Page 35

I push through the scorched wooden door, and the tavern’s chaotic energy washes over me like a wave of heat and desperation. The air inside is thick, tasting of stale soulfire, cheap perfume that cannot mask the underlying scent of decay, and the metallic tang of shed blood. Crimson lights flicker like dying heartbeats, casting long distorted shadows across the low, smoke-stained ceiling.

Infernal creatures of a dozen shapes and sizes crowd the cramped space. Laughter and cackles, sharp and brittle as breaking glass, erupt from a shadowed booth, mingling with someone’s mournful wail.

Yet the raucous laughter cuts off mid-snarl. The mournful wail of the stringed instrument in the corner falters into a discordant screech. Then silence. Even the clinking of glasses seems to be still. Every eye—glowing red, molten gold, or abyssal black—in the cramped, smoke-filled space turns toward me.

My light, already thin and frayed, feels suffocated here, unwelcome. Yet it is undeniably present. A single angel in a den teeming with infernal life. To them, I am not just an enemy. I am an anomaly, a disruption in their carefully constructed reality. A celestial presence in the Revelers’ Quarter is a bad omen, a harbinger of judgment or perhaps worse. I feel their stares like a physical weight. Whispers, like the rustling of dry snakeskin, ripple through the hushed crowd.

But I am too weary, too consumed by the gnawing dread coiling in my gut, to care about their discomfort. Let them stare. Let them whisper. My purpose here transcends their petty grievances.

I keep my light pulled tight, a refusal to let this place extinguish what little divinity I have left, as my gaze sweeps the room, cutting through the haze. The sudden stillness makes it easier to scan the shifting bodies. And then I spot them tucked into a booth near the back, partially obscured by a tattered velvet curtain: Vyxia and Eryon.

She looks…different. The perpetual tension that had seemed woven into her very being has eased. Her violet eyes, though still wary, hold a spark, less haunted. She manages a small, almost genuine smile as I approach, a startling contrast to the calculated neutrality she wore as Lilith’s attendant. She seems younger now, somehow less burdened.

Eryon, however, is a study in contained ruin. He sits rigidly, a half-empty glass clutched in a hand that trembles almost imperceptibly. Years in Lilith’s dungeons had left their mark, not just in the jagged scars where his wings had been torn away but in the haunted stillness of his golden eyes, in the way his smile seems painted on. He tries to hide it, maintaining the straight posture of a soldier, but the brokenness is there.

I slide into the booth opposite them, the worn leather cool against my back. The tavern’s noise recedes slightly, the booth offering a thin illusion of sanctuary.

“Heard you stormed out on the king,” Eryon says, his voice a low rasp. “Bold move. Even for you.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “I just left the keep not thirty minutes ago.”

He shrugs. “Hell’s whispers travel faster than a wraith.”

I ignore the barb, my thoughts still churning from Lucifer’s cryptic words. “He speaks in riddles. And enjoys the sound of his own voice far too much.” I recount the encounter at the archive doors—the sleeping guards, the siphoned light, and Lucifer’s veiled explanation.

Vyxia nods slowly, her expression thoughtful. “The archive is ancient, Remiel. Older than the keep itself. It operates under its own laws, its own power. My father is right. When it seals, nothing gets in or out.” She leans slightly forward, lowering her voice. “But I can confirm Cassia is inside. I felt her presence when I delivered…something…for Sera earlier.”

Inside. The word resonates, confirming the icy dread that had settled in my gut. Is she trapped or shielded by that ancient hungry magic? Safer there, perhaps, than anywhere else in this realm. But my relief is poisoned by another equally pressing fear.

“Sera? You saw her?” I ask, my voice tight. “Jareth and I…we couldn’t find her in Savannah. No trace. Is she here…?” The question hangs unfinished, heavy with the unspoken horror of what might have happened after she had vanished.

Vyxia’s gaze shifts slightly. She takes a slow sip from her own untouched glass, her violet eyes veiled for a moment. When she looks up again, her expression is carefully neutral, almost practiced. “Sera returned to the mortal realm after the tribunal. Maybe…”

Her playful tone is grating on my nerves, but I try to keep calm. “What the fuck does that mean?”

She bristles. “You are feisty today.”

“I do not have time to play games, Vyxia. They are about to come for Cassia, and I have no idea where her sister is.”

“Don’t worry about Sera. She is where she needs to be at the moment.”

Her coyness tells me nothing and everything. At least it feels like Sera is out of immediate danger.

“I am not sure why,” she continues, “but the king seems to be suddenly very involved with the sisters’ fates.”

“Involved?”

She nods and throws a look at Eryon, who has barely spoken a word.

“How comforting.” My gaze hardens, suspicion coiling tighter.

Vyxia knows more than she’s letting on. But pressing her here, surrounded by Hell’s listening ears, would be foolish.

“So, I guess we wait,” Eryon murmurs, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. “We wait for her to finish whatever ritual she’s performing in there.”

“Ritual?” I ask sharply.

Vyxia glances at him, silent communication passing between them. “I believe Cassia is using the archive to find a way to break Kael’s stasis. I don’t know how exactly. It’s beyond my understanding.”