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The angel suspended above the misty abyss seemed to belong to another age entirely. Even among his own kind, his stature appeared exceptional: he was easily twice, perhaps three times the size of a man. And his wings… Aisling had never seen anything like them, spanning a monumental width.
His dusky skin seemed untouched by light for an eternity, far paler than that of his brethren. His gaunt yet strikingly solemn face bore the marks of time: deep wrinkles, furrows of fatigue, but also the fierce dignity of one who had witnessed millennia pass without ever bending.
Long white hair, fluid like silk threads, fell around his face like a funerary veil. Nothing in his appearance betrayed any warrior vocation: no armor, no blades—only that overwhelming, silent, timeless presence. His eyes glowed faintly with a lunar shimmer, imbued with an unfathomable melancholy.
Azrael.
Death, War, and Uriel had spoken of him—the Keeper of the Well of Souls, a celestial scholar, a sage among angels.
And yet, she had heard he had betrayed the Balance by aiding Abaddon in his dark designs. Hadn’t Uriel mentioned that War had vowed to condemn all who had taken part in the premature Apocalypse? That said, he had spared Ulthane…
So… what was Azrael doing here, chained, imprisoned in the heart of the mist?
The angel appeared in a pitiful state, barely more than a shadow of himself. Each movement to resist the chains seemed to demand immense effort. His breath came irregular, almost hoarse, and a spectral fever seemed to burn beneath his bloodless skin.
“Nimue, try to see if these chains can be detached. Stay focused,” Aisling ordered softly without taking her eyes off Strife.
But already, a deep voice, majestic in its slowness, rose in the heavy mist-filled air.
“Thank you for your assistance, child… but these chains can only be broken by the hand that forged them,” Azrael said, lowering his weary eyes toward her. “And I fear their creator is now quite incapable of doing so where he is.”
Aisling frowned, scanning the surroundings, searching for an exit, a flaw, anything. Strife, still lying at her feet, remained unconscious, his chest barely rising.
“What’s happening to him? Why won’t he wake up?” she asked, her throat tight.
“The mist has poisoned him… as it would for anyone who stays too long without protection. It does not consume the flesh, but the soul. You hear them too, don’t you?” Azrael tilted his head slightly. “These voices. These whispers. You allow them in… it is remarkable.”
Aisling only had to loosen her focus for the voices to resurge. She turned her gaze to the well that spewed mist in waves, and this time, she was certain: voices were rising from it too.
“Let’s say I’ve walked this path before… What exactly are they?”
Azrael contemplated her for a moment before answering in a voice filled with infinite sadness.
“The voices of the dead. Lost souls, condemned to wander between worlds, never finding the path to their rebirth, including the souls of your people. They are trapped here… imprisoned, unable to complete their cycle.”
Aisling’s blood ran cold. Around her, the mist suddenly felt more alive. She thought she saw faces within the shifting mass, distorted, imploring, endlessly screaming.
Souls. How long had she awaited them, hoping to find them reborn in the cries of newborns, in children’s laughter, in the gaze of healthy adults? The souls she sought were here, but as lost as she was.
Instinctively, she moved closer to Strife, holding him tighter. Azrael continued.
“They have wandered for decades. Perhaps longer. Some have forgotten their own names. Others still cry out prayers to a Creator who no longer answers. What you hear… are their voices, distorted by your own mind. So that you may understand them, they take the form of your regrets.”
He paused, his gaze fixed on the inert Strife.
“His regrets overwhelmed him. He followed the whispers… descended into the mist… and found me. He tried to break my chains. He failed.”
Aisling felt nausea rising in her throat. Regrets… so that’s what the dead had to say. Reflections of pain, twisted and turned until they became chains.
“But you… you don’t seem to suffer from them,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“I am the Keeper of the Well of Souls. Since the dawn of Creation, I have listened. I have watched. I carry the burden of their whispers. Yet I must admit I suffer more than I realize.”
Aisling’s gaze drifted toward the misty abyss. A shiver climbed the back of her neck.
“The Well of Souls… That’s impossible. How could it be here?”
Azrael tilted his head slightly.
“In the absence of a Tree of Life and Death on Earth, the Well opens where I decree it. But here… both I and the souls are prisoners. I am nothing more than a watchman chained at the gates of my own sanctuary.”
She furrowed her brow.
“Please… tell me what happened. I want to understand. I can help you!”
The angel slowly lowered his veiled eyes toward her. In his gaze was an unfathomable sadness, a burden so ancient it seemed to have become second nature. Shame and weariness mingled like intertwined shadows.
