The Cathedra ArchTheves Annexe was a high-tech fortress masquerading as a bank vault—cold, sterile, and aggressively silent. Lyra and the Saint moved through the peripheral security grid with the synchronised precision of a machine and its pilot.
The Saint, cloaked in the dark duster, was a figure of terrifying, efficient darkness. He used Sanctus not as a broadsword, but as a scalpel, its crimson glow barely visible as he delivered non-lethal strikes to the guards' pressure points. His movements were fluid, silent, the perfected discipline of an executioner saving his grace, one motion at a time.
Lyra, meanwhile, was the ghost. She Ghost-Weaved the outer layers of the sanctified digital security from a relay station two hundred meters away. The complexity of Seraphiel's code was immense, but Lyra's focus was absolute, seeking the human fallibility beneath the divine programming.
Layer three bypassed. Motion sensors are offline. Internal comms disabled.
They met at the second access door, a massive, titanium portal bearing the glowing, triumphant sigil of Seraphiel.
"Internal defence: Chorale Ward," Lyra muttered, checking her implant. "Aural bombardment. They use amplified Angelic hymns to overload the nervous system—a targeted attack on high cognitive function. They assume an angel will withstand it, and a demon will be repelled."
"It is meant for you," the Saint confirmed grimly, resting Sanctus on his shoulder. "Keep your focus."
Lyra nodded, triggering the door. It hissed open, revealing a short corridor bathed in blinding, strobing white light, accompanied by a sound that instantly turned her blood to ice.
It wasn't music. It was a pure, high-frequency sonic weapon—a choir of a thousand voices singing the liturgy of Seraphiel, pitched to shatter mortal equilibrium. The sound bypassed her ears, burrowing directly into her brain.
Lyra gasped, clutching her head, the world tilting violently. The hymns spoke of purity, obedience, and the eradication of the Fallen. Her concentration shattered, the digital breach she had achieved was threatening to collapse.
The Saint reacted instantly. He surged forward, pressing his large frame against hers, shielding her from the light and the sonic assault. He placed his hand over her ear, not to block the sound, but to project a low, vibrating counter-frequency from his own residual core.
The pressure on her eardrum was intense, almost painful, but it worked. The overwhelming assault of the Chorale Ward receded, replaced by the deep, steady thrum of his being.
"Focus on my heartbeat," the Saint commanded, his voice a low, rough rumble against her temple. "Do not break."
Lyra fought to regain her centre, eyes squeezed shut, anchored only by the unyielding warmth of his body and the steady thrum of his heart—the heart of a killer who had chosen her over Heaven. She forced her mind to compartmentalise, to see the sonic attack as only a waveform, a signal to be filtered.
Focus. Alliance. Survival.
She lunged past him, reaching a small, recessed access panel. Her fingers flew, weaving a thread of raw code into the system. Deactivating aural signature. The overwhelming sound instantly died. Silence rushed back, thick and blessed.
"Access granted," Lyra breathed, leaning against the cold metal, spent.
They had mere moments before the system recovered. As they moved deeper, into the main corridor, a red warning light flashed on Lyra's peripheral vision. A high-speed intrusion attempt—a back-door counter-hack—was forcing its way through her compromised firewall.
"Counter-intrusion!" Lyra snapped, pulling the Saint backwards into a utility alcove. "They're trying to lock us in!"
They tumbled into the small, dark space, the Saint landing heavily, his body pressing her against the wall. His face was inches from hers, the heat of his skin overwhelming. The silver of his eyes was almost black with exhaustion and suppressed pain, but the burning tension between them was immediate and explosive.
In that split second, with the air thick with danger and their bodies pressed into intimate contact, the painful, healing spark ignited. It was a searing rush of pure, forbidden energy—the Serpent's Kiss—a moment of profound vulnerability where only Azael and Lyra remained.
His breath hitched, and a wave of pure agony washed over his face as his core stabilised, momentarily stealing his focus. He knew he needed her; she knew he was in pain.
"I need to breach the vault door," the Saint whispered, his voice dangerously low.
"The digital lock is the final step," Lyra whispered back, trying to ignore the overwhelming, painful electricity of their contact. "I've flagged the power vault entrance. It's reinforced celestial steel—you'll have to blast it."
He pulled back, his face a mask of brutal determination, the moment of vulnerability gone. He knew the cost of the blast—a catastrophic drain on his core. But the energy cells were inside.
Lyra brought up the final schematics on her datapad. The Energy Vault was directly ahead. "Digital lock compromised. The physical barrier is yours, Azael."
The Saint stepped out, Sanctus raised. He focused his will, drawing on the unstable fragments of his grace, preparing the sacrifice. He was ready to shatter his core entirely, if necessary, to claim the resources.
But before the blade could descend, Lyra's implant shrieked, a high-priority, non-human detection alarm.
"Azael! Stop!" Lyra cried, pushing herself out of the alcove. "High-speed pursuit detected! Not drones! Elite squad! Archon Squad—Seraphiel's best anti-Fallen hunters! They're already breaching the outer perimeter!"
The Saint paused, his massive arm still raised, Sanctus vibrating with suppressed power. The Archon Squad meant total annihilation.
"They're here to kill you and capture me," Lyra stated, her voice tight with panic.
The Saint didn't hesitate. He brought the massive, crimson-lit blade down with a silent, thunderous strike, channelling every ounce of his available grace into the attack.
The celestial steel of the vault door didn't just bend—it exploded into shards of molten energy, a catastrophic burst of power that ripped through the corridor, throwing Lyra back against the wall. The divine core shrieked in protest, the crack widening to a terrible, audible groan.
And through the resulting, temporary void in the energy field, the black-armored, seven-strong Archon Squad burst into the Annexe, their sanctified weapons raised, trapping the Saint between the blinding explosion and their deadly, focused intent.