There’s a slight swooshing sound, and then suddenly, he’s standing in front of me. His wings are outspread, blocking the trail’s exit. “I want to apologize. I behaved poorly yesterday.”
“Yes, you did. Now go away.”
He steps forward, his silver eyes pleading. “I have a gift for you.”
“You cannot bribe your way to forgiveness. A pony isn’t going to fix this.”
“It is not a horse. It is to protect you from Celestia.”
My eyebrows knit in confusion—and annoyance that he’s managed to keep me talking this long. “I thought only origin form armor could do that.”
“Who do you think made it for us?”
“I don’t know. God? I thought it was created whenever you guys were.”
“Close. It is part of our original corporealizationhere, after we pass through the Eye of God, but it wasformedin Heaven by the Archangel of Defense, Armaros. He happens to be one of the Profuga here in theAbyss, and I commissioned him.” Abaddon steps closer. “I cannot emphasize enough how much of an advantage it would give you.”
…Damn him for actually having a good argument.
“Fine!” I huff. “Where is he?”
“Just this way, if you’ll follow me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
Abaddon takes us down the downward path, beyond the training arena, in the opposite direction from the castle. We pass a few large estates, all in variable sizes, inspired by different eras of human history.
“With the exception of Semyaza, all the Profuga in the Abyss have been living here,” he explains. “I’ve repurposed it for them to have permanent residences.”
The one he brings us to is nothing short of a mansion, not too dissimilar from the castle, with a blacksmith shop on its side.
“Armaros lives here with his wife, Xantheia Anazekiel, and some of their descendants.”
“So… lower angels?”
“Yes, though they prefer to just be called angels.”
I don’t get time to ask much else, since the walk to the blacksmith shop is brief.
Near the fire, a short, stout man is hammering away on something. His wings are fascinating, made entirely of a heavy silver metal, and I find myself staring at them in awe. I’ve seen the man himself at the dining table before, but I don’t think he had his wings out at the time.
I quickly find out why. Those things are a hazard.
He turns around to fiddle with something on his table, but spooks upon seeing us. His wings, in the process, knock a few things to the ground with a loud clatter.
“My Grace!” he gasps, holding a hand over his heart. “You scared me to death. Please, come in!”
“I am here to pick up my commission,” Abaddon says as he passes the threshold in steady, formulaic strides. I trail behind him, watching as Armaros immaterializes his wings. They fold in, flashing into a fade of light, then disappear from existence.
Istillwant to know where the particles actuallygo.
“Right, right!” Armaros hobbles over to a table of clutter, reaching for a large chest in the middle of various metals and tools. Fumbling around the lock, he mumbles, “Queen Kae, it’s such an honor to meet you… such a person of legend…”
I choke on a breath of air, coughing. “I’m sorry—QueenKae?”
“Queen of the Abyss, its savior, yes.” He turns towards me with a glimmering cape draped over his arms. “Alas! I hope it is to your liking.”
I forget every other thought I had, taking the clothing from him with awe and intrigue.
