Chapter 32 – Start of negotiations

“So, what exactly does this Samael guy want us to find?”

Aisling stopped halfway up, her fingers clenched around a loose stone, her breath slightly short from climbing over the rubble. She turned toward Idris, who was bringing up the rear a bit further down, his forehead beaded with sweat.

“The Lahash… He wants us to find the Lahash.”

The young man exchanged an uncertain glance with her before both their eyes drifted to Strife, already perched higher up, overlooking the devastated landscape that stretched as far as the eye could see. The vast ghost city rose around them, its shattered towers still standing tall, defying a pitch-black sky streaked with distant lightning.

“Don’t look at me like that, kids,” Strife said, shrugging, his gaze shifting from them to the ruins of human civilization. “I don’t know any more than you do… but if old Samy wants it, it can’t be anything good.”

Aisling sighed and moved on, climbing the last few meters to join the Horseman.

She would never have admitted it aloud, but for the first time, she had felt a sense of relief upon leaving the Twilight Realm. Among her own people, she had felt more of a stranger than ever before, and this time, a bitter taste lingered—like the shadow of the Endwar.

During their first departure, there had been hope, curiosity, even a certain excitement at the unknown. Now, everyone seemed to share the same silent worry, the dull dread of what was coming. In a short time, with the help of the Horsemen and the Hellguard, the inhabitants had prepared the area in case of another attack—fearing that the forces of Heaven and Hell might find them once more.

Aisling had walked the streets one last time, meeting gazes heavy with conflicting emotions: respect, mistrust, hope, fear… All thoughts she could read without a word being spoken. She couldn’t blame them. She understood. And yet, it only deepened the chasm inside her—a vast void of isolation, belonging to that world and yet forever a stranger to it.

But that feeling had faded the moment Fenja and Idris had joined her.

They hadn’t said anything in particular, as if everything was normal, as if nothing had changed. More than that, she had caught Fenja glaring daggers at those whose silent judgment was just a little too obvious for her taste. Aisling had felt a burn in her throat, an overwhelming rush of emotion and gratitude she had had to swallow down. She had held their hands tighter than ever when it came time to cross.

They had returned to Earth at dawn, discovering that the Reflecting Pool had been relocated by Ulthane to his forge.

Death had not made the journey with them.

He had left the Twilight Realm well before sunrise, heading alone toward the Tree of Life and Death.

No one had seen him since.

They had parted ways there, but not before a final, “See you soon.”

Fury and Fenja had chosen to continue their search on their own, while War and Uriel had insisted on escorting Aisling, Idris, and Strife to the colossal ruins. An apocalyptic landscape stretched out before them—shattered buildings, the rusting husks of vehicles eroded by time, and once-bustling roads now overrun by ashen vines and dust.

“What are you planning to do now?” Aisling had asked as she dismounted from Ruin, the mount snorting beneath War.

“Uriel thinks she can convince more legions to join our cause.”

“I make no promises, but it’s worth a try,” the angel had said as she landed beside her, taking a moment to ensure her outfit and new daggers were properly in place. “At this point, every ally counts. The rest of the Hellguard will handle training your people in our combat methods.”

“And you’re going with her to… keep an eye on her, I suppose?” Aisling had raised an amused eyebrow at War.

Uriel’s gaze had fixed on a strap that was already perfectly aligned, yet the angel hadn’t been able to stop a faint blush from coloring her cheeks.

“She doesn’t need my protection,” War had replied, his voice deep and calm.

“For heaven’s sake, learn to read between the lines…” Strife had burst into laughter, clearly entertained by the exchange.

“You—just keep the Bearer of the Seed alive,” War had said in that same grave, intense tone. “And… try to come back in one piece.”

“Aw, I’ll miss you too, big guy. Don’t worry, we’ll be back before you even have time to miss my devastating sense of humor. Right, Idris?”

A little further ahead, among the city’s fractured remains, Idris had just cleared a path through the rubble. He had turned back toward them, giving a thumbs-up.

“Path’s clear! We can move!”

Strife had nodded with satisfaction, hands on his hips.

“That’s my boy!” he had called proudly before turning to Aisling with a wink. “Come on, Dove, let’s go.”

The young woman had offered a small smile before turning to Uriel, who had just finished a final, unnecessary check of her gear. The angel’s golden gaze settled on her.

“Be careful,” she had murmured. “Samael may claim to be helping us, but I don’t trust him.”

“We’ll be careful, I promise,” Aisling had replied with a smile. “Take care of him for me, will you?”

