Chapter 33 – Whispers in the night

Cuddled in the makeshift camp that Idris had set up for the night, Aisling let her gaze wander into the vastness of the night sky, between the clouds that, at intervals, revealed a star-studded firmament. Had the terrestrial sky always been like this? What a strange feeling it was to be on this lost world, this forgotten heritage that their people hoped to reclaim…

If Humanity managed to recover the Earth, they would have so much to relearn. So much to rebuild. Secrets to unearth, relics to understand, entire bodies of knowledge to rediscover. A shiver ran through her, though she could not tell whether it was due to the night air, now more temperate since the Essence of Fire had calmed down, or to the enormity of the task that awaited them. Perhaps she was simply trying to hold on to something positive, a faint hope in the darkness that surrounded them.

Lowering her eyes, she looked at Idris, lying on his back near the dying fire, his sword resting across his chest, one hand casually placed on the hilt. He had only given up his watch after a hard-fought battle, protesting until the last moment before finally sighing and conceding her a few hours of rest. But Aisling knew that, as long as Strife had not returned, he would only sleep with one eye open.

Once again, she had felt that strange sense of tension coming from her friend. Idris was the eldest of their small group and had always watched over Fenja and her with the fierceness of an older brother. But now… it was different. Suspicion? No… That couldn’t be it. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

Vulgrim had kept his distance, prowling like a shadow at the edge of their camp without ever coming close enough to intrude. They had eventually grown accustomed to his diffuse presence, warily… until he vanished.

Earlier, Idris had helped her climb the remains of a collapsed building, a structure apparently meant to house many dwellings. Aisling had been struck by the multitude of objects that had survived the passage of time, abandoned there, frozen in silent decay. As they explored, Idris had explained the purpose of some of them with surprising ease. He and Strife must have spent a lot of time in such ruins.

In the main room, whose broken façade opened to the void, Idris had set up their camp, working with methodical efficiency. Meanwhile, Aisling had ventured further, driven by a curiosity both naive and poignant.

Here, a room dedicated to sleep. There, a space reserved for hygiene, with installations whose purpose still eluded her. Another, entirely devoted to the preparation of food. An entire world built for human comfort and daily life, and yet abandoned, fossilized in its own silence.

Then she had come across the last door, a smaller room with soft hues, where a tiny, fragile crib stood empty. A cold chill had closed around her heart, a heavy, inexplicable weight, as if the very space retained the echo of an ancient sorrow.

She had hurried back to Idris and had said nothing more. Since managing emotions had never been her strong suit, the young man had simply advised her to try to sleep.

Since waking up and changing the guard duty, she had been scanning the sky and the silent surroundings, attentive to the slightest movement, the smallest sign that their presence might have been noticed. The ruins remained motionless, frozen under the pale glow of the stars, and nothing betrayed the passage of demons or angels. Was it just a coincidence? Or had both sides already withdrawn their forces to prepare for the final confrontation? How was it supposed to unfold?

She was lost in these thoughts when a sound caught her attention. At first imperceptible, like a breath carried by the wind, it slowly grew in intensity. Not just a draft. A voice.

Her body froze. Her gaze swept through the darkness cautiously, without moving an inch. Vulgrim? No, it wasn’t his voice. Too different. Too… distant, yet terribly close. She glanced at Idris for a moment, but he hadn’t moved, immersed in motionless sleep. He didn’t seem to hear anything.

“Nim?”

The little specter immediately emerged from the ring to appear by her side.

“What is it?”

“Do you hear that?”

“… hear what?”

The whisper intensified, as if it were seeping out from a space between the tangible world and an invisible rift. A woman’s voice. But distorted, ethereal, almost broken by the air that struggled to carry it. It came from inside the ruins. Where the rooms were. The room with the crib.

Aisling slowly straightened up, her breath held, Nimue following her movement with a worried look. Without a sound, she drew one of her daggers, gripping the hilt tightly, and positioned herself near the entrance of their room, between Idris and whatever lurked in the shadow of the corridor. Her gaze pierced the darkness, searching for a silhouette, a presence, anything.