“I was… a fool,” he whispered. “I wanted to repair what I had broken…”
Aisling inhaled, already guessing what he meant.
“You speak of the Apocalypse?”
Azrael slowly nodded. Even the slightest movement of his neck seemed to demand immense effort.
“Then you know,” he closed his eyes for a moment, as if speaking the words revived old wounds. “Since the premature War… since Abaddon’s fall and his transformation into the Destroyer, guilt has gnawed at me without pause. The weight of my actions pursued me relentlessly. I sought to atone by helping War, guiding him, supporting his quest for truth. But it wasn’t enough.”
He paused, his voice filling with an almost sacred gravity.
“I had fully accepted judgment. I knew War would leave no accomplice of Abaddon alive. Not even me. And I was ready. I would have accepted it without wavering. We must all… answer for our sins, sooner or later.”
Aisling bit her lip, troubled. She lowered her eyes to Strife, then back to Azrael.
“But… he spared you.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile stretched the angel’s lips.
“Yes. Just as Strife tried to free me. It seems that, despite what we believe, even the Horsemen can still change. Perhaps…”
He took a deep breath, the faint echo of his chains vibrating softly.
“I wished to continue… to work toward my redemption. Not to erase my crimes — for nothing can — but so that, at least, they might still serve a purpose. And over time… I found forgiveness.”
His gaze drifted beyond the mist, where souls still whispered in oblivion.
“Forgiveness from a place… I did not expect. In this broken world, ravaged by the consequences of our failures… I discovered I was not alone in bearing this burden. Others—like me—seek to repair what can still be saved.”
“Angels? The Hellguard? They helped us… They are with us now.”
A gentle glimmer shone in Azrael’s veiled eyes.
“There are angels, of course. But also demons. Former warriors, fallen or repentant, weary of savagery. Artisans who grew tired of forging weapons for endless battles. Forgotten sages, renegades. Creatures born of fire and shadow… but whose hearts still burn with a desire for peace, or at least… for balance.”
He lifted his eyes to the diffuse light barely piercing the mist above him.
“They gathered. Slowly, secretly. Guided not by force or fear, but by the wisdom of one being… a being more far-sighted than all the others.”
The description stirred a sense of déjà vu within Aisling. Something in Azrael’s words resonated inside her with strange familiarity, like a memory she couldn’t quite grasp. She searched her mind for the name she was certain she had already heard.
“Varakh…?” she finally whispered. “You speak of Varakh?”
The angel’s tired eyes opened slightly wider, surprised.
“You know that name?”
“I found his realm, his castle. I saw his statue and Seraphel’s. You knew them?”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile stretched Azrael’s dry lips.
“Yes… They were among the first to foresee that another path was possible. A path not of conquest, but of redemption. Many demons chose to follow Varakh down this road. They renounced their titles, their fortresses of fire, to devote themselves to a task few would have ever imagined: to protect what remained of humanity.”
Aisling felt her throat tighten.
“So you knew… that we had survived?”
Azrael slowly nodded.
“I am the Keeper of Souls. My duty is to watch over the cycle, the migration of spirits between worlds. Even though the surface appeared dead, I could still sense the souls… feel their faint call toward the Tree of Life in a hidden world, sheltered… until that gate was abruptly closed.”
The mist swirled around them, as if trying to drown his thoughts, but despite the constant assault on her mind, Aisling sensed that the pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together. A strange coherence emerged from the chaos. Yet one question persisted.
“I don’t understand… I saw the scientists gathered here, those working to create an army for humanity. I saw their facilities, their experiments. Why are you imprisoned here? Does Naamah know you are here?”
“My child…” Azrael’s gaze clouded over. “She is the one who imprisoned me.”
“But… what about the demons who wanted to help us?” Aisling asked, her throat tightening.
Azrael lowered his head slightly.
“They were betrayed, as I was. Locked away here, used as raw material to fuel the vile experiments conducted in this tower. Naamah joined Varakh’s rebellion, pretending to offer her knowledge for a new era. She claimed she wished to understand human sciences to aid the cause, to preserve what remained. She was the one who discovered this tower… and it was here that she set up her laboratories.”
He clenched his teeth, a shadow of anger crossing his weary face.
“For a time, her research seemed sincere. She delivered results, shared her findings. Then Varakh disappeared. Seraphel too. And little by little, she changed. That’s when she lured us here, one after the other… and imprisoned us.”