The two women had exchanged a knowing glance before casting a look toward War, still as impassive as ever despite the conversation revolving around him. Yet a faint smile had appeared at the corner of Uriel’s lips before she unfurled her immaculate wings and soared into the sky with a single, powerful beat.

Aisling and War had shared a final, wordless look and a nod. Then the Horseman had tugged at Ruin’s reins, and with a mighty strike of its hoof, the steed had galloped off into the distance.

Since their departure, Aisling had followed Strife and Idris through the labyrinth of towering ruins that loomed all around them. The young warrior in particular hadn’t left her side for a second, as though afraid she might simply vanish before his eyes. While part of her had found the gesture touching at first, the longer it went on, the more it began to feel… stifling. Especially since the air here hung heavy—thick with dust and the distant echo of still-crumbling structures.

“This is where we found that mutant thing,” Idris had said as he caught up to Aisling with a smooth stride.

He had gestured with his chin toward a cluttered road up ahead, his expression marked by a skeptical grimace. She had followed his gaze, taking in the mass of rubble and rusting metal carcasses strewn across the path.

“We wanted to keep tracking it, but figured we’d bring back… a piece. Didn’t get us much in the end.”

“Unfortunately, that’s something for later,” Strife had cut in, his tone graver than usual.

He was moving with caution, watching their surroundings with an almost instinctive wariness. Outwardly, the Horseman’s casual demeanor hadn’t changed, but Aisling noticed the subtle shift in his posture—the way his hand hovered close to one of his pistols.

“What exactly did that sly bastard Samael say?” he asked, eyes never leaving the ruins around them.

“That he had a lead on the Element of Air,” Aisling replied, exhaling lightly to catch her breath. “He wants us to bring him the Lahash in return.”

“That’s… vague,” Idris had grumbled. “We don’t even know what a Lahash is!”

“It’s Samael,” Strife said, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle.

He resumed walking, his boots crunching over shattered stone and broken glass, the two young humans following close behind.

“But that’s not what worries me the most about him.”

“What do you mean?” Aisling asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

“He never really shows his hand when he plays, and he’s already proven more than once that he follows his own agenda. He just finds a way to have us clear the path for him on his way to whatever he’s after.”

Idris nudged Aisling with a knowing elbow before flashing Strife a mischievous smile.

“There’s a story there, isn’t there?”

“I see where you’re going, kid,” the Horseman said, turning his head slightly to give him a sideways glance before chuckling. “But you’re not getting it out of me…”

He resumed walking, while Aisling exchanged a questioning look with Idris, who was now wearing a confident smile. He seemed to know Strife well enough by now to guess that the Horseman wouldn’t be able to resist for long. And indeed, after only a few steps, Strife began to slow slightly, letting them catch up. A brief silence followed, then he sighed dramatically and raised both hands in mock surrender.

“Alright, fine. Just a short one…”

Idris’s grin widened as Strife took on a more relaxed stance, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse all along.

“This goes way back. After the Eden incident—when War, Death, Fury and I did what had to be done to end the Nephilim—we were summoned by the Charred Council. And guess what? They already suspected some damn demon was messing with the cosmic balance. Lucifer, no less. But not alone. The Council thought he was conspiring with another high-ranking demon to flip the rules of the game. So they sent us—War and me—for a little surprise visit to good old Samy. To see if we could squeeze any answers out of him. And his damn palace was already in the middle of a war. Someone else had come knocking before us, and it sure wasn’t for tea.”

Aisling amused herself watching Strife as they continued walking through the ruins. Where War and Uriel weighed every word with solemnity, Strife seemed incapable of staying silent for more than a few minutes. He laced every exchange with jokes, light teasing, or theatrical exaggerations—as though he refused to let the conversation become too serious for too long. And yet, beneath that mask of nonchalance, it wasn’t hard to detect a sharp mind, constantly analyzing, constantly watching.

Where War had been distant, unsure how to interact with her, Strife seemed completely at ease—as if he’d known them forever. Like a chaotic, unruly older brother—the type who encouraged bad decisions just to laugh at the consequences afterward. Not so surprising, really. After all, he had spent time with the last survivors of humanity, those who had known Earth before its fall. He knew their ancestors, their stories, and it showed in the way he treated them.

But despite that warmth, despite the humor and easygoing attitude, Aisling couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a wall—subtle but very real. Not rejection, nor even coldness, but an invisible barrier he let no one cross.

Was it because of the helmet he never removed?

