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“This is madness…” Aisling murmured to herself, her eyes locked on the void stretching beneath her feet.
With her back pressed against the glass wall, she moved slowly along the narrow ledge that spiraled around the tower, each step a battle against vertigo and panic. The weight of Strife’s pistol felt heavy against her side. She forced herself to keep her gaze fixed ahead, refusing to look down into the abyss or to listen to the shouts of the scientists rising from below.
The diversion was working perfectly.
On the lower levels, two Rephaim freshly released from their tanks roamed the laboratories like frenzied children. Confused, disoriented, and furious at having been awakened without explanation, they tore through their surroundings in a joyful cacophony of shattered metal and howls. Guards and researchers were running in all directions, desperately trying to contain them or force them back into their tanks. No one had yet thought to look up toward the glass heights of the tower. And Aisling fully intended to take advantage of that.
But her biggest problem wasn’t behind her—it was above.
She had just reached the level of the first floor of the suspended prison, where bars replaced the glass walls. The passage she had spotted earlier was still three, maybe four floors higher. And the vertical surface she needed to climb was perfectly smooth, without a single handhold or recess.
She glanced down at her clothes, thoughtful. Could she fashion a makeshift rope out of them? Maybe… but the idea of climbing half-naked into a demonic prison didn’t exactly thrill her.
She bit her lip, desperately searching for a solution, when suddenly a shadow loomed above her. A hand shot out, reaching toward her.
“Here.”
She looked up, breathless, her muscles trembling with the strain, to see an arm extended through the prison bars. The demon—the one whose gaze she had met the day before, his expression then caught between weariness and lucidity. A remnant of primal instinct urged her to be wary.
But the time for hesitation had passed. She was about to break into the beast’s lair; she might as well take the hand that was offered.
In one swift motion, she launched herself toward the powerful arm. Her fingers latched onto the demon’s rough forearm, and without the slightest hesitation, he closed his grip around her and pulled her up in one sharp jerk. She reached the ledge, but her foot slipped, and her balance wavered dangerously. The void rushed back at her in an icy wave of vertigo. She was going to fall.
But suddenly, other hands emerged from the shadows, catching her mid-fall. More demons. They held her steady, pulling her back toward the bars, helping her find a grip.
“Hold her tight,” ordered the first demon, who looked barely older than she was. “I’ll pass the word to lift her higher.”
He darted off without waiting for a response, disappearing into the darkness of the upper level. Meanwhile, those who remained with her coordinated with unsettling efficiency. The ones still resisting the effects of the mist—the clearest-minded—guided Aisling with care. Outstretched arms, precise gestures, they moved her along the ledge, passing her from hand to hand.
At last, on the upper floor, more hands appeared between the bars, ready to hoist her once again toward the top of the prison.
More than once, panic nearly made her fall. Every creak of metal, every distant shout from the lower floors made her flinch. She didn’t dare look down, but she could feel the eyes of the scientists and guards shifting behind her back, scanning the laboratories. If even one of them looked up…
Driven by fear, she tried twice to squeeze hastily between slightly parted bars, convinced she could force her way through. But each attempt failed, the metal stubbornly resisting her efforts. Her breath grew shorter. She would have to climb higher, just as she had first planned.
There were few demons able to resist the mist’s influence, but they relayed her upward with quiet efficiency. From hand to hand, floor to floor, she advanced slowly, each step more uncertain than the last.
“They’ve almost subdued the two mutants!” one of the demons whispered nervously, eyes locked on the lower levels. “Hurry, they’re going to see her!”
Aisling felt her heart pounding, drumming in her chest like a warbeat. Her arms burned, her legs trembled, and her whole body began to betray the iron will that had carried her this far. Only a few meters remained. One last opening, right there, within reach…
She reached out, trembling fingers desperately searching for a hold… but a sharp cramp shot through her leg, paralyzing her exhausted muscles. Her foot slipped. She felt the void open beneath her, dragged down by the weight of the pistol.
