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Aisling struggled to believe any of this was real. A part of her remained convinced she was still trapped in the Well of Souls, swallowed by her own regrets. Or perhaps she had never left the mist at the foot of the tower?
Around her, the world seemed unreal, suspended in a silent breath. Dust from the tower’s collapse still floated in thick spirals through the air. And yet, beyond that cloud, the storm had retreated. The sky, a pure and almost unreal blue, gradually pierced the layers of ash. Where the dust thinned, sunbeams fell in oblique lines, drawing cords of light through the air, stretching between sky and earth, caressing the suspended particles like an invisible harpist.
Around her, survivors began to emerge from the chaos. Astaroth and several former prisoners had managed to escape before the complete collapse, but many hadn’t been so lucky. The losses were heavy, but they hadn’t fallen alone. In their downfall, they had dragged with them many of Naamah’s scientists, along with several of her abominations. It was a small consolation, but Astaroth clung to it, his gaze dark and resolute. His men, weary but still standing, shared in his bitter pride.
A little farther away, Strife, never quiet for long, bombarded the Mad Smith and Azrael with questions, dragging them into an animated discussion amidst the rubble. Nimue, meanwhile, darted from place to place, offering help where it was needed. It was a strange sight to witness a Watcher assisted demons, first met with wary glances, then with gratitude.
Aisling sat near a fallen wall, nearly motionless, as if wrapped in cotton. Idris had joined her after retrieving his sword, still embedded in Naamah’s lifeless body. The blade had sung in a strange tone as he’d shaken it clean of her blood, and without realizing it, Idris had just inherited Lahash. The sword, now resting across his thighs, whispered with every movement, hinting that it too could scream orders if wielded properly.
Idris remained beside the young woman, his presence steady and reassuring. Every so often, he would slide a comforting hand across her back, a simple, essential gesture that kept her from drifting away completely.
“Idris?”
“Hmm?”
“How did you… resist Naamah’s influence?”
He grimaced slightly, as if hesitating between seriousness and irony, then shrugged.
“I remembered that if Fenja found out about my crap, she’d kick my ass so hard even my mother would feel it in her parts.”
Aisling burst out laughing, raw, nervous, so suddenly she nearly startled herself. Then she realized she was crying at the same time.
“Are you laughing or crying?” Idris asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know… It’s just… nerves. I really thought I’d lost you, in there.”
“What should I say? You dropped fifteen floors in one go, I nearly melted…”
He gently pulled her into his arms and held her close. She felt his lips place a brotherly kiss on her forehead before he spoke again, his voice graver, clearing his throat:
“But she left her mark, that bitch. She tried to lay something in my throat… I don’t even know what.”
Aisling tensed.
“What was it?”
Idris slowly shook his head, his gaze drifting into the murky light.
“I don’t know… But she seemed pretty damn eager to meet the other survivors. And I doubt it was for a welcome party.”
“We need to go back and warn the…”
Aisling abruptly stopped. A freezing wave stole her breath as the memory of her dream crashed into her again with brutal clarity. Ren. Ren’s face, marked by fear, distress… and blood.
“Ais?” Idris sat up straighter, alarmed by how pale she’d gone. “What is it?”
She turned to him, eyes wide, gasping for air.
“Idris… we have to go back. Right now. Something horrible has happened, or is going to happen. I saw it!”
Panic laced her voice, and Idris immediately stood, alert, as she frantically searched for a way to return to the Twilight Realm as quickly as possible.
“Strife!”
The Horseman turned his head, alerted by the urgency in her voice. He wasn’t far, mid-conversation with Azrael and the Mad Smith. All three froze as she ran toward them.
“What is it, dove?”
“We have to go, now! We have to return to the Twilight Realm immediately!”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Ren is going to die! I saw… Death… he’s going to…”
Her voice broke. A heavy silence fell over the group.
“You must be mistaken, little sister,” Strife finally shook his head, murmuring tensely. “Death would never…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He took a deep, slow breath, as if forcing himself to consider the possibility.