Later, when she had the chance, she would ask Idris if he had ever seen him without it.

Her gaze slid toward her friend. He, too, seemed strangely at ease around the Horseman. He had teased Fenja for her admiration of Fury, but perhaps he didn’t realize he was acting the same way with Strife. He hung on his every word, listened to his stories with clear fascination, eyes shining with interest.

But deep inside, Aisling felt her heart tighten. Idris seemed confident in the idea that humanity would fight to reclaim its Kingdom—so sure of it. He had raised and trained others with that purpose in mind, after all: his ideal of greatness and battle. But did he truly understand how hard that task would be? Did he realize this wasn’t a hero’s tale, that retaking Earth wouldn’t happen through one glorious fight?

Strife’s voice, still vibrant with enthusiasm, abruptly pulled her from her thoughts.

“We went around kicking the asses of a bunch of demon lords, and believe me, it helped Samael more than anyone else. Sure, yeah, they were all guilty of getting cozy with Lucifer. But by taking them out one by one, we mostly helped good old Samael stack up more wealth, more armies, more territory… and a whole lot more power. If you ask me, when he makes his big speech as Lucifer’s heir, he better give us a damn shoutout. It’s the least he can do.”

Idris let out a laugh, but Aisling frowned slightly.

“Samael really has the potential to overthrow Lucifer?” she asked, doubtful.

“Oh, easily. Before the End War even started, he was one of the few who could stand toe-to-toe with him. But then—according to War—he opposed his Master’s… ‘associates.’ Basically, he took a swing at Abaddon, a.k.a. the Destroyer. So guess what? He got chained up, his powers drained, his influence crushed. But War put him back in the race when he returned to Earth to prove his innocence. Not like he had much of a choice… But still, that’s two mentions he owes us in that damn speech!”

Now Aisling understood why War had been so adamant: he had promised to be the one to deal with Samael because he knew just how much he had helped him rise again.

“And would that be a good thing?” she asked at last. “For Samael to take Lucifer’s throne in Hell?”

“Hold on, I want the end of the story!” Idris cut in. “Did you and War stop Lucifer and his plan? What was he even trying to do?”

To their surprise, Strife didn’t answer right away. His pace slowed just slightly, and his ever-carefree demeanor seemed to falter. He stayed silent, as if his memories had suddenly caught up to him.

“Strife?” Aisling prompted, intrigued by the sudden shift.

“That… that’s a story for another time,” the Horseman cleared his throat, pulling himself back together. “Yeah… another time.”

The two young humans exchanged a glance. Aisling could now clearly feel that distance.

“Ahem…” he continued, straightening up slightly. “And would it be better for Samael to wear the crown instead of Lucifer? I honestly don’t know… But knowing where Samael is, and that he’s up to something—that’s not good. Not knowing where Lucifer is or what he’s scheming? That’s worse. So…”

He shrugged, the gesture casually forced.

“We’re screwed,” he added with a dry, humorless chuckle. “But we’re getting used to it, you kn—”

Suddenly, he cut himself off and stopped dead in his tracks. His entire body had gone rigid, his stance tense. Aisling and Idris halted as well, exchanging a worried glance.

“Strife…?” the young warrior murmured, resting a hand on the hilt of his weapon.

The Horseman remained perfectly still, every sense on high alert. His shoulders had tensed slightly, and his gaze—hidden beneath his mask—scanned the ruins around them with an unusual intensity. There was no trace of humor left in him, no sign of his usual urge to joke; instead, he radiated a chilling… and deadly presence.

Then, without warning, he drew one of his pistols in a swift, precise motion. The gunshot rang out, shattering the silence with a sharp, cracking echo. The bullet flew straight into a nearby ruin, vanishing into the shadows of a gaping corridor.

Idris reacted instantly. Almost by instinct, he drew his sword and stepped in front of Aisling, shielding her behind him in a defensive stance, his gaze already combing the darkness. Strife, for his part, did not lower his weapon.

“Next time, I won’t aim next to your ugly skull but straight through it… Vulgrim.”

A tense silence followed, thick with latent threat. Then, from the darkness, came a faint sound—a deep, guttural chuckle, slithering like a whisper through the fallen stones. And finally, a smooth, honeyed voice rose softly.

“Come now, Horseman… is that really how one greets his favorite merchant?”

A demon slowly emerged from the shadows, a supernatural gleam in his eyes and a mischievous smile twisting his face. Aisling instinctively stepped back, her breath catching in her throat.