But two arms shot out from the level below. They caught her mid-fall, saving her in extremis. And before she could process what was happening, she was hurled upward with inhuman strength.
A breath, barely a second—and other hands grabbed her firmly at the opening. She was hauled roughly through the bars, the metal scraping her skin and her aching limbs, before collapsing, gasping, onto the cold floor of the prison.
In her fall, she had instinctively clung to the one who had caught her: the young demon from the night before. He was still holding her, his gaze filled with a strange gravity. Breathless,
Aisling let him do so without protest, her heart pounding in her ears, caught between pain and relief.
She cast a quick glance around, still gasping for breath, her arms and legs trembling from the effort. Aside from the small group of demons who had helped her—a ragtag band of all sizes, shapes, and ages, marked by scars and exhaustion—the other prisoners remained huddled. Some were slumped against the walls, others lying flat on the ground, their eyes staring blankly at the ceiling without seeing it. A heavy silence reigned, broken only by the labored sighs of the mist.
The supernatural vapor, though more diffuse here than in the heart of the Pit, still clung to the floor in thick tendrils, slithering between the prisoners like something alive. It seemed to caress their feet, coil around their ankles, and creep upward insidiously. Aisling felt the familiar sting invade her nostrils. The moment she inhaled, the voices returned—whispers at the edge of her mind, regrets that weren’t all her own.
She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled slowly, and summoned the will to push them back.
“Silence, everyone!” barked the young demon who had pulled her up.
His voice, sharp and commanding, cracked against the walls like a whip. Instantly, the others obeyed. Not a word. All of them strained their ears, listening for the slightest suspicious sound. For a moment, Aisling thought she heard footsteps, maybe shouting… but no. The chaos on the lower floors seemed to have quieted. Calm was slowly returning. For now, her presence had gone unnoticed.
She glanced at the demon beside her, who gave her a brief nod.
“Clear, for now,” the young demon confirmed after listening one last time.
He offered his hand to help her stand and supported her gently until she regained her balance.
“Try not to breathe the mist too much, it’s…”
“I know. I saw Azrael,” she interrupted, her voice low but firm.
He nodded, clearly relieved that she already understood the danger. Then, to Aisling’s surprise, he inclined his head slightly in a gesture of solemn, almost ceremonial respect.
“I am Astaroth,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “What message do you bring from Empyrean?”
Aisling blinked, confused.
“Empyrean?”
He pointed to her hand—more precisely, to her ring.
“You are from there, aren’t you? We always believed it was too risky to bring humans into Empyrean… So if you’ve gone there, it must mean the situation has become critical. What orders do you bring from our Lord and Lady?”
Around them, the other demons had silently gathered. Their eyes—bright, weary, yet hungry with hope—were fixed on her with a tension that bordered on pain.
Aisling’s throat tightened. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she had to swallow several times before she could speak.
“You… you don’t know?” she whispered, almost reluctantly. “Varakh and Seraphel… they’ve fallen.”
A hushed murmur swept through the group like a breath of dread. Astaroth froze, his features hardening in shock. Just from the look on their faces, she realized they had never stopped hoping someone would come to take them out of this hell. Aisling shivered in horror—how long had they been trapped here?
“Then… no one’s coming?” asked a large demon suddenly, one who looked as though nothing could shake him—yet his words trembled.
Aisling felt her stomach knot. She had no answer to give, no comforting promise. She looked over the faces turned toward her—fearful, desperate, clinging to hope—and then back to Astaroth, who said nothing, but whose eyes pierced her with silent expectation.
“I’m sorry…” she breathed at last, her voice tight.
“But… you wear the seal!”
“…It’s a long story,” she replied, her breath short. “And I don’t have time to explain it all. They’ll notice soon that Strife and I are missing.”
“Then the Horsemen are with us?” asked another, hope creeping into his voice like a crack in stone.
