The Iron Spire Bypass was a ruin of twisted metal suspended a thousand feet above the Shattered City's neon canyons. The corroded platform was buffeted by high winds, and the residual magnetism from the derelict spire was perfect: it would scramble Seraphiel's lower altitude surveillance and force the Archon leader to rely solely on the spiritual signal.
Working quickly, Lyra clamped the small, powerful celestial comms unit to a rusted railing. She was coding the Ghost Lure—a precise, digital mimicry of the Fragment's energy signature. The irony was not lost on her: she was using the tool of Heaven to lure Heaven's ultimate weapon into a trap.
The Saint stood a few feet away, his back to the city lights, the massive shape of Sanctus a dark promise beneath his duster. He was utterly still, conserving his grace for the impact, waiting for the inevitable, terrifying surge of pain and power the coming battle would demand.
"Did it hurt," Lyra asked, her voice low, breaking the tense silence, "to use the Judgment Wave?"
He did not turn. "It was the only viable action."
"No," she insisted, pausing her work, turning to face him. The wind whipped her hair across her face. "I saw your core—even after the energy cells, you forced it past its limit. The pain—the paradox of my touch—it stabilised you, but it did not heal the old damage. Did you risk breaking it, permanently, to clear the corridor?"
The Saint finally turned, his silver eyes catching the faint, eerie glow of the comms unit. He was imposing, formidable, yet profoundly vulnerable in the quiet moment before the storm.
"Yes," he admitted, the word a raw, guttural sound. "If Seraphiel had secured the Annexe, he would have had the resources, the time, and the leverage to find you again. I will not fail you twice, Lyra. The cost of my Regenesis is irrelevant to your survival."
The honesty was a blow. It was not just a physical sacrifice; it was a total abandonment of his last vestige of hope for redemption. He was embracing the damnation, fully and utterly, for her sake.
Lyra stepped toward him, the wind tearing at their clothes. She stopped an arm's length away, close enough for the residual celestial heat to reach her, too far for the painful, healing paradox to ignite.
"Then we win," she declared, her eyes blazing with fierce resolve. "We win this, Azael. We destroy his Protocol, and we keep moving. I won't let your sacrifice be in vain."
Their shared vulnerability—the unspoken acknowledgement of their mutual, desperate need—tightened the invisible bonds between them. This was not just survival; it was an obsession: a fusion of two souls who knew they could not exist without the other.
Lyra turned back to the comms unit, her fingers flying across the controls. She finished the final line of code.
"Ready," she murmured. "Casting the lure."
She activated the broadcast. The small unit immediately flooded the high altitude zone with a burst of synthetic spiritual energy—a precise digital imitation of the Fragment's presence. It was a sweet, irresistible scent for the Archon leader's tracking system.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
Across the Shattered City, the entire energy grid flickered. Lyra's display immediately lit up with hundreds of new red signatures—the full launch of the Veritas Protocol. The Archon Squads, previously confined to smaller sectors, began a synchronised, citywide sweep.
The very air around the Iron Spire Bypass crackled with immense, cold power. It was not the heat of the Judgment Flame; it was the chilling purity of Seraphiel's intent. The surge was so great that Lyra felt the energy press down on her, the sanctified wave threatening to overwhelm her mortal senses.
"Seraphiel is in range," the Saint growled, his body tensing. "He felt the anomaly. He's trying to overwhelm the signal."
The Saint moved, not to attack, but to shield. He stood over Lyra, his body radiating a low, protective hum, diverting the raw power of the Veritas Protocol from tearing her apart. The act was instinctive, demanding a painful expenditure from his newly stabilised core.
"He's unleashing everything," Lyra gasped, forcing her eyes open, her system fighting the sanctified energy. "He knows it's a trap, but he can't ignore the Fragment."
The red signature of the Archon leader suddenly detached from the converging sweep. He was coming straight for the Iron Spire Bypass, seduced by the synthetic signal.
Lyra looked up at the Saint, their roles momentarily reversed—the vulnerable hunter and the protector. She reached out and touched his dark duster, a silent plea for him to conserve his energy.
"He's here," she whispered, her voice tight. "Brace yourself."
A moment later, a sleek, black winged form detached itself from the city's highest spires. The Archon leader, his black armour gleaming, descended onto the platform, his arrival silent and commanding. He was taller, more imposing than the Aegis Hands, his movements radiating the cold, perfect discipline of Heaven's elite.
And in his hand, he carried a sword that defied all earthly light.
Veritas.
The blade was a rapier of pure, shimmering white light, so intensely bright it seemed to drink the colour from the surrounding air. It hummed with a prayer of absolute truth, a weapon designed to cut through illusion, sin, and the very connection between soul and body. It was the perfect counter to Sanctus, the Executioner's sword of necessary sin.
The Archon leader stopped fifty feet away. He did not look at the Saint. His gaze was fixed on Lyra, his eyes scanning for the source of the Fragment's energy.
"The ruse is crude, Fallen Angel," the Archon leader stated, his voice synthesised and cold. "But the lure is strong. Surrender the Anomaly, Azael. And face the judgment of Veritas."
The Saint stepped forward, pulling Sanctus from its sheath. The massive, crimson blade looked terrifyingly visceral next to the Archon's luminous rapier. The wind howled around them, a witness to the coming clash.
"The Fragment remains with its keeper," the Saint announced, his voice steady, his silver eyes blazing with absolute defiance. "And the Judgment I execute is my own."
Lyra knew her role was critical. She had to maintain the Ghost Lure to keep the Archon focused. But her attention was entirely on the man who was about to fight his brother's justice with his own personal damnation.
The Archon leader raised Veritas, the pure white light of the blade illuminating the Saint's determined face, casting Seraphiel's shadow over the platform. The two greatest blades of Heaven were about to collide, with the fate of a mortal woman caught between them.