The silence in the small service room was heavier than any shout could be. The Saint sat with his back to the cold concrete, Sanctus leaning against the wall, its crimson light a contained promise of violence. Lyra was working on her small, sleek datapad a furious mosaic of code and encrypted feeds. The bound Bone-Scavenger lay in the corner, a reminder that the world was still actively hunting them.
We cannot run on luck.
His survival strategy required three things: information on Seraphiel's long-term plan, a secure comms system independent of the city's grid, and celestial energy cells to rapidly stabilise his core, negating the need for Lyra's costly, intimate touch.
"The Cathedra Archives Annexe," the Saint stated, breaking the silence. "Seraphiel uses an off-site facility near the city's power nexus for his black ledger forgotten weaponry, old power sources, sealed communications equipment."
Lyra didn't look up, her fingers flying across the pad. "I know the Annexe. It's impossible to crack. It's protected by five layers of sanctified encryption. Even the Black Cardinal's people wouldn't touch it it's death to any trace of divine or demonic signature."
"Precisely," the Saint replied. "But the encryption is only effective against spirit. It cannot defend against mortal ingenuity. Can you bypass five layers of Seraphiel's sanctified firewalls, Lyra Cross?"
Lyra finally looked up, her expression a mix of calculation and challenge. "I can Ghost-Weave the protocols. The sanctified encryption is still built on human code designed to serve an angel, not God. I can find the flaws, but the slightest mistake means total system lock-down and a drone strike within sixty seconds."
This was the core of their alliance the exchange of lethal skills. He could deal death; she could circumvent the divine barriers. He needed to trust her and that was the only chance at gaining leverage.
"Then show me," the Saint commanded. "Prove to me that your skills are sharp enough to gamble my Regenesis on."
Lyra accepted the challenge. She projected a holographic map of the Annexe's defence grid onto the wall a complex, pulsing web of gold and white light. She worked for an hour, explaining her process in curt, technical jargon: analysing the code for residual human pride, exploiting the arrogance of Seraphiel's reliance on celestial purity over mechanical efficiency. She was brilliant, and dangerously focused.
When she finished, the five layers of defence were marked with five clean, digital fault lines.
"We go at 0300," Lyra declared. "The shift change is sloppy, and I need the ambient energy flux from the nearby nexus to mask the intrusion spike."
The Saint nodded, the plan accepted. He needed to be ready. He moved to the corner, resting his massive frame, allowing the silence to settle between them. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow, preparing his body for the massive expenditure of energy the raid would demand.
He felt Lyra's presence draw closer. She sat down next to him, her shoulder brushing his, resuming the intimate, agonising act of stabilisation.
"Rest now, Azael," she murmured. "You need the quiet."
The pain is familiar, the two-sided agony of his forbidden love began its work. The crack in his core stilled. The Saint leaned into the contact, yielding to the only comfort he had known in centuries. The heat, the shame, the absolute certainty of his damnation, all were worth the momentary pause in the breaking of his soul.
"Before the Fall," the Saint said, the words barely a whisper, a spontaneous act of vulnerability he hadn't intended. "When I was Heaven's blade, I was only pain clean, necessary pain. I didn't know mercy. I didn't know... warmth."
Lyra's hand shifted, her touch growing firmer, more possessive. "And then you found me."
"And then I found the lie," he corrected, his voice heavy with ancient sorrow. "The lie of perfect justice. They told me love was sin. They told me your death was purification. But when I held you as the fires took you, I knew Heaven was a lie. That memory is why the core cracks. Not because I failed to kill, but because I failed to believe the lie."
Lyra didn't offer sympathy. She offered fire. "Then stop believing it. And let the core crack, Azael. Break it for the right reasons. For me."
The intimacy of her command was staggering. He felt the terrifying, irresistible pull of her soul. She wasn't asking him to be a saint; she was asking him to be her executioner.
Regaining Sanctus. The blade itself was ready, but to unleash its full power, the ability to cleave through Veritas, Seraphiel's holy blade, if it came to that, it would require a level of energy his core could not sustain. He would need those energy cells from the Annexe, but the initial burst of power to break through the inner sanctum would come from his own grace.
He sat up, his eyes now fixed on the crimson-edged Sanctus. "I will need to use the full force of the blade inside that Annexe. That will mean drawing directly from the core. I will not be able to hold back the pain."
"I'll be there," Lyra said simply, her hand still resting on his arm, a promise of simultaneous agony and salvation.
The Saint stood, the large, dark duster concealing the terrible strength of his body, the faint red glow of his blade reflected in his silver eyes. His plan was set. Lyra was ready. The time for caution was over.
He looked at the unconscious scavenger, then at Lyra. "If I fail, you vanish. Broadcast the truth of the Fragment. Expose them all. Do not come back for me."
"Don't be ridiculous," Lyra snapped, standing up to face him. "If you fail, I'll use the comms to tell Seraphiel where you are, just to watch you fight your way out. You're not getting rid of me, Azael."
The defiance in her voice was the sweetest sound he had heard in four hundred years.
"Good," the Saint murmured, allowing a ghost of the killer's grim smile to touch his lips. "Let's go steal from Heaven."