“They’re trying. But Strife is trapped. And Azrael is a prisoner of the mist. I have to break the Angel’s chains to close the Pit and reclaim control over the lost souls.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. The demons exchanged glances, hesitant—torn between the flicker of a hope they no longer dared to feed and the weariness of a nightmare too long endured.
“She won’t be able to get back out if she goes all the way to him,” murmured a demoness with dull red skin, locking eyes with Astaroth.
No words were exchanged between them, but their silence said everything.
“Maybe… But at this point… we don’t really have another choice.”
Astaroth gave the young human a brief nod, urging her to follow him without a word. Aisling fell in behind him, and together they continued their ascent, level after level. The higher they climbed, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The mist, sparse at first, now thickened around them, coiling around their ankles like icy fingers, then creeping upward, seeping into their lungs, their thoughts, their memories.
The cells grew more numerous, but nearly all housed only slumped or twitching figures—prisoners whose minds seemed long since broken. Some muttered nonsense under their breath, others sat frozen, eyes rolled back, fingers clenched around invisible chains. There was no rebellion here, no hope—only the suffocating lethargy of madness.
At last, Astaroth stopped at the topmost floor. The mist here was denser than ever, swirling in heavy, almost liquid plumes. Aisling immediately understood—they were just beneath the central ventilation shaft, where Azrael was chained. She closed her eyes briefly to steady her breathing, then opened them again, fighting with every ounce of willpower to let the voices sliding into her mind pass through her like poison without taking root.
At the center of the upper floor, set apart from the other cells, loomed an immense silhouette against the red-tinged gloom. It was massive—gigantic, even. Its broad torso looked as though it had been carved from raw metal, half-fused with armor as if fire and steel had been poured together. Broad shoulders bristling with riveted plates framed a face where only the eyes glowed—a burning, incandescent orange.
From its sheer stature, Aisling guessed it must have been a Maker—but something felt wrong. As she stepped closer, she saw why.
A skeleton.
It was nothing more than a massive skeleton, somehow standing and moving by a magic she couldn’t fathom. Its left arm was missing past the shoulder, replaced by a gauntlet whose pieces floated in the air, assembling themselves into a mobile structure.
Aisling halted abruptly when the bare side of the skull turned toward her. Astaroth, too, kept a cautious distance.
“Behold the Mad Smith, messenger.”
The walking skeleton turned slowly to face them, an odd elegance in every motion—as though his creaking bones and time-worn body had never forgotten the manners of a great lord. His voice, though resonant like steel scraping stone, rose with disconcerting politeness.
“Mad? I am far from the most unhinged here, dear apprentice.”
His two blazing amber eyes lingered on Aisling with curiosity.
“And who might our guest be?”
“I am Aisling of Nimrach. I come on Azrael’s behalf.”
The forgemaster’s fiery gaze intensified.
“Oh… and no doubt on behalf of many others. Come closer, child. But beware the mist—it has more appetite than patience.”
Aisling took a step forward, hesitant, her arms crossed over her chest.
“It doesn’t affect you?”
“Ah… My mind learned to swim among regrets many millennia ago. The mist and I—we are well acquainted. She is an old lover, cruel and faithful.”
He paused, observing her with a strange tenderness.
“A human… It has been a very long time since I last laid eyes on one of your kind. So, our struggle wasn’t entirely in vain after all…”
“It soon will be, if we don’t all get out of here. Earth is dying, slowly but surely, and the End War is coming fast. We need help.”
A breath of irony slipped through the forgemaster’s deep, cavernous laugh.
“Don’t we all?” he said, gesturing slowly to their surroundings.
“Help is scarce here too.”
“Azrael told me only you can break his chains,” she pressed on, her voice urgent. “He must close the Well, contain the mist. Without him…”
“That’s the tragedy, isn’t it?” he murmured. “To forge keys… and never unlock the door of your own prison.”
