind of blood bond without my consent. Why would I want anything to do with her?"
"Because she commands a faction of angels who have rejected both the Purifiers and the Eradicators," Seraphine replies. "Exiles, like herself, who believe in a different path. And because the bond she created with you..." She pauses, studying me with those unsettling eyes. "It can be used in ways she may not have anticipated."
I feel Caleif tense beside me, her golden aura flickering with what might be jealousy or concern. "What ways?" she asks.
"The blood bond gives Azazel influence over Kamen, yes. But influence flows both ways. Especially for a developing Nexus Being." Seraphine's voice drops lower, more intimate somehow. "You could turn her own connection against her, bend her to your will rather than the reverse."
The idea makes my skin crawl, even as part of me—the darker part, the part that's becoming less human by the day—finds it intriguing. "I'm not interested in controlling anyone," I say firmly.
"Even to save countless lives?" Seraphine challenges. "Even to prevent the annihilation of three realms?"
I have no answer for that. The gauntlet pulses against my skin, Estingoth unusually quiet as he processes this new information.
"We need time to consider all this," Caleif says, her hand finding mine. "And Kamen needs rest. The transformation takes a toll."
Seraphine inclines her head, accepting the dismissal with grace. "Of course. But remember, time is a luxury we have precious little of." She turns to Valen. "I trust you have quarters prepared? The journey was... taxing."
As Valen leads Seraphine and Roshan deeper into the sanctuary, I remain rooted to the spot, my mind racing with everything I've just learned. Nexus Being. Reality-warping powers. Angelic factions preparing for war. And Azazel, whose blood runs in my veins whether I want it to or not.
"You okay?" Elara asks, her usual brusqueness softened by genuine concern.
"Not even close," I admit. "Every time I think I've got a handle on how screwed up this situation is, it gets ten times worse."
She gives a short laugh. "Welcome to the supernatural world. Just when you think you've seen it all, the universe finds new ways to mess with you."
"Comforting," I mutter.
"Wasn't trying to be." She glances toward the corridor where Seraphine disappeared. "For what it's worth, I don't trust her. But Roshan does, and his instincts are usually good."
"Usually," I repeat. "Great."
Caleif's golden aura wraps around me like a protective cocoon, her presence a balm to my frayed nerves. "We should talk," she says softly. "Privately."
I nod, too mentally exhausted to argue. We leave Elara in the entrance hall and make our way through the winding corridors to my quarters. The room is sparse—a bed, a desk, a small bathroom—but it's become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where I can let my guard down.
As soon as the door closes behind us, Caleif turns to me, her expression troubled. "You felt it too, didn't you? When Seraphine was speaking?"
"Felt what?" I ask, though I think I know what she means.
"Power," she says simply. "Old power. She's not what she appears to be."
I sink onto the edge of the bed, suddenly bone-weary. "Is anyone in this mess what they appear to be? You're a resurrected demon. I'm turning into some kind of cosmic nexus point. Estingoth is a warlord living in my head."
"Fair point," she concedes, sitting beside me. The mattress doesn't even dip under her weight—another reminder of how her resurrection changed her. "But Seraphine... there's something about her that doesn't add up. The way she spoke about the Beginning, as if she was there."
"You think she's older than she's letting on?"
Caleif nods, her ember-red hair catching the light. "Much older. And that makes me wonder what her true agenda might be."
I lean back, staring at the stone ceiling. "At this point, I'm not sure it matters. If what she says about the Eradicators is true, we need all the help we can get—sketchy agendas or not."
"And Azazel?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral. "What are you going to do about her?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications. Caleif knows about the blood bond, about what happened between Azazel and me. We've never discussed it directly—there's been too much else going on—but I can sense her unease whenever the exiled angel's name comes up.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I can still feel her, you know. Like a splinter under my skin that I can't quite reach."
"Can she sense you too?" Caleif asks, her golden-flecked eyes studying my face.
"I think so. Sometimes I feel... tugs. Like she's checking the connection." I flex my hand, watching the dark veins pulse beneath my skin. "It's different from what I have with Estingoth. Less integrated, more... invasive."
Caleif is quiet for a long moment, then says, "Seraphine might be right about one thing. If Azazel has allies—angels who've rejected both the Purifiers and the Eradicators—they could be valuable."
"At what cost, though?" I ask, the memory of Azazel's cold manipulation still fresh. "She doesn't do anything without getting something in return."
"Neither does Seraphine," Caleif points out. "At least with Azazel, we know what she wants."
Me. She wants me. The thought hangs unspoken between us.
I stop myself before finishing the thought, but Caleif's knowing look tells me she understood anyway. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths.
"I need to shower," I say finally, standing abruptly. "Clear my head."
She nods, not pressing the issue. "I'll be in the central chamber if you need me. The visions are stronger there—maybe I can see something that'll help us understand what's coming."
After she leaves, I strip off my clothes and step into the small bathroom. The water is lukewarm at best, but it feels good against my skin. I watch the dark veins pulse beneath the surface, wondering if they'll continue spreading or if this is as far as the transformation goes.
"You're troubled," Estingoth observes, his voice clearer in the solitude.
"Wouldn't you be?" I mutter, running soap over my arms. "Nexus Being. Reality-warping powers. Angelic armies coming to kill us all. Take your pick."