The creature was a disturbing blend of sophistication and pure malice. His slender frame seemed to float a few centimeters above the ground, his dark coat—covered in esoteric patterns—moving as if caught in a wind that wasn’t there. His ashen-blue skin bore runic scars that pulsed with a faint glow, as though they contained a fire within. His piercing blue eyes shone through the darkness, radiating cold, calculating intelligence. And his wide, crooked grin, filled with razor-sharp teeth, promised nothing but deception and danger.

Two long horns curled from his skull, framing a face marked by sharp, angular features. His fingers—long and jointed like a spider’s—drummed slowly, as though constantly calculating the cost of what he saw.

Strife moved in a smooth step to place himself in front of Aisling, his pistol still aimed at the demon. The demon responded with a raspy laugh, his grin somehow growing even wider—if that was possible.

“And who have you brought with you this time, hmm?”

He tilted his head slightly, trying to peer past Strife to get a better look at Idris and Aisling. But the Horseman immediately shifted to block his view.

“Curiosity is a nasty habit, Soul Eater… one I can fix with a bullet. Still feel like insisting?”

The demon feigned a sigh, but the gleam in his eyes revealed he was relishing the confrontation.

“Oh… let’s just say you were a particularly valued customer during your last wanderings on Earth, Strife. Always eager to trade a few souls for my services, weren’t you? I was merely wondering what you might be willing to offer… in exchange… for this one.”

A shiver of cold ran down Aisling’s spine. She didn’t like the way he had said “this one,” his tone dripping with hungry emphasis as he looked at her.

“She’s not for trade,” Strife replied, his voice dangerously low. “None of them are.”

Vulgrim’s smile widened, revealing a full row of razor-sharp teeth. Idris tightened his grip on his sword, muscles taut and ready to strike. His voice snapped through the air, as sharp as the blade in his hand:

“I can kill him if need be…”

“Believe me, I’m tempted too,” Strife admitted. “But I don’t believe in coincidences, and I doubt Vulgrim is here by accident… am I wrong?”

The demon spread his arms slightly in a theatrical gesture, his grin stretching even farther, exposing uneven, jagged teeth.

“You forget the Void is my domain, White Rider.”

Strife nodded slowly, his suspicion still very much alive.

“Ah, I see… And what exactly did Samael promise you in return for sheltering him and checking on his little investments?”

The demon put on a mock-hurt expression, placing one hand on his chest.

“You wound me. Didn’t Samael promise you information regarding the kidnapped and vanished humans? Hmmm?”

“So you’re the well-informed contact. Why am I not surprised? And I suppose you’re going to offer us this favor out of the goodness of your heart?” Strife said, full of irony.

“Now that’s just insulting,” Vulgrim cackled with a grating laugh.

Strife let out a long sigh before turning to Idris and Aisling.

“Death is going to kill me… How many souls is this going to cost me?”

Aisling frowned, not immediately understanding what the Horseman meant. Souls? She turned toward Vulgrim, whose eager expression instantly confirmed her suspicions. He had called him Soul Eater.

The demon rubbed his hands together, then pointed a long bony finger deeper into the ruins.

“There are plenty of Wicked nearby. Why don’t you start by bringing me a few of those?”

Aisling felt a chill crawl down her spine. On the way back, the Hellguard had explained the grim nature of those humans who had attacked her that night at the camp—what remained of humanity left behind on Earth after the premature start of the Apocalypse. Twisted shadows of what they once were. Fueled by the demonic energy that had seeped into them, they had become cannon fodder for Hell’s armies.

But… they had still been human. Once.

Her heart clenched, and she stepped forward, ready to intervene—even if it meant shoving Idris aside. But before she could open her mouth, Strife shut the conversation down with a voice as sharp and final as a blade:

“No. No human souls. None.”

She froze, caught off guard. She had expected to have to argue, to plead, even to beg if necessary.

Vulgrim let out a falsely exasperated sigh before shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Very well, very well… I suppose for a few initial pieces of information, I could make do with a few demons,” he said with a predatory grin. “Bring them back fresh, and we can negotiate.”

Strife finally holstered his pistol and turned toward Idris.

“Same routine. Stay with him, Dove. I’ll be back.”

Aisling opened her mouth to protest, but Strife was already gone, vanishing into the shadows of the ruins. She let her gaze linger in his direction for a moment, first with surprise, then with a flicker of gratitude.

Strife… Strife hadn’t even hesitated.

No human souls. Not a single one.