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“Yes?”
“Nothing, for a minute I thought you were asking me to help train them.”
There were a myriad of ways he could have responded to my statement, laughing and walking off was not the reaction I had hoped for. Azrael stifled a chuckle and followed him, barking orders toward the closest of her angels to begin gathering for training.
As offended as I was, I knew I was not ready to face Medrion, none of us were. Learning how to harness and use our Light effectively was going to be the most important part of the coming fight if we intended to hold Medrion’s forces off and open a path to Heaven at the same time.
And if we couldn’t, we were allfucked.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SARAKIEL
With Medrion less than two days away, there was only one thing for us to do.
Train.
The Tyrant and Azrael had rounded up every single able-bodied angel they could find, and they were running them through combat drills.
Azrael’s manner of training was intense, but merciful. She offered constructive feedback on form, footwork, and swordsmanship to whoever sparred with her in the hopes that they would improve next time. The Tyrant, however, took adifferentapproach.
“You are dead,” he snarled at the angel he had just tripped over and disarmed in a single move. He thrust the sword against the neck of the angel, letting the tip just graze their skin. “Do you know why you are dead?” he asked.
The angel, who was on his back trying his hardest not to move, stared at back with wide eyes. “Because I was… slow?” he ventured.
“You were slow,” the Tyrant echoed, “And light with your attacks, and weak in your defense. You made the same crucialmistake at every single turn. Do you know what mistake that was?”
The angel glanced at Azrael.
The Tyrant turned the sword against the angel’s cheek and bid him to look at him instead of Azrael. “You will address me while we are training,” he said. “Answer my question.”
“I… I don’t know what mistake I made,” the angel stammered.
“You presumed I would fight withhonor.” The Tyrant retracted his sword arm and addressed the crowd of angels standing around him. “Still, none of you understand the brutality of the foe you are about to face.”
“They are trying,” said Azrael.
“No,” the Tyrant shook his head. “They refuse to believe the enemy marching on our gates will behave like anything other than angels. I can assure you, the vile creatures heading toward us are no longer angels. They are demons; they will show you no quarter, no mercy, and they will not fight with honor. If you want to survive, you must think like they do! You must go into combat with them knowing they will do whatever they can to end your life as quickly as possible, or worse.”
Azrael seemed entirely unimpressed. “Worse? What could possibly be worse?”
“You lack imagination,” the Tyrant said, advancing on her. “They will maim you. They will cut off your limbs and leave you there to bleed out and die in agony, and the last thing you ever hear will be the cries of your friends as they slowly die in the same, gruesome manner. In battle, one can only hope for a clean, swift death. That will not be the case here.”
The angel at his feet scrambled on his elbows to get up, struggling to rejoin the others gathered around the two trainers before he was asked to get up and try again.
I decided to speak up. “You’re wrong.”
I was looking over the training ground from a balcony a little higher up. The Tyrant turned his eyes up to find me. “How am I wrong?” he asked.
I took hold of the balcony’s edge and vaulted off it, unfurling my wings and gently guiding my descent until I touched the ground with both of my feet in the center circle. “You said Medrion will just leave you there to die,” I said. “You’re wrong.”
“Enlighten us, Lightbringer.”
“If you have something he wants, he won’t let you die. He’ll cut you, and beat you, and hurt you… and then he’ll heal you, so you can be cut, and hurt, and beaten all over. Again, and again, and again, a cycle of pain and relief that doesn’t stop until you give him what he wants.”
The Tyrant’s eyes flickered with knowledge. With memory. He knew what I was talking about because he was there. He witnessed Medrion’s treatment of me and everyone else who had passed through the Chantry Building’s dungeons for eons. Who knows, really, how long Medrion had been torturing angels for?
Who knows when exactly he started to enjoy it?