"It's not the armies that concern you," he says perceptively. "It's the choice ahead. Between what you want and what might be necessary."
I pause, my hands stilling. "What do you mean?"
"Azazel. The blood bond. Seraphine's suggestion that you could turn it to your advantage." His presence shifts, becoming more substantial. "You're horrified by the idea, but you're also tempted by it."
"I'm not—"
"You are," he interrupts gently. "And that's what frightens you. The part of you that's becoming something other than human sees the practical benefits. The efficiency of it."
I lean my forehead against the cool stone wall, letting the water run over my back. He's right, damn him. There's a part of me that whispers about the elegant simplicity of Seraphine's plan—turn Azazel's own weapon against her, use the blood bond to command her forces.
"Is that what happened to you?" I ask. "Did you start making practical choices until you forgot why you were fighting in the first place?"
"Something like that," he admits. "The line between necessary and monstrous becomes... blurred. Especially when the stakes are high enough."
I finish washing and turn off the water, grabbing a towel from the rack. "So what do I do? How do I stay... me?"
"Remember why you're fighting," he says simply. "Not for abstract concepts like balance or cosmic order. For the people you care about. Caleif. The students at the academy. Even your demon hunter friend."
"Elara," I say automatically.
"Yes. Hold onto those connections. They're your anchor."
I towel off and dress in clean clothes—simple black pants and a gray shirt that hides most of the veins. When I look in the mirror, I barely recognize myself. The face staring back is leaner, more angular than it used to be. My eyes hold flecks of crimson that weren't there before, and there's something predatory in the way I hold myself.
"I'm changing," I say to my reflection. "Not just the powers. Everything."
"Evolution," Estingoth corrects. "You're becoming what you need to be to survive what's coming."
"And if what I need to be is a monster?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "Then be the kind of monster that protects the things you love."
I leave the bathroom and find Elara waiting in my quarters, perched on the edge of my desk with her usual casual confidence.
"Feel better?" she asks, though her green eyes are studying me with that analytical gaze of hers.
"Not really," I admit. "What are you doing here?"
"Thought you might want to know—Roshan's been briefing some of the senior academy staff. The situation's worse than Seraphine let on." She slides off the desk, moving closer. "The Eradicators aren't just gathering forces. They're recruiting from both human and demon populations."
My blood runs cold. "What do you mean, recruiting?"
"Humans who've been touched by supernatural forces. Demon hunters who've become disillusioned with the old ways. Even some demons who believe the only way to survive is to side with the angels." Her expression is grim. "They're offering redemption, purification, a chance to be on the winning side."
"And people are buying it?"
"Enough of them." She runs a hand through her short dark hair. "Roshan's network is fracturing. Half his contacts have gone dark, and the other half are feeding him information that feels too convenient."
I sink into the room's single chair, the weight of everything pressing down on me. "So we can't trust anyone."
"We can trust each other," she says firmly. "And the people in this sanctuary. Beyond that..." She shrugs. "We're on our own."
"Great. Just great." I rub my temples, feeling a headache building. "Anything else I should know?"
"Actually, yes." She hesitates, then seems to make a decision. "I've been thinking about what Seraphine said. About you being a Nexus Being."
"And?"
"The demon hunters have legends about beings like that. Old stories, dismissed as myth." She leans against the wall, her expression thoughtful. "But if they're true, if you really are becoming something that can reshape reality..."
"Then what?" I ask when she doesn't continue.
"Then maybe we're thinking about this all wrong. Maybe instead of trying to stop a war, we should be trying to end it. Permanently."
The suggestion hangs in the air between us, dangerous and seductive. I feel the gauntlet pulse against my skin, responding to the dark turn of my thoughts.
"You're talking about genocide," I say quietly.
"I'm talking about survival," she counters. "The Eradicators want to wipe out demons and humans alike. The Purifiers want to cleanse anything they consider corrupted. At what point do we stop playing defense and start playing offense?"
"When we become the monsters we're fighting against," I reply, though the words feel hollow even as I say them.
Elara studies me for a long moment. "You're already changing, Kamen. I can see it in how you move, how you think. The question is whether you'll use that change to protect the people you care about or let it consume you."
Before I can respond, the sanctuary's alarm system activates—a deep, resonant tone that echoes through the stone corridors. We both freeze, listening as the sound repeats three times.
"Intruders," Elara says, her hand moving instinctively to her weapons. "Multiple contacts."
I'm already moving, the gauntlet flaring to life as adrenaline floods my system. We rush through the corridors toward the central chamber, where I can sense Caleif's golden aura blazing like a beacon.
The chamber is in chaos when we arrive. Valen stands at the center, his hands wreathed in hellfire as he maintains a defensive perimeter. Roshan and several academy staff members are positioned around the room's edges, weapons drawn. And there, floating in the air above us all, is a figure I recognize with a mixture of dread and unwanted attraction.
Azazel descends slowly, her silver-white hair streaming behind her like liquid mercury. Her perfect features are composed, almost serene, but I can see the predatory gleam in her eyes as they fix on me.
"Hello, Kamen," she says, her voice carrying that same melodic quality that makes my skin crawl and my pulse quicken. "We need to talk."