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“Compromised.” Each word was a leaden weight. “He is not merely observing. He is active. Engaged in forbidden experimentation within a heavily warded residence in this city. And he is not working alone.” I turned then, facing the messenger. “He is collaborating with Valden. I saw the transaction. They are using Cassia Vex as a vessel and are attempting to induce a forced metamorphosis.”

I relayed what I’d seen in the projection: the horrific torture of Valden’s child and the vials of stolen essence. I described Serion’s ritualistic markings. And then the part that felt like walking on shards of glass.

I kept my voice clinical, betraying none of the raw terror that had gripped me. “The subject, Cassia Vex, was present. She was…profoundly affected by the malignant energies. She manifested significant uncontrolled infernal attributes.”

The messenger remained silent for a long chilling moment, his presence a cold weight. “The subject’s current state?”

“Volatile.” The word tasted like ash. “But contained. She is…resting.”

His expression did not change. He did not look surprised either. That terrified me more than anger would have.

“Your orders remain unchanged, Guardian,” he intoned.

My jaw tightened. “Unchanged? The seraph is manufacturing demons. He is breaking the edicts.”

“And you will secure the proof. Suspicion is not evidence. You will observe. You will let the seraph conclude his work until his treason is absolute. Do not intervene. Do not stop him.”

The realization hit me cold and hard. They had known. Or they had suspected. And they were using Cassia as bait.

“If I do not intervene,” I said, my voice low, “the subject may be unmade. Or worse, she may become the very thing we are sworn to destroy.”

“Then that will be the evidence we require,” the messenger said. “Lord Malakar is…displeased by your proximity to this corruption. He sees the bronze in your blood, Remiel. Do not give him a reason to purge you along with the seraph.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“That is all.”

His form dissolved, and the judgmental light faded. I was left alone in the flat’s oppressive quiet.

I let out a ragged breath, my clenched fists at my sides. My gaze fell upon a half-empty flask of whiskey. I needed air. Needed to think. Needed to find a path through this labyrinth where Heaven was just as dangerous as Hell.

I stepped out into the open air, the flask gripped firm in my calloused hand. The surrounding city was eerily subdued, its silence either a blessing or a subtle alarm. I lowered myself onto the edge of a low wall and stretched my legs out. The flask’s cap clicked back into place, and whiskey burned across my tongue. I drank deep, each swallow tightening the resolve I needed.

The sun, like a shy performer, slowly slipped beneath the rooftops, retreating. I remained on that ledge, the flask almost empty. The cool air brushed against the back of my neck. Nearby, scattered lights ignited in windows, domestic orbs of warmth.

I then felt a presence out of sync with the cool night’s natural rhythm, a shadow that did not belong. A chill radiating with an unyielding stillness. Familiar yet unwelcome.

“So,” a smooth voice said from behind me, “any news?”

The image of Lysanthe on that table, the memory of Valden handing her over like currency, roared in my blood.

I pivoted with lethal precision. My arm arced upward, summoning the gleam of celestial steel that ignited in a brilliant flash of gold and metal. In a single breathless second, I slammed Valden against the apartment’s cold, unyielding stones.

The steel of my blade came to rest against his throat, searing the dead flesh. Smoke curled up, acrid and thick.

“I saw it,” I snarled, the words vibrating with a fury I could no longer contain. “I saw the transaction. She did not disappear. You sold her…gave her to Serion to be carved up for parts.”

He didn’t flinch, though the holy fire was eating into his neck. His eyes, ancient and cold, locked onto mine. “I did what was necessary,” he replied, his voice strained but infuriatingly calm. “Survival is an ugly business, Guardian. I assumed you knew that.”

“You sacrificed your own blood to build a cage for mine.” I pressed the blade deeper. “Give me one reason not to sever your head from your shoulders right now.”

His gaze drifted down to the blade and then to my hand holding it. His eyes narrowed in sharp fascination. “Because if you kill me,” he whispered, “you’ll never know why your light is rotting.”

I stiffened. “Don’t try to distract me.”

“Look at it, Remiel.” His voice dropped, losing its theatrical cadence. “That light coming off you… It isn’t white anymore. It isn’t Michael’s gold. It’s bronze.”

My grip tightened, but a cold seed of doubt took root in my gut. I had felt it—the heaviness, the sickness in my veins.