Aisling glanced around uneasily, struggling more and more to keep her thoughts clear. The mist coiled around her like an insidious shroud, seeping into her, dulling her reflexes, dissolving her thoughts. Perhaps that was why she heard her own voice respond, almost without thinking:
“Who said anything about a door?”
The Mad Smith tilted his head slowly. Aisling, with an effort of near-painful concentration, slid her hand into the folds of her tunic and drew out Strife’s pistol—heavy and cold against her palm. She held it out to the forgemaster, who took it with unexpected delicacy.
“Interesting… This is not of human make.”
“No. It belongs to Strife, one of the Four Horsemen. He came with me. He’s helping me.”
The forgemaster raised a skeptical brow.
“And yet… I don’t see him here.”
“He… has other matters to deal with.”
The Mad Smith nodded slowly, as if he understood more than she was saying.
“Ah… yes. A Horseman’s regrets must weigh heavy indeed. Not easy to forge steel from ashes.”
The young demon, who had stayed back until now, stepped forward with a hint of impatience.
“Your offering is generous, messenger, but it won’t be enough. Even armed, we could never defeat all the wardens.”
But the Mad Smith’s rumbling laughter rose into the air, deep and resonant, like a hammer striking the anvil of the absurd.
“You must broaden your mind, young apprentice. What you hold is not just a weapon… it’s a heart, a core of raw energy. Properly channeled, it could break open stone itself.”
He handed the weapon to the demon, who took it with a mixture of awe and wariness, weighing it, examining it carefully. A smith himself, evidently, judging by the expert way his fingers traced the engraved surface.
“Hmmm… Yes, maybe… I could make something… with the right runes…”
“If possible, without… damaging it?” Aisling ventured, a little uncertain.
The Mad Smith let out a harsh, joyful, rasping laugh, then turned once more to his apprentice.
“Astaroth, ready your men—those still able. It seems business is picking up!”
Idris struggled to gather his thoughts. Ever since he had remained outside with Naamah on the tower’s exterior stairwell—where the mist curled and drifted in plumes from the summit—he had felt wrapped in cotton. His thoughts slipped through his fingers like lukewarm water. And now, something was wrong. A silent alarm rang in his head.
Why had he felt that strange sensation, that cold shiver, when Naamah had leaned toward him earlier? Why had he thought, for the briefest moment, that she wore the same scent as Fenja? It was absurd. Illogical. But the thought clung to him like a splinter beneath the skin.
He felt numb, yet paradoxically, his instincts had never screamed louder. Something was wrong. Something was going terribly, irreversibly wrong. He should never have come here. He should never have been alone in Naamah’s chambers.
The demoness was speaking. For how long, he didn’t know. The words reached him as if through a pane of glass—distorted, meaningless. He knew she had asked him a question, but nothing had filtered through except the brush of her voice and the soft pressure of her hand, once again resting on his shoulder.
“What do you think?” she asked, her smile serene.
“Yes… very well,” he replied without thinking, mechanically.
But the words slipped from his mouth without ever truly being chosen. Voices were looping inside his mind—confused, oppressive whispers. And he realized that listening to them, surrendering to that state of abandonment, wouldn’t silence them. No. Not like this.
Suddenly, as if jolted by a surge of clarity, he stepped back, his eyes fixed on Naamah. His vision steadied for just a moment—long enough for him to see how wrong it all felt. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to run. He needed to find Aisling, Strife, and Nimue. And Fenja. He needed to see Fenja.
Naamah blinked slowly, caught off guard, before smoothing her features back into that mask of gentle grace.
“I understand you’re worried about bringing your people here. But it’s the simplest way, you see? I’ll assign you some Rephaim to escort you, and we can…”
“I have to go.”
But as he took a step to leave, Naamah’s hand closed around his arm with possessive softness. Idris turned, ready to push her away… and froze.
Fenja.
She stood right there, just in front of him, her gaze lifted to his, her eyes full of light and distress entwined.
“You wouldn’t abandon me… would you, Idris?”
