The Fallen Angel

No king nor master when our sacred rites begin;
No sweet virginity can match this gentle sin;
Plunged in the madness and the soil of earth's bleak scene,
Only as human am I made, and purely clean.

- "The Church Brought Me Hither", by Reizoh

...

The four-horse carriage hurtled through the gray blizzard of the limestone valley. Iron-shod wheels ground relentlessly across the frozen slush of the northern avenue, sending up an ear-grating screech.

Outside on the exposed driver's box, the icy gale whipped relentlessly. Lugn sat hunched forward, his frostbitten hands gripping the reins tight as he drove the four horses hard through the storm. Slumped right beside him was Count Rosallen, motionless, his heavy head lolling with each violent jolt of the chassis, his lavish fur mantle dusted with white snow - a perfect decoy for the youth steering behind him.

Inside the sealed cabin, the stench of damp fur mingled with charred sheepskin and the sulfur fumes billowing up from underground ventilation ducts.

Sevran sat leaning against the rough pine wall. Beneath his filthy, ragged clothes, pressed against his gaunt ribs, Kau'i's gray paper-wrapped candy lay quiet. It possessed no magic, no divine aura, only a thin trace of physical warmth preserved by his own dying body - an earthly relic of an eight-year-old child, the lone anchor keeping the human spark within him from turning entirely to stone.

Sevran shifted the three remaining fingers on his left hand, tapping lightly against the small wooden hatch connecting to the driver's seat:

"Lugn. Get off the carriage."

The pull of the reins slackened. Lugn reined the four horses to a halt, turning his head to peer through the hatch with wide, startled eyes:

"Chief? It is still over three miles to the inner city gate..."

"Get off right now. Take drainage trench number six, return to the smithy," Sevran reached into the bottom of the sack at his feet, drew out a jagged chunk of black raw iron ore, and tossed it through the partition into the youth's lap. "Take this. Carve me a seal. The design is behind where I last sat in the workshop. I will need it to stamp the contract with Lucidas."

Lugn caught the heavy lump of iron. Looking into Sevran's hollow, exhausted eyes, Lugn swallowed hard and nodded firmly:

"Understood. Before the third bell of dawn, the seal will be finished. Chief... stay alive."

Without a wasted movement, Lugn cast aside the reins, kicked open the side latch, and dropped into the knee-deep snowdrift by the roadside. His lean frame vanished into the black fog of the pine woods, carrying the survival hopes of two thousand souls from the depths of the mines.

With Lugn gone, the four horses stamped their hooves and snorted restlessly in the freezing gale. The unguided carriage sank into a suffocating quiet.

In the far dark corner of the cabin, the suited shadow hovered a handspan above the floorboards. Its dead-white porcelain mask tilted, the singular red eye at the center turning in mechanical increments as it peered through the frosted glass.

"Lucidas. Lock Count Rosallen's mind," Sevran said coldly. "Turn him into a puppet holding the reins, and drive this carriage through the three checkpoints of the inner city."

"You are squandering your capital, mortal. A vaporous blight like Vabel, however inferior as a Stratum II demon, is more than enough to scour this entire continent when loosed upon mere men in iron. How could common sentries bar poisonous mist? Why throw away another third of your meager lifespan for nothing?"

The corners of Sevran's cracked lips twitched into a faint, dark, enigmatic smile:

"You will find out soon enough."

The red eye within the porcelain contracted. An ancient entity that had lived through millions of cycles rarely saw a lower organism dare withhold its hand before him. He found it strange, yet demonic curiosity was ignited. He wanted to see what grand game this broken soul was attempting on such a blood-soaked board.

"Very well. The primary covenant remains in escrow. Compelling this localized psionic domination will deduct precisely one-third of your remaining lifespan."

Lucidas raised a black-gloved finger and pressed it against the air.

A freezing psychic probe plunged into Sevran's frontal lobe, scanning his thoughts for cognitive traps. Finding nothing beyond a flat, unyielding void, the probe lanced through the wood into Rosallen's nape.

The count's portly frame twitched once. His eyes glazed over, his mouth slacked into a continuous drool down his fox-fur coat, yet his hands gripped the reins with the unswerving precision of clockwork.