“Aisling, what’s going on?” the young Watcher asked.

Clearly, she neither saw nor heard what was happening. Then Aisling recognized the melody. A lullaby. The one that had haunted her dreams.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and her heart tightened painfully in her chest. The dying fire’s wisps of smoke seemed to slowly drift toward the corridor, drawn as if by an invisible pull. The darkness itself appeared to breathe, swallowing the fiery mist to reshape it into something more tangible. A shape was gradually taking form.

A human silhouette.

The whispers became distinct.

“Unworthy… killer… traitor…”

Aisling’s breath caught, her hand clenched tightly around her dagger. An unpleasant heat gathered in her chest, suffocating, crushing her under an invisible weight. Something coiled around her, an oppressive sensation biting at her skin without leaving marks. Her stomach twisted, as if an invisible hand were gripping her, trying to hollow her out from the inside.

She wanted to turn away. Take a step back. Join Nimue. Wake Idris. But she couldn’t. An even heavier weight fell on her, a burning discomfort that pinned her in place. Not out of fear. Not only that. Because if Idris and Nimue heard that thing too, they would know. They would understand what she really was.

“Aisling?”

She jumped violently. Her heart skipped a beat, and her dagger rose instinctively as she spun around abruptly.

Strife.

The Horseman had just climbed onto the collapsed edge of the building, his head tilted in confusion, observing her tense expression and rigid posture. Nimue glanced between them, still not understanding what had just happened. Idris woke immediately, reacting to the tension in the air. In one fluid motion, he sat up, raising his sword, ready to face an unseen threat.

“What’s going on?”

Strife raised a casual hand in Idris’s direction, his voice deep but calm.

“It’s just me, boy. Everything’s fine, you can go back to sleep. I’ll take my turn.”

Idris hesitated for a moment. His clear eyes shifted from Nimue to Aisling, looking for an explanation. The young woman forced herself to smile, and he sighed, ran a hand over his head, then lay back down on his bedding, his sword still resting on his chest.

Aisling cast a nervous glance at the corridor behind her, where the darkness still seemed to vibrate with an invisible presence. But there was nothing left. No more whispers. No silhouette in the smoke. Yet the feeling lingered, a diffuse weight settled deep in her belly, a shiver that refused to fade.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Strife sat down heavily near the dying embers of the fire. His tone was meant to be light, but there was a weariness in his voice that she had never noticed before. A sigh escaped him as he brought his hands to his helmet, then, with a measured gesture, he removed it.

Under the black steel, his face finally appeared, a striking contrast to the enigmatic Horseman image he usually projected. His strong jaw, marked by fatigue, his straight nose slightly split by a scar, and above all, that expression. A deep crease furrowed his forehead, his gaze perpetually squinted as if the whole world exasperated him. Even at rest, he seemed on the verge of frowning, as if his face were incapable of expressing anything other than restrained irritation or weary irony. Yet, there was no real anger in him, only a fatigue that seemed ancient, far older than him.

“You don’t need it?” she asked, pointing to his helmet.

Strife seemed surprised by the question, then lowered his eyes to the object in his hands.

“Oh… No. I’m not Death… Well… Before. It’s a visor helmet. I usually only wear it in battle, but lately… it feels like we’re always in battle.”

He held the object out to her.

“Here… Try it. You’ll see.”

Aisling hesitated, then looked away from the corridor and moved closer to the dying fire. Nimue did the same, floating slowly above the ground, the flames casting purple reflections on her blue wisps. Now that Aisling focused on her own body, she realized how frozen she felt, as if something had drained the warmth from her being. She took the helmet cautiously and pressed it against her face. At first, she saw only a diffuse darkness, but in an instant, her vision changed.