Aisling recalled those demons chained below, condemned to witness the horrors they had become, transformed into silent test subjects. And Idris… Idris was somewhere in this tower with that witch.
A dull panic surged within her, an irresistible urge to leap up and run to him. But she held back, her eyes fixed on the still unconscious Strife. She couldn’t leave. Not now. Not without him. And certainly not while leaving Azrael still chained.
Nimue returned at that moment, floating nervously, her small, agitated silhouette betraying her frustration.
“I examined every chain… I tried everything. None of them budge. Nothing gives way.”
Aisling closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing her panic, searching for an anchor amidst the chaos. She felt torn in every direction. What should she do? Where to start?
Her gaze fell on Strife.
“How can I help him?”
Azrael answered with solemn gentleness:
“He is trapped within his regrets. It is an inner path… a crossing he must accomplish alone.”
“Maybe… but he must not believe he is alone,” her gaze grew more intense. “Are… the souls of the Nephilim here too? Is that what haunts him?”
Azrael slowly turned his head toward her.
“No. Death sacrificed those souls to give humanity a second chance. They were returned to the original essence of all souls—pure energy, destined one day to nourish new life. They cannot return.”
He cast a heavy gaze upon Strife.
“What torments him… are his own thoughts, what his mind makes of their memory. Listen…”
The voices near Strife grew clearer and heavier. They emerged from the silence with the dull violence of an emotional tidal wave, sweeping everything away in their path.
“You let us die.”
“Traitor.”
“Why are you laughing?”
“This isn’t you…”
“You think pretending will make the pain go away?”
“Where were you, Strife, when we lost everything?”
“You will never be more than a shadow…”
The phrase repeated itself, a haunting echo, like a cursed chant whispered by a thousand invisible mouths. Shadow… Shadow… Shadow…
Aisling abruptly recoiled, breathless, as if the voices she had just heard had branded her like a red-hot iron. She staggered, almost ashamed to have perceived such intimate pain.
“We can’t leave him like this!” she cried, her voice trembling with anger and helplessness.
Azrael, still suspended in his prison of chains, answered gravely but resigned.
“I told you… this path is his. We cannot walk it for him, nor carry him.”
Aisling turned her eyes to him, her mind ablaze, desperately searching for another way, another solution.
“And the Air Elemental? Maybe it could—”
“He too is a prisoner,” Azrael gently interrupted. “Ensnared in the same chains, woven from regrets and voices that never cease to weep. No material bonds could hold him, so Naamah poisoned him… she flooded his mind.”
The words struck the air like a cold slap. Aisling took a deep breath, struggling not to let the mist seep into her own mind once again.
“If… if we closed the Well,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the opening from which the damned whispers escaped, “if you regained control of the souls… they would regain clarity, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes,” the angel nodded slowly. “But only one thing can break these chains… their creator. And Naamah made sure he can never do it again.”
“She killed him?”
“No… She didn’t have the power, but it’s almost as if she had. He had joined the rebellion, just like me. He was a master blacksmith beyond compare. When she realized she couldn’t defeat him, she imprisoned him here, with all the others. Slowly, she forces him to watch what she does to his brothers, driving him further into madness.”
A tense silence followed. Then Aisling raised her eyes, more determined than ever.
“If he’s here, I can free him. I can free them all.”
Azrael shook his head gently, painfully impressed by her resolve.
“I cannot ask you to risk your life this way, young human…”
“You are not asking me,” she cut him off, standing firm. “And Naamah can’t do anything to me. I carry the seed of the Tree of Life from Earth.”
She gently pulled back the collar of her tunic. The roots, now visible, climbed along her neck in living filaments. Azrael’s gaze hardened, concerned.
“Precisely… That is what makes you a target. Of all the Demons in this Realm, Naamah is the one who would know how to extract it from you, root by root… and tear you apart with it.”
“She’ll have to catch me first,” Aisling said, clenching her fists.
She turned to Nimue, who floated nervously, her small spectral body vibrating with conflicting emotions.
“Can you stay here? Watch over Azrael and Strife until I return?”
The Watcher hesitated for a second, then nodded firmly.
“I can do it. I can resist. But you… are you really going alone?”
“I won’t be alone,” Aisling gave a reassuring smile, though her heart was pounding. “I’ll find Idris. And together, we’ll get everyone out of here.”
Before standing up, she glanced at Strife’s two heavy pistols. She had no damn idea how they worked, but surely he wouldn’t mind if she borrowed one… just in case.
