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I shift, turning my attention back to Eryon and trying to focus on the immediate problem. “What game is Lucifer playing?” I mutter, more to myself than to them.
He nods grimly. “He always plays games. Even before… Well, before Lilith.”
The mention of her name brings the topic sharply into focus. “How much do you know about the stasis?” I lean forward slightly, my voice low. “The stasis Lilith forced on Lucifer. How deep was the binding?” I look at Lucifer’s daughter, assuming she would know the intricacies of the spell.
Vyxia exchanges a look with Eryon again, this one laced with apparent confusion. “Forced him?” she repeats, tilting her head. “No, Remiel. That’s…that’s not what happened. My father wasn’t forced into stasis.”
I stare at her, the world tilting again.
Even Eryon looks surprised, his brow furrowing. “He wasn’t?” he asks, echoing my disbelief. “But how else… Lilith took the throne!”
“There was a pact that he would enter stasis,” Vyxia says, her voice gaining a quiet intensity. “An agreement. A price he paid after…after the war. After Michael.” She hesitates as if weighing how much to reveal. “I don’t know the specifics. Only that it was a bargain struck. Lilith broke the terms though. She was meant to wake him years ago, but she didn’t.” Her small hands clenched in her lap. “That’s why I stayed here and placed myself near Sera. My father knew Lilith wouldn’t keep her word. He needed someone outside of her structure, someone overlooked, to perform the rite when the time was right.”
A pact. The implications are staggering, rearranging the entire political landscape in my mind. Lucifer…willingly stepping aside? For what gain?
As I grapple with this, the floor beneath us shudders—a low deep groan like the keep itself is stirring. Glasses rattle on the bar. The crimson lights flicker. A collective murmur of unease ripples through the tavern’s patrons.
“What was that?” Vyxia asks, her eyes wide.
Eryon glances around and shrugs. “Hellquakes aren’t uncommon. But that felt…different. Deeper.”
“It felt wrong.” I press my hand to my chest. The tremor has stopped, but it still vibrates behind my ribs. The ache that Lucifer mocked… It somehow does indeed feel like turning a key in a lock.
Vyxia stands abruptly. Her chair scrapes against the stone floor, and the playful mask she wore dissolves. She looks toward the door, toward the obsidian fortress looming over the city. “Well, we’d better get back to the palace.” Her voice is low. Devoid of humor.
Eryon is on his feet in an instant. He seems to be especially protective of the princess, towering over her in a guarding manner. His eyes scan the tavern for threats.
The pain in my chest pulses in time with my heartbeat, but I manage to stand. “You want to go back to the keep?”
“Whatever answers you are looking for, Remiel, we have a better chance to find them there, not in a drunken tavern.” Vyxia gives me a once-over as she walks past me.
I do not argue and follow them into the sulfurous night.
16. Cassia
The floor of the archive lurches with a deep, resonant shudder. It vibrates the legs of my chair and settles in my bones. My breath seizes, and for a terrifying second, the air seems to vanish from the room.
I gasp—a desperate inhale rattling in my throat. A sharp pain blooms behind my ribs. Sudden. Vicious. I press my hand to my chest, and my eyes squeeze shut against the agony.
When I finally open my eyes, my brows drawn tight in confusion and pain, I fix my gaze on the keeper. “What is happening?”
The creature remains motionless. Its shadowy face still holds no expression. No alarm. “It is only a turning of a key in the lock,” it replies simply.
The cryptic answer does not kill my curiosity, but I know it will not let me off the hook. I must keep going with whatever this is.
I almost didn’t sleep on the train, not truly. Each time I drifted into the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness, I could feel Remiel’s eyes on me. Not cold. Not precise. Not even overtly kind. Just…there. A constant, unwavering presence.
He stayed silent in his cot. Didn’t move. Didn’t make a sound. Yet I felt that quiet, insistent pull in the darkness, like a phantom touch against my skin. It clung to me. I didn’t dare to open my eyes, didn’t dare to meet his gaze, because I knew what I’d find there—not lust, not simply desire, and not even a hint of mercy. Only wreckage. The same desolate landscape that mirrored my soul.
And the worst part? The part that made my stomach clench with a self-loathing so profound it was almost a physical pain? Some treacherous part of me wanted to reach for it. Not to fix him but to feel something ruinous and real.
I hated that. I hated him for making me feel it. And I hated myself more for wanting to succumb to it. Because this wasn’t softness. This wasn’t genuine longing. This was how it always began when angels fell for all the wrong reasons and when demons forgot they could not hope for anything beyond ashes.
We arrived in Prague beneath a washed-out, indifferent sky and a sun that looked as if it had surrendered hours ago. The station was a vast, echoing cathedral of faded grandeur—arched ceilings disappearing into the smoky gloom, cracked marble floors that had seen too many weary travelers, and stained-glass windows dulled with the soot of ages. The smell of brass, old stones, and something indefinably stale clung to everything.
I stepped off the train first, not looking back. His presence trailed behind me like a second unwelcome shadow. We moved through the echoing terminal in a charged, brittle silence, our boots clicking against the worn tiles. There were no words, no explanations exchanged. Just the sharp tension.
Prague stretched ahead, a city that felt as if it had already buried too many truths beneath its spired rooftops. A skyline of silent, weary saints stood guard, having long since stopped listening to the futile prayers of mortals or fallen. My shadows faintly stirred around my legs, their whispers a low hum beneath my thoughts.