The world appeared differently to her. The darkness no longer seemed as dense, as if the night’s veil thinned before her eyes. Previously imperceptible contours emerged: the relief of the ruins, the cracks in the ground, the slightest movements in the shadows. Idris, asleep nearby, was bathed in a soft glow. His breathing was steady, but through the helmet’s filter, she could see where his guard had relaxed, the weaknesses that an experienced fighter would know how to exploit. Even the warmth of his body appeared differently, a discreet glow against the coldness of the setting.

“That must be… useful.”

“It is,” Strife admitted. “Only a pain when it fogs up.”

He let her absorb the vision offered by the helmet for a moment, then his voice returned, more serious.

“But don’t change the subject… What happened to you?”

She slowly took off the helmet and blinked to adjust to the natural darkness. Nimue looked at her as well, curious.

“I… thought I heard something.”

“The wind?”

“A voice…”

Strife straightened up slightly, his expression hardening just a bit, exchanging a glance with Nimue. The Watcher seemed concerned.

“Hmm… Do you still hear it?”

She listened intently. Nothing but silence and Idris’s breathing.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Hmmm… Let me know if it happens again, okay?” Strife requested. “I’ll go take a look.”

Aisling was surprised that he took her seriously right away. No mockery, no doubt in his tone. He seemed to accept her account as a possible fact.

“Did you find what Vulgrim wanted?”

Strife gave a slight shrug, as if an invisible weight had just settled on him. He extended his hand, and his gauntlet faintly glowed with a bluish light. A translucent sphere appeared, swirling, filled with shifting echoes. Aisling thought she saw distorted faces, twisted expressions of pain and rage, muffled whispers fading into the void. Then, abruptly, Strife closed his hand, and the glow vanished.

“Souls…” Nimue explained, looking grave.

The Horseman turned his gaze slightly away before nodding.

“Enough for Vulgrim to tell us where to go next. Samael’s directions don’t take us any further, and I suspect he did that on purpose. But we must be on the right track…”

His gaze drifted into the void.

“There’s something strange about these ruins.”

“Besides the mutant you found?”

“Yes… There are definitely signs of a battle between angels and demons, but… on the ground.

Aisling frowned.

“On the ground? But don’t angels mostly fight in the air?”

“Exactly. Something stopped them,” Strife crossed his arms and stared at the fire with a thoughtful look. “Same for the demons. I didn’t find any of their flying abominations.”

An underlying concern, almost imperceptible, seeped into his words. He inhaled slowly, searching for the right words.

“I’m not sure… But I think something happened to the Essence of the Air here. It’s like it’s… wounded. Broken.”

He slowly turned his head towards her, his gaze heavy.

“We’ll need to be careful.”

Aisling gave a faint smile, trying to lighten the mood. She didn’t like seeing Strife so serious. Until now, he had always seemed to be the most carefree of the Horsemen, the one who bore his burden with a touch of arrogance and humor. Seeing him this grave made her feel that the situation was even more worrying than she already perceived.

“Careful is my middle name,” she said with a mock-confident look.

Nimue giggled adorably, and Strife raised an eyebrow, then a faint, amused smirk touched his lips.

“That’s the last name I’d think of for you, but… eh. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Ah! It’s the pot calling the kettle black!” Aisling shot back with a smile, feeling a bit warmer. “Your name is Strife, and your brothers and sister are named Death, War, and Fury. Seriously… those can’t be your real names, right?”

This time, Strife burst out laughing. A deep, genuine laugh that resonated against the quiet night around them.

“I see… Why do you carry your name?”

“Ren gave it to me when he adopted me.”

Strife tilted his head, a spark of interest lighting up his eyes.

“So it’s not your real name.”

“What? Yes, it is!” she protested.

“Maybe the universe gave you another one before Ren found you,” he teased. “Maybe your name is… Risk-Taker? Or… Suicidal-Impulse?”

This time, Nimue laughed out loud. Aisling frowned, crossing her arms.

“I don’t understand… A human child is named by their parents; that’s how they get their name. Don’t Nephilim parents choose their child’s name?”

Strife nodded, still amused, his laughter lingering in a low rumble.

