The guest cell was smaller than Elias had expected—bare stone walls, a narrow cot with a thin wool blanket, a single oil lamp flickering on a ledge beside a wooden crucifix. No windows. No chains. Just the faint echo of distant chanting drifting through the corridor like smoke.
Lucian had left him with a simple instruction: "Rest. Tomorrow we begin at dawn. The cathedral's lower chapel. Come alone."
Elias had not slept. He lay on the cot staring at the ceiling, listening to Abaddon breathe in the silence between his own heartbeats. The demon had been quiet since they entered the cathedral—too quiet. Like a coiled snake deciding when to strike.
When the first bell rang for matins, Elias rose. His arm no longer bled; the cut had closed into a thin silver scar overnight, as though time had been rewritten around it. He pulled on the plain gray tunic and trousers left folded at the foot of the cot—pilgrim's garb, unadorned—and slipped into the corridor.
The lower levels of the cathedral were a maze of vaulted passages lit by wall sconces. Elias followed the sound of soft singing until he reached a small circular chapel carved deep into the foundations. No grand stained glass here—just rough stone and a single altar of dark wood. A low iron brazier burned in the center, filling the air with the scent of myrrh and cedar.
Lucian waited beside the altar, already kneeling on a thin cushion. He wore the same white linen, but his hair was unbound now, falling like liquid moonlight over his shoulders. He looked up as Elias entered and offered that same gentle smile.
"You came."
Elias nodded once. "I said I would."
Lucian rose smoothly. "Good. Sit. We begin with breath."
He gestured to a second cushion opposite the brazier. Elias sat, legs crossed awkwardly. The stone was cold through the thin fabric.
Lucian knelt again, facing him across the low flames.
"The Church teaches that prayer is submission," Lucian said quietly. "But for us—for vessels—it is something else. It is containment. A wall built word by word. When the darkness rises, the words hold it back. When the power wants to spill, the breath turns it inward."
He placed one hand over his own heart. "Feel your heartbeat. Match your inhale to four beats. Hold for four. Exhale for four. Hold empty for four."
Elias tried. His pulse was fast, erratic. The sigil beneath the tunic warmed in protest.
Lucian watched without judgment.
"Again. Slower."
They repeated the pattern until Elias's breathing steadied. The flames in the brazier dipped lower, as though listening.
"Now the words," Lucian said. "The Litany of Binding. Speak them with me. Do not rush."
He began:
"Lord of Light, behold Thy servant.
Bind the shadow that dwells within.
Let no darkness rise unbidden.
Let no flame consume what is holy.
By Thy mercy, hold. By Thy will, contain."
Elias echoed the words. They felt heavier here, in this deep place beneath the city of light. Each syllable pressed against the sigil like a thumb on a bruise. The black veins on his chest retreated further, curling inward like vines sensing frost.
Lucian continued, verse after verse, guiding Elias through variations—shorter breaths for sudden surges, longer holds when the pressure built. By the tenth repetition Elias felt something shift: not peace, but balance. The constant pressure of Abaddon eased to a dull ache, distant and manageable.
Lucian stopped.
"You feel it?"
Elias nodded slowly. "It's… quieter."
"Good. The quiet is fragile. It will break under stress. But it can be rebuilt."
Lucian rose and moved to the altar. From beneath a cloth he drew a small silver chalice filled with clear water.
"Miracles are not always grand," he said. "Sometimes they are small. Useful."
He dipped two fingers into the water and touched them to Elias's scarred forearm. The silver scar shimmered once, then vanished entirely, leaving unmarked skin.
Elias stared.
"How—?"
"Control," Lucian said simply. "The power inside us can heal as easily as it destroys. But only when directed. When contained."
He offered the chalice to Elias.
"Try."
Elias took it with trembling hands. He dipped his fingers, hesitated, then pressed them to a small cut on his knuckle from the previous day's run.
Nothing happened.
Lucian watched patiently.
"Speak the words first. Then will it."
Elias closed his eyes.
"Lord of Light… behold Thy servant. Bind the shadow… let no darkness rise…"
He focused on the cut. Imagined the skin knitting, the blood retreating.
A faint warmth bloomed. When he opened his eyes, the cut was gone—pink new skin in its place.
Elias exhaled shakily.
Lucian smiled. "You learn quickly."
They continued for hours—breathing, litanies, small exercises in containment. Elias learned to summon a flicker of black flame in his palm and snuff it before it grew. Learned to feel Abaddon's presence like a tide and push it back with a single measured breath.
For the first time since the obelisk, Elias felt something like hope. Fragile. Dangerous. But real.
Then came the test.
Lucian led him to the center of the chapel.
"Stand here," he said. "I will call the others. The High Prelates wish to see if you are… stable."
Elias tensed. "You said no chains."
"And there will be none. But they will watch. From the gallery above."
He pointed to a narrow balcony ringed with iron lattice. Shadows moved there—five figures in gold-trimmed white robes.
Elias swallowed. "What do I do?"
"Pray," Lucian said. "As we practiced. When they speak the invocation, the power will rise. Hold it. Do not let it spill."
The Prelates began to chant—a low, rolling hymn in an older tongue. The air thickened. The brazier flared high.
Elias felt it immediately: Abaddon waking, stretching, amused.
They think they can parade me like a trained beast.
The sigil burned hot. Black veins surged outward, faster than before. Elias clenched his fists.
"Lord of Light, bind the shadow…"
The chant grew louder. The flames in the brazier turned gold, then white-hot.
Abaddon laughed—low at first, then louder, rolling through Elias's skull like thunder.
Enough games.
Elias's vision tunneled. The chapel darkened at the edges. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He tried the breathing—four in, hold, four out—but the tide was too strong.
Black fire erupted from his palms—not controlled, not small. It lashed outward in wild arcs, striking the stone walls, cracking the altar. The brazier exploded in a shower of embers.
The Prelates' chant faltered.
Lucian stepped forward, hands raised. "Elias—breathe!"
But Abaddon was past listening.
The black flames coiled into a vortex around Elias, lifting him an inch off the floor. His eyes rolled back, whites showing. His mouth opened and Abaddon's voice poured out—deep, ancient, amused.
"Little priests. You think words can hold what was made to end worlds?"
The gallery erupted in shouts. One Prelate raised a staff topped with crystal. Golden light shot downward.
It struck the black vortex and shattered like glass.
Elias's body convulsed once—then went rigid.
Chaos.
Prelates shouting orders. Guards rushing in from side doors. Lucian standing frozen, eyes wide with something that might have been fear.
Then, from the shadows of the corridor, a new figure burst in—Elara, cloak torn, knife in one hand, the other raised.
Water surged from nowhere—black, cold, tidal—crashing through the chapel doors and slamming into the black flames. The fire hissed and retreated, driven back into Elias's skin.
Elara grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the exit.
"Move!"
Elias stumbled, dazed, the sigil cooling as abruptly as it had ignited.
Behind them, Lucian did not pursue.
He only watched—silver hair whipping in the sudden wind of water and flame—his expression unreadable.
As Elara pulled Elias into the tunnels, Abaddon's voice returned, soft and satisfied.
Well done, vessel. You lasted longer than I expected.
But next time…
Next time we do not hold back.
The cathedral bells began to ring—frantic, alarmed.
The saint had tried to tame the heretic.
And the heretic had cracked the saint's perfect cage, just a little.
End of Chapter 6