At that exact moment, a hideous chill surged from Sevran's heels straight to his crown. His bone marrow felt scoured hollow. A patch of hair along his temple turned the color of winter frost, shedding onto his lap.

The severed knuckles of his left hand throbbed with raw, agonizing spasms, dark blood weeping through the blackened scabs. His lifespan had been shaved by yet another thick slab, dragging his battered frame to the very lip of the grave.

From the carriage ceiling, Vabel's bruised purple smoke coiled tight. Two yellow ignition points flickered anxiously as it looked at Lucidas:

"L... Lord Lucidas... So my pact with this human was merely a front? The one your lordship truly wishes to sign with is him?"

Lucidas folded his arms, a lethal aura radiating from his frame:

"You realize this rather late, vermin. He is my asset in escrow. You are merely a draught beast doing chores. If you fail to assist him tonight... I will tear your vapor into scattered wisps, and snap this human's neck along with yours."

Vabel's smoky body shivered in primal terror before the ruler of Lower First. Yet immediately after, a grotesque, predatory thrill bubbled through the purple mist.

Sevran ignored their exchange, his eyes fixed on Vabel's yellow embers:

"Your reward is the dragon. But to reach the dragon's pit, we must butcher the entire royal garrison. Or... hunt angels first. Which do you wish to devour?"

Vabel hissed with a wet sizzle:

"What difference does it make? Dragon meat or feathered bird meat, it is all energy!"

"Imbecile!" Lucidas cut in sharply, his voice like iron scraping against glass. He tilted his mask toward the air, unleashing a venomous tirade: "Angels are divided by rank just like demons, and they are the foulest, most hypocritical counterpart ever spawned under the stars! Pompous machines draped in feathers, babbling about order and virtue while running on rigid, stagnant algorithms! Encounter an angel, and you slaughter it without mercy! Leave not a single quill! Their energy density is thin and pale, nothing compared to a dragon, but their taste... is the finest flesh a demon could ever sink its teeth into!"

Lucidas cursed on, deriding everything from the stench of artificial ozone in angel blood to the haughty posturing of the Stratum III enforcers.

Beside them, the calico cat Dancote remained curled in slumber, its tiny bat wings twitching lazily as its tail flicked against Sevran's knee.

Sevran peered through the frosted glass. The black stone bulwarks of Vark-Aethel rose grim against the storm.

"I already have insiders planted across the foundries and slag pits of the capital over these past two years," Sevran said, cutting through the demon's rant. "In past dreams, I had to poison the king and drake before turning to the church. But with this lineup... anyone can be killed first."

Sevran tapped his three-fingered hand against the wood:

"We hunt angels first."

...

The carriage rolled on, stopping before the central plaza.

CRASH.

Sevran stepped down, kicking open the massive doors of Korr-Vhur Cathedral. The thousand-year-old bronze-plated oak groaned, then slammed back against stone, laying bare the gilded, suffocating hall within.

The cathedral was immense, the absolute core of authority governing the empire - monopolizing forged iron, collecting tithes, and buying human lives by the wagonload. Soaring obsidian vaults arched like a cavern, walled in holy murals painted in radiant gold leaf.

Sevran froze at the threshold. The layout... mirrored the ruined church where he had first encountered the mysterious old woman in his dream, or was it the entity standing behind him now? A fleeting thought crossed his mind that perhaps Lucidas had once been a fallen angel before descending into the Demon Realm.

But he dismissed it at once.

The deeper they walked, the more the sweet stench of costly myrrh failed to mask the rot of human flesh.

Beneath the altar and the feet of stone statues, dozens of Sclerite female slaves knelt prostrate on the freezing marble. Heavy iron collars bit into their throats, their bare backs lacerated with weeping sores from stingray-hide whips, reduced to living footstools for fat bishops who gorged on roast mutton and swilled lead-tainted wine.

High upon the throne of chiseled jade sat Pope Cipactli. Immensely fat, his multiple chins drooped over a rosary strung with human knuckle bones, grease glistening on the roast goose leg in his fist.