His heart stopped for a second. Every part of him screamed to believe her, to take her into his arms. Everything in him longed to give in to that vision. She had her face, her voice, her scent. And yet…
Fenja stepped closer, slowly, wrapping her arms around his neck the way he had once fantasized she might—he had to admit it. He could feel her breath against his lips, the warmth of her nearness, her heart beating in rhythm with his.
“I need you… truly. We all need you. Once this is over, our people will finally see you for what you are. A leader. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Her voice was soft, persuasive, honeyed. Idris wavered. He was seconds away from surrendering to her when—
A familiar voice whispered suddenly in his ear. Aisling.
“You really, really need to learn how to pick your battles better… That’s exactly why you’re still a soldier, and not a leader!”
Fenja pressed her lips to his, sliding her tongue in with a slow, calculated motion, almost hypnotic.
He jolted, as if struck by lightning.
No.
Fenja would never do that. Not like this. Not now. Not with that look in her eyes. She would’ve called him an idiot. She would’ve slapped him. She would’ve brought him back to reality in her own way—blunt and honest.
And this thing in front of him, no matter how flawless the illusion… it wasn’t her.
It wasn’t Fenja.
With a sharp movement, driven by the last spark of lucidity left in him, Idris seized the hilt of his sword. In a flash of raw will, he drew it and struck hard with the pommel, slamming it into the creature clinging to him. The impact was enough. The illusion cracked like glass under strain—Fenja vanished in the blink of an eye, swept away like a bad dream.
And in her place, Naamah reappeared.
First frozen in surprise, then wounded in her pride, her expression quickly shifted to a cold, venomous fury. Her gaze had nothing seductive left in it—only pure hatred.
“You filthy little—”
She didn’t get the chance to finish.
The door exploded inward with a deafening crash. Strife stormed into the room like a hurricane, his massive gun already aimed. He didn’t ask if everything was alright. He didn’t waste a second speaking. He fired.
Naamah barely managed to leap aside. The projectile shattered the wide bay window behind her in a spray of glass. Seizing the opportunity, the demoness suddenly spread her wings and hurled herself into the void, her chilling laugh echoing briefly before the wind swallowed it.
Idris took a step toward the wrecked window—but his breath failed him.
He froze mid-motion, a sharp pain seizing his throat. Something was blocking his airway. He dropped his sword with a dull clang and clutched at his neck, trying in vain to swallow or cough.
Nothing.
His panicked gaze turned toward the entrance, where Nimue had just appeared behind Strife. She understood instantly.
“Cavalier! He’s choking!”
“Oh, that bitch…”
Strife moved at once. In two strides, he was at Idris’s side. Without hesitation, he forced his jaw open and shoved a gloved hand down his throat. Idris struggled, eyes tearing up, gasping through his nose, unable to draw in even a whisper of air. A dull panic crushed his chest.
Then, with a brutal motion, Strife yanked something out—thick, twisted, and glistening—ripping a groan of pain from Idris. The young man staggered, legs shaky, finally gulping in precious air.
In Strife’s glove, a thick, slimy larva writhed, pulsing with a sickly glow.
“What the fuck is that?!” Idris rasped.
Strife tossed the thing in the air like an annoying bug and obliterated it with a single shot. It exploded in a spray of black ichor.
“Congrats, you’re a dad! No one ever taught you to wrap it up before crawling into a succubus’s lap?” he muttered, hauling him upright. “She laid that thing in your throat, kid.”
Idris doubled over and vomited—not out of need, but sheer disgust, desperate to purge everything she had left inside him.
“Perfect,” Strife commented, satisfied. **“Looks like your brain’s back online. Takes a strong will to survive your own regrets… Well done, kid.”
“Naamah… she…”
“…is a world-class bitch. Glad you finally figured it out. So? You up for smashing her face in?”
Idris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and picked up his sword.
Then, they heard the explosion. The entire tower shuddered.
“Caution’s her middle name, huh?” Strife steadied himself, reloading his gun. “Well, fuck…”