"Why were you fighting a child?" Amarze facepalmed, the sound echoing through the empty chamber. "Everyone calls you the Golden Boy like a joke, but you really are. Golden, but dim." The First Angel patted Miles on the shoulder with mock affection.
"What do you mean?" Miles asked, scratching at his brown pompadour, his voice soft but wary.
"You're the face of the Saints. The public doesn't see Gabriel, Rosamire, or Saraline when they think of us. They see you — Miles Phillips, the boy from Asaldom who climbed out of the mud and into the light. You're their star. A star I need for the future."
Miles blinked, his eyes widening. "You're right… I am a star."
Amarze chuckled darkly. "This stays between us. Thidos has been slipping. He's letting his past as Xeras Timpleson drag Floria into ruin. He's weak. And I have a plan. I only need your help."
"Why me—"
"Because you're special," Amarze cut him off. His tone sharpened, slicing through the air. "Physically unmatched. Your enchant is flawless. You have the makings of a monster, Phillips."
Miles' smile faltered. His eyes hardened. "I'm the Third Saint. Third place — on the podium. What makes you think I'll let you use me like a pawn?"
Amarze leaned closer, the shadows tightening around him. "Because you're not just a pawn. You're the piece no one expects to move. The Golden Boy who never flinches. But what happens when he does?"
Miles laughed bitterly. "Use me? Like a chess piece? You're too old and ugly to be the player."
That earned another laugh, this one jagged, hollow. "Ugly? You haven't even seen me yet."
He snapped his fingers. The darkness peeled back, unveiling his face at last — or what was left of it. A blood-soaked sack of skin stretched tight, two gaping holes glowing white where eyes should be, his mouth peeled back to reveal mummified flesh and rotting teeth.
"Beautiful, aren't I?" Amarze whispered, his grin splitting his ruined face.
Miles gagged but forced a laugh. Sweat rolled down his temples. "The Handsome and the Ugly. What a team."
Amarze leaned so close Miles could smell the rot. "When the Reprisal begins, I'll need you to kill someone for me."
Miles' throat tightened. "Who?"
"Not yet." Amarze's voice softened into velvet mockery. "Patience."
"Who?" Miles demanded, louder this time.
Amarze's sockets flared red. "Keep asking, and maybe Emilia's daughter won't come home tonight."
Miles froze. His face went pale.
Amarze chuckled, low and broken. "Relax. I wouldn't touch her. But you believed it, didn't you? The fear was enough. Look at you — already trembling."
Miles' jaw locked. His hands shook despite himself.
"Beautiful smiles, Miles," Amarze whispered. "That's what you are to them. So keep smiling… or I'll make you."
The shadows folded back over him, sealing the pact.