All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

Azalea didn't know what to expect by the low road. Penny had taken her trump card and the conventionally strongest fighter above, so presumably they were destined for resistance, but all the same Azalea didn't think that she, Sammy, and Eita would be able to freely make their way to Munkar.

And, with the vehemence Penny had given, it was probably not just her intuition but some jumbled glimpse from Yua that guided the split.

“Are you worried about Yua?” Sammy asked, paying attention to Eita.

“I'm trying not to be,” he said. “After all, wherever I am, I have friends in danger somewhere else.”

“Then,” Sammy said, “You won't mind if I say I'm glad you're here...”

Azalea tuned their conversation out. She needed to be more focused on their surroundings. To that, she also quickened her pace and took point.

The lower route had a glass wall on one side, looking out at the setting sun. The long shadows cast on the inward side ran into hallways, meeting rooms, and disused retail spaces, a cafe empty of food and drink here, a niche there containing a mass of vending machines.

As they walked, Azalea realized that many of these spaces were in essence blind pockets, that she couldn't see into or necessarily even notice were there until she came alongside them. She tensed, and held the stolen regalia weapon on that side of her body to better anticipate any sort of surprise attack.

Hope, the likes of which Sammy didn't seem to realize she inspired, kept the fallen going. Paranoia and logistics kept them alive. Those were Azalea's specialties.

Thus, when she caught a golden flash out of the corner of her eye, Azalea didn't hesitate, and gripped the regalia firmly to interpose it with her body.

The force of the blow was immense, and Azalea's footing slipped, skidding across the carpeted floor towards the sunward wall. There was no mistaking it, no Thone or Power could exude that much strength so trivially. Thus, Azalea expected to see a Seraph when she turned her eyes onto her assailant.

What she didn't expect was what she saw.

It was Lailah – clearly restored by the Weaver, but not to her old self. There hadn't been enough time to heal the damage the bombs had done, injuries that Lailah's new form made clear.

She was a lopsided thing. Her left arm and most of her chest were her own, as was her head, though her skin rather than having elegant filigree in gold instead looked like she was a porcelain doll that had been mercilessly smashed and then repaired with molten gold in every crack. The worst of that was the left side of her face, which was a dense spider web of gold leaving barely any of the flawless white skin of a loyal angel. Even its form was distorted, with the left corner of Lailah's mouth extended and pulled upwards in a hideous, asymmetrical grimace.

The rest of her body was even worse off. Azalea could see Lailah's skeleton, or rather what looked like a mechanical lattice serving a skeleton's purpose, wrought of aetheric gold. She stood, now monstrously tall, on digitigrade legs. Her lower torso and hips were shrouded with what looked like shimmering silver cobwebs and loose golden threads, as though she were not porcelain but a rag doll, disintegrating cloth not quite sewn into the semblance of form. Her right arm had the same character of aetheric gold and mechanical parody of nature. It was so long that despite her head being so high that she needed to stoop deeply to emerge from the door frame she had secreted herself behind, her knuckles dragged on the floor. The hand was overwhelmingly massive even then, broad and long and twitching with contained energy. Her fingers were like talons, or like needles, and a complex network of spooling threads served the purpose of tendons, while other spools wound up into those needle fingers, half skeletal claw and half sewing machine.

“Azazel,” she called, in a sing-song mockery of her formerly practiced voice, “look what you've done, Azazel.”

If Penny had seen this much, Azalea understood. This was her fight, and no one else's.

“Run!” she called to Sammy and Eita.

Sammy grasped Eita's hand and began to run. The two of them passed behind Azalea, who spread her wings in a futile attempt to cover their flight from the monstrously transfigured Lailah. She needn't have been so careful – Lailah was focused only upon her.

“The Lord is merciful,” Lailah said.

“That doesn't look like mercy to me,” Azalea said, “your visage is finally as twisted as your heart.”

If Lailah were at her full strength, Azalea woudn't have a chance to win without being able to prepare the battlefield. But there was no way Lailah was used to her new, monstrous body. That gave Azalea a slim chance to cut it down to size.

“I prayed for a second chance to redeem you, my dear Azazel,” Lailah said, “and it was granted.”

Lailah flexed her claw hand, pulleys within it whirring.

“Thus, now that we've met as woven in the strands of fate, I will return you to Heaven. After all, I am generous and merciful, as all know.”

“You don't get it,” Azalea said. She held the regalia blade ready, and kept her eyes fixed on that massive, clawed hand. Lailah presented no other regalia, so presumably her greatest weapon had been built into her.

Lailah lashed out. Her speed and her strength were still absolutely unfair, but all the skill she had with a bow was replaced with brute utilization of that power. The crystal chime of regalia rang out, but Nakir's blade held firm. If only it weren't so unwieldy to strike with!

“I'm not some toy for your preening satisfaction,” Azalea said. Lailah swung at her again stabbing with her needle fingers.

“Neither was Arariel, who you cast aside like dirt when you decided I was more promising,” Azalea said. Again, Lailah didn't bother answering her except with another telegraphed stab with that monstrous hand.

Azalea was protecting herself well enough, but she was losing ground steadily. She tried to turn, circling slightly to put her back to the long run of the hallway.

“Have you ever noticed how tirelessly she worked for your attention?” Azalea demanded. “Of course you haven't. Once you decided she had no talent, nothing else mattered. She couldn't win you accolades, even though she's still trying.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about,” Lailah said as she swung, “And I refuse to admit such absurdity.”

“What of Zuriel, then?” Azalea asked, “You drank up his adoration, but you never mourned his demise, not for a moment out of sight of sycophants offering you condolences.”

“The past is passed,” Lailah hissed, “you should think more about your future, Azazel dear.”

Lailah's strikes were lightning quick, but, Azalea realized, she was slow to recover and slow to wind up.

“The only future I care about right now,” Azalea said, “is the one where you go to Hell, where you belong.”

Lailah struck again, but Azalea was ready for her. She slipped to the side as she blocked the assault, and swung at Lailah's retreating hand. Crystal regalia rang against aetheric gold, and Azalea gritted her teeth as she put everything into the swing. There was a creak of metal fatigue, and the pinky finger of that terrible claw bent unnaturally, the threads that controlled it snapping with an almost musical twang.

Azalea recovered her footing just in time, panting from exertion as she was thrown back by the next blow. This wasn't going to be easy.