Aisling kept repeating the same words to herself like a silent incantation, a fragile thread she clung to so she wouldn’t falter. She forced herself to keep her mind clear, to ignore the voices clinging to her in the clammy mist.
She carefully climbed back up the shaft, replacing the metal plate and the folded wing of the Elemental as if nothing had been disturbed. No one seemed to have noticed their absence.
The words continued to spin in her mind as she gathered her courage to descend the spiral staircase winding around the tower, dizzying and exposed. The wind slapped her face, but she gritted her teeth. She no longer had the luxury of fear.
When she pushed the heavy metal door to enter the laboratories, she forced herself to slow her pace, pretending to be a casual visitor. With feigned confidence, she approached the large glass bay overlooking the central well, acting as if she were admiring the tower and the floors she could glimpse below.
But her eyes quickly slid toward the upper levels—the prison.
She immediately noticed that these floors were not sealed with reinforced glass like the rest of the complex, but with thick metal bars. She squinted. In some places, she could make out traces of past escape attempts: scratches, twisted bars. Demons had tried to force their way to freedom. In vain. Now, they no longer moved, their gazes empty, made docile by the slow and constant oppression of the mist.
But she… she was smaller and thinner, even for a human. She didn’t need a gaping opening, only enough space… and the will to climb.
Her gaze stopped at a corner, where a grate had been bent long ago. If she could reach that section, she might be able to slip through. But the climb would be difficult. There was no direct access—only a smooth vertical wall, exposed to everyone’s view.
She was assessing every potential hold, every ledge, when a familiar voice startled her.
“Aisling?”
She spun around abruptly, her heart pounding, to see Idris behind her. He stared at her with surprise, almost concerned. Naamah stood a little apart, like an actress ready for her entrance, her expression peaceful, her delicate smile frozen on her lips. She observed the scene without imposing herself, but her eyes never left Aisling. A gentle gaze, almost maternal… too gentle. Falsely benevolent. Poisoned silk.
Aisling had to summon all her willpower to respond to that smile naturally, as if she had nothing to hide, as if her heart weren’t racing wildly in her chest. She also made sure the pistol hidden in the folds of her tunic remained concealed.
“Is there a problem up there?” Idris asked calmly, though his tone was oddly distant.
“No! No, everything’s fine,” she answered a bit too quickly. “I just needed to… get some air. Clear my head.”
She felt Naamah’s gaze pressing on her without faltering. Of course, she had placed them near the Essence of Air for a reason: she likely hoped to see them weaken, to make them vulnerable to the mist, to poison them slowly like the others. Aisling did her best to appear troubled, disoriented. If Naamah wanted to believe her plan was working, she might as well feed the illusion.
“I see,” Idris replied.
His voice had changed. Firmer, more assured. Coldly procedural. He was no longer quite the boy she had known. But the new confidence he displayed was anything but reassuring. She felt her stomach tighten. He continued, with a determined tone.
“You should take the opportunity to visit the laboratories. I believe you’ll better understand the value of what’s being built here. And you can report it to Ren. I intend to do the same with my mother.”
Aisling imperceptibly frowned. Bringing their leaders here? The idea chilled her. He couldn’t be serious… And yet, his gaze showed no doubt. What had Naamah done to him?
“Some of the scientists also believe they can safely remove the Tree’s seed,” he added, as if speaking of a simple medical procedure.
“Indeed,” Naamah interjected, stepping forward with venomous grace, her honeyed voice flowing like tainted nectar. “Such a young soul shouldn’t bear such a heavy burden. It would be cruel to let you burn out this way. I would be delighted to examine it myself.”
Aisling felt anger sting her eyes, but forced a polite smile, a light bow, another lie.
“That’s… very kind of you. I’d be happy to let you take a look, after I take a short tour.”
“Very well,” Idris agreed, visibly satisfied, turning to Naamah. “We’ll discuss the details in her quarters. Join us shortly.”
“Of course,” Aisling breathed.
She had to clench her jaw to suppress the nausea that rose as she saw the demoness wrap herself around Idris’s arm with feline, almost possessive grace. She prayed Fenja would burst in and put an arrow between her shoulder blades, but that wish remained unanswered.
“See you soon,” she said with a frozen smile.
She watched them leave, her back straight, then let the mask fall as soon as they disappeared behind the door. Her gaze nervously swept the area. Time was running out. She would need a diversion, something to draw the attention of the scientists and guards elsewhere.
Fortunately for her, getting into trouble was one of her most natural talents.