“Have you ever wondered what a Nephilim child looks like?”

Aisling opened her mouth, then closed it again, struck by the question.

“No… no, now that you mention it, I think I’ve never read the slightest mention of it.”

“Me neither. Never seen one.”

“You… you don’t come into being by… I mean… you don’t reproduce?”

Strife burst out laughing once more, his amusement tinged with mischief.

“Oh, am I going to be the one to explain the birds and the bees to you? I’m touched. Although, I would have killed to see War’s face if you had asked him that question! So you see, Aisling, when two people love each other very, very much, sometimes…”

“Strife,” she huffed, amused.

“Don’t spoil my fun. Anyway, to answer your question, nope. Not that the process to get there is unpleasant…” He trailed off, a smirk stretching his lips. “When we weren’t busy slaughtering something—which wasn’t often—we at least had the fun part. Humans call it the warrior’s rest, I think.”

Aisling had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting out laughing and waking Idris. She turned her gaze slightly away, hiding her amusement behind a falsely stern frown. She had already had a few lovers and enough nights spent away from the village, muffling moans of pleasure on Nimrach, to know exactly which “fun part” he was talking about. But that wasn’t what she wanted to know.

“I don’t understand… If your race was sterile, how…”

“Our race was created from the dust of angels and demons. From… dead material, so to speak. No wonder we were incapable of creating life,” he paused, then added with an amused grin. “And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, if you ask me, since we were all created from the same model.”

“Absalom.”

Strife snapped his fingers, pointing at her, and Aisling couldn’t help but be amused as she saw Nimue trying to mimic the movement from the corner of her eye.

“Bingo. That guy was a real nutcase. Could’ve used a lot more of the fun part, if you ask me. Might’ve spared us a lot of trouble.”

Aisling hesitated for a moment before continuing, expecting the same kind of reticence that Death and War seemed to show on the subject. But apparently, that wasn’t the case with Strife.

“Samyaza told me that all Nephilim came from him.”

“Yep. From him, from his flesh, his bones, his blood directly.”

“Like the human legend of Adam and Eve?”

“Ahahah! Ironically, yes, something like that. Maybe that story didn’t tell the genesis of the right race?”

He stretched slightly, then rested an elbow on his knee, fixing his gaze on her.

“From Absalom came the first generation of Nephilim, called the Firstborn. Death is the last of them. From that generation came the others, and so on. Lilith didn’t have time to play mom. She wanted a race of warriors ready to fight.”

“But… how is that possible?” she asked, her voice quieter.

“I suppose through magic,” Strife shrugged. “A magic that only the Firstborn knew how to wield. Creating individuals from their own flesh.”

“I understand better why you consider yourselves brothers and sisters,” commented Nimue with a nod. “You share the same blood.”

“Yep… Ironic that the Council condemned Lilith for her knowledge when it created the Watchers in a similar way: a mold for the entire race.”

“You were designed as a warrior, Horseman,” replied the little specter sadly. “We, as slaves…”

“Funny… I’m sure a century ago, we weren’t any freer than you. Better now, right?”

Nimue seemed surprised by Strife’s response, then looked at him with a gaze full of gratitude.

A silence settled. Aisling hesitated for a moment, then asked the question that burned her lips.

“But… if Death is a Firstborn, couldn’t he…?” She trailed off, unsure.

Strife raised an eyebrow.

“Bring back the Nephilim?”

She nodded slowly.

“You say that as if the universe missed something with their absence.”

“Don’t you ever regret your decision?”

Strife didn’t respond right away. His expression froze slightly, and his gaze, usually sparkling with sarcasm, darkened almost imperceptibly.

“Well, dove, a funny thing about regret is that it’s better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven’t done.”

He straightened up slightly, then added in a more pragmatic tone.

“Daybreak is still far off, and we have a long way to go. You should get some sleep.”

Aisling immediately sensed that it was the end of the conversation. Once again, she had hit that invisible wall Strife built around himself, that veil of irony and lightness that concealed a depth he refused to reveal. She didn’t insist.

