I am a prisoner to Abaddon’s will.
“We’re going to be late.” His facial expression flattens, returning to the epitome of indifference. “For the love of all things holy, Kae, at leasttryto play along when we get in there. This will be easier if you stop fighting me.”
Reality slips into the distance like a drug-induced fever dream.
35
Abaddon leads me down the halls until we reach a magic-locked door hiding a staircase.
Down we go, into a level I’ve never been to, nor knew existed. I mentally prepare myself to walk through some medieval horror-filled basement, but instead, it’s just a storage room. A very junky storage room. Chests, crates, and other types of containers are stacked to the ceiling, many of them dusty and covered in cobwebs.
Abaddon doesn’t slow down, tugging me into a long concrete hallway. It’s much narrower than the castle above, stripped bare of any grandiosity. Even the doors are simple, made out of unkempt wood.
We move so fast that we’re practically running, everything blurring together in a nondescript repeating pattern. I couldn’t remember the way if I tried.
Eventually, a narrow archway appears in the place of one of the doors. Abaddon guides me ahead of him, since the hole in the wall is barely wide enough to fit his wings in with him. It immediately takes us down a small set of stairs, leading to a cast-iron door. I stare at the carving on it for a moment—a strange symbol of an eye with six wings—before the King gets impatient and magically opens the door for me.
Inside, the first thing my eyes draw to is the massive circular conference table, built from glossy obsidian stone, consuming the center of the room. After allowing space for angel wings, it fits ten seats, most of which are already filled.
But there’s more.
The table is bracketed by multiple tiers of stone benches, packed with dozens of angels I’ve never seen before, as if trying to imitate an auditorium. They all wear the same armor, but they sit in sections of matching colors of sashes, capes, or robes. Various shades of blue, earthtones, red, pink…
Some of them have an uncanny resemblance to the Council members, too. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that one of the angels wearing lavender looks as ghastly and pale as Uriel.
Most of the crowd turns to look at Abaddon and me, as if we’re students late to a class. Quietly, they inspect us, seeming less than pleased at what they find.
It’s unnerving.
Meanwhile, Semyaza sits at the table with four of his generals, all of them wearing various shades of black and silver. The Council occupies four more, each of them dressed in their own signature shades: gold armor for the two genocideists, white robes for the purple-winged Uriel, and green robes for Raphael.
Only one chair is left open, carved out of the same stone as the table, and it rests directly in front of us. Right between the Profuga and Elohim.
Abaddon takes one look at the sole remaining seat before magically splitting it into two.
All the others chairs shift with their occupants in tow, evenly distributing around the table in a groaning of stone.
There’s a slight murmur in the stands. Some of the Elohim’s eyes widen in shock, while others sneer with disdain. They whisper to each other, quietly laughing, their eyes fixed on me.
I’m nothing more than a circus animal to them.
Only a flicker of rage swells in me before it’s snuffed by another’s foreign emotions, shoved into my soul like a dirty gag. Pride, confidence, spite—everything I’d imagine Abaddon would be feeling in a situation like this.
I don’t dare glance at him, wary of being seen as weak by our audience.
As much as I hate to entertain his wild ideas, I know I’m surrounded by a room full of predators. I can feel it in the prickling of my skin, the judgment in their eyes. Maybe he’s right, and his execution is just flawed... Maybe I really do need his help to survive them.
“Thank you for finally joining us, Destroyer.” Michael stands, his obnoxiously booming voice demanding attention.
Abaddon turns my direction, looking at my face without seeing me. In stark opposition to Michael’s eternally burning anger, he is nothing but cold impassiveness. “Before we begin, I’d like to formally announce my betrothed: Kae Lambros, Key to the Abyss, soon to be its Queen.”
I don’t know what he expected. Applause? A challenge? None of that happens. The crowd looks at us the same, not daring to speak while Michael is still standing. They give him their attention with the utmost respect. Perhaps even fear.
Abaddon doesn’t pay them any mind. Unshaken, he leads us straight to the open chairs, finally releasing my hand from his death grip so we can sit down.
“As you can see, I’ve brought a handful of Elohim nobility and cadets from the Academy. I trust you will not find their attendance burdensome.” Michael slides back down into his chair, lazily waving a hand to his second-in-command. “Gabriel, you may proceed.”
At least I’m too numb to feel sickened by their presence. Semyaza and his men seem to be taking the same approach. Nothing on their faces gives away their feelings as Gabriel stands, clearing his throat before speaking.
