The Serpent's Mouth was not a sanctuary; it was a cage. The abandoned metro station was a vast, echoing labyrinth carved from the city's deepest foundation, a place where the air was heavy with the desperation of the discarded. Lyra guided the Saint to a forgotten emergency service room a small, concrete cube tucked behind rusted train parts that offered temporary respite from the pervasive cold and the eyes of the tunnels' human residents.
The moment the thick, steel door clanged shut, the Saint collapsed against the wall, and Sanctus clattered to the floor. The greatsword's crimson light guttered, and his silver eyes, still alight with the residue of his recent battle, faded almost to nothing: a flat, exhausted silver-grey. He was running on fumes, his immense frame betraying his physical and divine depletion.
Lyra moved to him instantly. The killer in him was terrifying, but the exhausted man before her was vulnerable, and terrifyingly hers.
"You're burning out," she stated, her voice low. She didn't ask; she affirmed. "The core is cracking. You can't heal without consuming energy, and you spent it all forging the blade and fighting the Cardinal's shadows."
He didn't argue. He allowed her to peel back the remnants of his tattered tunic. The sight of his sacred marks, ancient script woven into his arms and chest, was mesmerising. They were no longer pulsing, but etched in faint, bruised gold, testimony to the violent energy consumption.
Lyra took a cloth and wiped the sweat and soot from his exposed shoulder, inspecting the faint, star-shaped burn where the Aegis Hand's pulse had hit.
She remembered the strange, reciprocal effect of their touch in the tunnels: the pain that demanded resistance, followed by the shock of stabilisation. It wasn't logic; it was a terrible, beautiful truth.
Lyra placed her palm flat against the skin near his heart, where the divine core was housed. She prepared for the searing pain of the forbidden flame, bracing herself against the memory of the stake.
The pain came instantly a sharp, cold fire that made her gasp, the involuntary sound lost in the vastness of the tunnels outside. Her hand was shaking. This was the cost of their love: the soul-deep agony of bridging the gap between creation and mortality.
But, just as before, beneath the agony, there was the miracle.
She could feel the erratic, frantic rhythm of his fractured core begin to smooth out, the unstable energy settling, calming. The Fragment of Eden's Flame in her soul, the power Seraphiel wanted to steal and Lucifera wanted to exploit, was doing its work as a life support system for the man who had traded Heaven for her.
"What you are doing," the Saint rasped, his eyes closed, his voice laced with the strain of holding back the explosion of energy. "It should be killing us both faster."
"Maybe it should," Lyra whispered, focusing on the rhythmic pulse beneath her palm. "But it's not. It's holding you together. It's the only logic that matters right now."
She needed him alive to escape the city; he needed her touch to keep his body from dissolving into pure, spent grace. The arrangement was terrifying, yet exquisitely intimate.
She worked quickly, cleaning and dressing the physical wounds, using scavenged medical supplies she had stored in her emergency kit. She found a heavy, dark, cowl-necked duster a forgotten coat she'd once used as a disguise and handed it to him.
"Wear this. It hides the muscle and the outline of your wings," she instructed.
He donned the garment, the heavy fabric instantly concealing the distinct silhouette of his archangel form, replacing it with the anonymity of the city's outcasts.
They settled into a tense, silent watch, their proximity a constant, vibrating energy.
Suddenly, a rhythmic, scraping sound echoed from the corridor outside the service room. The heavy steel door, which Lyra thought was securely sealed, shuddered.
"They smell us," the Saint murmured, retrieving Sanctus. The blade's red glow pulsed faintly in the darkness.
The scraping stopped. A moment later, a voice hollow, reverent, and utterly insane slid through the air vent.
"The Cardinal sends his blessing. The Fallen One is weak. The Light of Eden illuminates his hiding place."
A dark, emaciated figure—a Bone-Scavenger, judging by the filthy rags and the bag of collected metallic debris pressed against the door's narrow viewport. His eyes were wide and fanatical, focused solely on Lyra. He was a low-level servant of the Black Cardinal, driven by the cult's promise of divine power.
"The Saint made a choice for the woman," the Scavenger chanted, his voice rattling. "The Cardinal offers mercy: Release the Fragment. Release the woman's soul to her true mistress, Lucifera. The Black Cardinal will then use his healing arts to restore your former glory."
Lyra felt her blood run cold. They weren't just hunting her; they were making offers.
The Saint didn't move. He stood, the greatsword resting easily in his hand, his shadowed face impassive.
"Tell your master," the Saint said, his voice quiet, devoid of the Voice of Command, yet vibrating with an absolute, deadly certainty. "The killer does not negotiate. He executes."
The Scavenger began to laugh a dry, wheezing sound of fanaticism. "Folly! You cannot defeat Heaven and Hell. Choose life, Fallen one! Choose power!"
The Saint moved with a blurring, final speed. He slammed the flat of Sanctus against the heavy steel door. The impact was not a full strike, but a perfectly delivered, directed wave of sonic force.
The noise inside the small room was deafening. The steel door buckled and groaned. Outside, the Scavenger shrieked, his fanaticism instantly replaced by terror as the raw, suppressed power of the Executioner slammed into him.
The Saint opened the door. The Bone-Scavenger was on the floor, convulsing. His weapons were scattered, his body not physically broken, but paralysed by the sheer, contained violence. He had only been struck by the shockwave through the door, yet the message was clear: this is what happens when I touch you.
The Saint dragged the unconscious cultist's body into the room, kicking the discarded bag of junk after him.
"He will wake up with an important headache and a fear of steel doors," the Saint said, looking at Lyra, his silver eyes still faded but resolute. "He is not dead. The core is safe."
He picked up a discarded copper wire, handing it to Lyra. "Bind him. He serves as an anchor. We remain here until the search teams disperse. Do you understand the danger now? There are no alliances for us. Only enemies."
Lyra looked from the unconscious cultist to the Saint, who was now leaning against the wall, utterly exhausted but holding the line. She reached out, her hand finding his. The dual shock of pain and healing reaffirmed the truth.
"I understand," Lyra affirmed, her voice steady. "They want the key. And I'm not giving them my soul."