Getting up with some weariness, she went to sit next to Idris, Nimue by her side, wrapping herself in her cloak to find a semblance of warmth. Yet it wasn’t just the ambient cold giving her that strange feeling of emptiness.

Before closing her eyes, she cast one last glance at Strife. He was sitting there, silent, elbows on his knees, the fire casting fleeting shadows on his face. His expression was unreadable—far from the mocking fighter, far from the carefree Horseman he pretended to be.

Aisling didn’t have time to think about it any longer. Gradually, the weight of fatigue engulfed her, and she sank into a sleep filled with indistinct echoes and forgotten whispers.

Idris felt his stomach twist as he watched Vulgrim devour the souls Strife had delivered. A sickly, blue, spectral light danced around the demon as he savored his due, his jaw bristling with sharp teeth opening and closing with exaggerated slowness, as if to prolong his pleasure. There was something fundamentally obscene about the scene, in the way the creature caressed the wisps of moaning energy with his claw tips before greedily sucking them in.

Overwhelmed with deep disgust, Idris raised a protective arm in front of Aisling, slightly pushing her behind him, as if that simple gesture could shield her from the horror unfolding before their eyes. He grimaced, the bitter taste of contempt and anger burning his throat. His other hand, clenched tight, had instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword. The urge to strike, to cut that vile monster to pieces, gnawed at him intensely.

His mother and brothers wouldn’t have hesitated. No warrior from Nimrach would have hesitated. After all, they were at war, weren’t they? So why waste time negotiating with these cursed abominations, why sully themselves by bargaining with creatures like Vulgrim and Samael?

When he had spoken to Aisling about it, she had simply nodded, her tired gaze betraying a pragmatism that was becoming more and more familiar.

“We lack too many allies to refuse the ones we can get.”

“And making deals with devils?” He had frowned. “That can’t be a good idea…”

“The universe isn’t black or white, Idris,” a small, sad smile had brushed her lips. “Unfortunately, we can’t afford to keep our hands clean.”

He hadn’t agreed with her. He still didn’t. It was precisely in these moments that one had to cling to their principles, not trample them in the name of a questionable necessity. And yet… even Strife seemed willing to negotiate, though with visible disgust—an aversion that betrayed how little he valued this masquerade.

Idris took a deep breath, forcing himself to release the pressure on his sword’s hilt. Vulgrim, meanwhile, had just finished his feast. Straightening up with undisguised satisfaction, he ran his long black tongue over his sharp fangs before addressing Strife.

“You’ve upheld your end of the bargain, Horseman,” his voice, honeyed and hissing, resonated in the stagnant air. “You and your little protégés, continue eastward, to the highest ruins, the ones lost in the clouds. That’s where you’ll find the trail of the Essence of Air… and the Lahash.”

Strife crossed his arms with an exaggeratedly relaxed air.

“And what does this little wonder that Samael’s so eager to get his hands on look like? A weapon? An artifact?” he drawled, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Vulgrim gave a guttural, viscous chuckle, a sound that made the skin crawl.

“A sound, Horseman. The Lahash is a sound.”

“A… sound… now that’s something… And the kidnapped humans?”

He sighed heavily, and the demon tilted his head, visibly amused.

“As for the rest, my prices have increased since last time. If you want more information, it will cost you far more than a few demonic souls,” he turned his yellow eyes, split with a vertical pupil, toward Idris and Aisling, a vicious smile stretching his hideous face. “Until then, make sure your little humans don’t get lost. The most dangerous enemies… are rarely the ones you see.”

Then, with a lazy, mocking wave of his hand, he melted into the ground, disappearing in a burst of shadow and smoke. A heavy silence settled.

Strife ran a hand over the top of his head before letting out a deep sigh. Then he turned his head toward Idris and Aisling, gesturing for them to move on. The young warrior said nothing, guiding Aisling ahead of him while keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings.

He should have trusted his instincts from the beginning.

He should have sliced that demonic grin in two.