Seeing the shattered door and the ragged, three-fingered intruder, Cipactli bellowed in a shrill, furious roar:

"What gutter rats dare desecrate this holy sanctuary?! I am Cipactli, the supreme voice of the Holy Light, the master of life and death in this empire! Where are the guards?! Flay this beggar alive and throw him into the furnace!!"

A hulking bishop lunged forward with an iron staff, eager to earn favor by crushing Sevran's skull.

SWOOSH...

A tendril of bruised purple smoke shot through the air, condensing into an enormous pneumatic fist that smashed directly into the bishop's face. The blow pulverized bone with the sickening crunch of a crushed melon. Blood, brain matter, and teeth sprayed across the holy mural behind him. The headless bulk collapsed into a puddle of spilled grease, twitching once before going still.

Cipactli went rigid, the meat falling from his mouth. Seeing a single puff of vapor shatter his chief prelate, the blood drained from his flabby cheeks:

"A demon... A demon in the holy hall!!"

In a frenzy of terror, Cipactli clawed into his vestments, pulling out a blazing rhomboid crystal - the Beacon of Holy Light. He and the surviving bishops shrieked in unison, smashing the crystal onto the altar steps:

"Archangel of the Order! Salvation! Descend and purge!!"

"..."

The crystal shattered into gleaming dust. Seven concentric circles of white fire ignited across the flagstones, tearing the air as seven guardian angels and one Archangel manifested in blinding silver light.

They were humanoid figures with pristine white feathered wings, clad in polished marble plate armor. Their faces were smooth, featureless metal masks bearing only a single spinning mechanical eye, wielding long lances of crackling thermal fire, radiating an austere, clinical divinity meant to cleanse all earthly filth.

The six-winged Archangel stepped through the central rift, raising its helm with icy arrogance:

"I am Marina, Archangel of the Third Stratum! What mortal dares disturb my maintenance cycle?!"

Cipactli crawled forward on hands and knees, sobbing with relief as he pointed at Sevran:

"Divine One! That heretic! He brought a demon into the sanctuary! Pierce him with holy fire!!"

Marina raised her radiant lance, her singular lens locking onto Sevran.

Then, the Archangel froze mid-motion. Her optical lens whirred frantically, microscopic mechanisms clicking in panic as her internal diagnostic core registered the purple cloud:

An authentic abyssal entity originating from Lower Second.

All celestial majesty shattered in a heartbeat. Marina lowered her lance, whipped her head around toward the kneeling Pope, and spat an utterly vulgar curse:

"Are you out of your fucking mind?! That is a Stratum II demon! All of us here are only calibrated for Stratum III! How the hell are we supposed to fight that?! If you are so brave, go hit it with your staff!!"

Cipactli gaped, drool pooling on his chin, utterly unable to comprehend why the divine host he had worshiped for generations was cursing like a tavern brawler.

Marina turned her gaze further, catching sight of the suited figure standing behind the smoke.

There hovered Lucidas, clad in immaculate black, his featureless porcelain mask bearing a single, closed eye. The design matched the judicial visors of the Upper Stratum, and with his demonic aura sealed tight within the escrow pact, not a trace of evil escaped his frame.

Marina gasped, calling out with urgent concern:

"Fellow angel over there! Do not fear! Have you been taken hostage by that demon and the beggar?! Fall back behind our perimeter at once!!"

A bizarre, dead silence descended upon the cathedral.

The cold wind drifted through the broken entryway, stirring white feathers across pools of greasy gravy.

No one answered.

Lucidas wore a mask identical to an angel's and concealed his dark mana, making them believe he was a lost celestial officer.

From Sevran's shoulder, Dancote cracked open an emerald slit, regarded the six-winged angel with pure indifference, and let out a sleepy murmur:

"Mrow."

A low, brittle laugh rasped from behind the porcelain mask.

It happened faster than light could register.

Not even a blur was seen. Lucidas's black-gloved hand closed around the neck of Archangel Marina before her lance could shift an inch. With a brutal twist of his bare fingers, he tore her head cleanly from her shoulders!

SNAP.

Marina's head rolled across the marble floor, celestial golden blood spraying upward like an open hydrant, staining the ceiling vault. The six-winged torso dropped like a felled pillar.

Before the remaining seven angels could beat their wings in retreat, the solitary red eye on Lucidas's porcelain mask snapped wide open. Billions of psychic gray threads swept through the chamber like an invisible web:

"The Moth's Epiphany."

The mind plague struck without sound.

In an instant, the neural lattices of the seven angels and every prelate in the hall fractured. In their perception, their brothers and peers warped into ravenous, rotting horrors clawing for their entrails.

Pandemonium erupted.

One angel drove its lance through the spine of another, laughing hysterically. Two bishops fell upon each other like starving dogs, ripping away cheeks, ears, and gouging eyes with their bare nails. Pope Cipactli went entirely mad, hoisting a massive bronze candelabrum and hammering it into the skull of his cardinal again and again, shrieking in ecstasy amidst a shower of blood:

"Kill them! Slay the abominations! Heaven is mine! Ahahaha!!"

Golden celestial ichor mingled with thick red mortal blood, raining down upon the altar in a macabre frenzy. The holy men and their winged protectors butchered one another in howling lunacy.

In the dark corners, the female slaves pressed against the pillars, shielding their eyes in terror. Incapable of perceiving the demons, they only saw their oppressors tearing their own flesh apart in a sudden fit of divine madness.

Standing in the spray of gore, Vabel watched in awe, his purple smoke vibrating:

"Magnificent! True demonic dominion!"

Sevran stood motionless, his boots soaked in bile and blood:

"Stop babbling, Vabel. Feed on them now and ascend. Seven angels and an Archangel are worth half a dragon. Swallow everything, save for the slaves."

Vabel's yellow embers flared with savage gluttony.

With a hollow roar, the purple cloud expanded like an atmospheric vortex, sweeping across the nave. It engulfed the shattered altar, vacuumed the dismembered limbs, dissolved every drop of golden blood, and devoured the shattered angelic cores.

In less than four minutes, the vortex receded.

The Great Cathedral of Korr-Vhur stood immaculate, bone-dry, and hollowed out to the stone, as if no living soul had ever set foot inside its walls.

...

Vabel reassembled before Sevran, his mist turned dense and black as boiling pitch, crackling with jagged crimson sparks. He had temporarily ascended to a Semi-Archdemon, though still pale beside a true abyssal lord.

"A dragon's essence is truly unparalleled," Sevran thought coldly. In an earlier dream, devouring an imperial drake had given Vabel enough power to lay waste to three continents within two hours.

Sevran felt no regret for the slaughtered clergy. This church had orchestrated the slave trade, monopolized the ore mines, and bled millions dry through religious tyranny. This clean obliteration was far kinder than they deserved.

Trembling, several Sclerite women crept out from behind the pillars, weeping as they fell before Sevran, the only living man left in the chamber:

"Thank you, lord... but if the imperial guards round us up, we will only be dragged to the block..."

Looking at their bruised limbs and cracked knuckles, Sevran saw Kau'i's fragile silhouette once more. His voice softened by a fraction:

"Take the western corridor down to sewer conduit six, then flee toward the Black Basin. Two thousand brothers of the resistance are rallying there. You will find bread and shelter. No one will force you to kneel again."

The women wept, bowing their heads before vanishing into the shadows of the subterranean ducts.

When the last footstep faded, Sevran stepped onto the threshold, reached out with his three-fingered hand, and gently drew the great oak doors shut.

Click.

The bolt settled into place without a sound. Behind him, the empty cathedral slept in perfect, sepulchral silence, completely unnoticed by the city outside.

On his shoulder, Dancote buried its chin into his sheepskin collar, snoring softly.

Sevran turned his eyes toward the towering spires of the royal citadel, where the furious roar of the Black Dragon Arachne began to shake the winter night.

"Time for the final battle," he said.

...

Unto the church convey me; at thy shrine of lies,
Like a lewd hound in worship let my body fall;
Sharpen thy knife as all my whispered sins arise,
And yield that deathless death to end this mortal thrall.

- "The Church Brought Me Hither", by Reizoh