“Shit…”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance now, Horseman?”
The voice emerged from the shadows, hissing and familiar. All turned as one to see a figure slowly step from the void, a sly smile etched onto a gaunt face. Vulgrim.
The demon merchant gave a small bow, clearly delighted to make his entrance at the most dramatic moment.
Strife instantly drew one of his pistols, his movement sharp, fluid, almost instinctive, and aimed it directly at the demon’s forehead.
“Funny, your face looks a lot like a target from where I’m standing. Remember what I told you last time? This time, I won’t miss.”
The demon, ever true to himself, gave a mocking smile without flinching, raising his hands in an almost theatrical gesture of peace.
“Come now, Horseman… Peace. I only came to offer my help.”
“Without wanting anything in return?” Strife shot back, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Why do I get the unpleasant feeling you were waiting for this?”
A cold tension filled the air instantly, but Azrael calmly spread one of his vast, immaculate wings over Aisling and Idris, shielding them from any sudden conflict. His impassive gaze locked onto Vulgrim, sharp as a blade’s edge.
“Oh, you know my prices, Strife…” Vulgrim whispered with a greedy smile, his eyes gleaming with a sickly glow.
“And I told you… No human souls.”
“But a demonic bitch? That acceptable?”
All eyes turned to Idris in surprise. He stood tall, sword in hand, still saturated with Naamah’s dark essence, which he indicated with a brief glance.
Vulgrim’s eyes lit up with frenzied greed, his gnarled fingers trembling with excitement at the sight of the blade. Strife growled in displeasure, lowering his weapon slightly, as the demon licked his lips. With a precise gesture, Idris raised the sword toward the demon, capturing his full attention.
“Naamah’s soul, in exchange, you take Aisling where she needs to go, as fast as possible. I’ll deliver Lahash to Samael myself.”
“Idris…” Aisling protested weakly, but he cut her off before she could continue.
“Pick your battles…” he murmured, a slight smile on his lips. “You’ve got a better chance of stopping whatever’s coming than I do of surviving a fight. Go. I’ll handle Samael.”
“I’ll go with you,” Azrael stepped forward, his commanding voice leaving no room for argument. “The Mad Smith, Astaroth, and his men will secure the Essence of Air. They’ll join you as soon as possible.”
Vulgrim grimaced, visibly displeased. His gaze lingered on Aisling, as if the thought of her using the Serpent Holes herself was far more appetizing. Strife, sensing the demon’s reluctance, stepped toward the young woman and tilted his head toward Vulgrim with a wry grin.
“Not hungry anymore, old friend?”
Vulgrim pursed his lips, but eventually waved his knotted fingers toward Idris’s sword. A spectral flare leapt from the blade, hovered in the air for a moment, then was abruptly devoured by the demon’s maw with a sickening, wet snap.
“Deal…”
Aisling couldn’t tell what unsettled her more, the nauseating lurches of jumping through the Serpent Holes, or the putrid stench hanging in the air, thick and sticky. A spasm of disgust bent her double, and she clutched her mouth to suppress a gag.
Strife caught her arm just in time to keep her from falling forward. They had just emerged from the final portal, not far from Ulthane’s clearing. The air was saturated with the metallic tang of blood, and the distant cries of battle echoed around them.
“What the fuck…” muttered Strife.
Terror clamped around Aisling’s chest like a vice, far more painful than the nausea. She exchanged a glance with Strife, then they both sprinted toward the clearing. Aisling couldn’t shake the terrible vision of Ren, lying in a pool of his own blood, his body broken and still.
Please don’t let it be too late… Please…
The clearing, once peaceful and bathed in golden light, had become a battlefield. Aisling stifled a scream at the carnage spread out before her. Human bodies littered the ground, cut cleanly and deeply, some even cleaved in two with surgical precision.
Her heart twisted as she recognized their faces. Not islanders from Nimrach, but she remembered them — quiet, watchful survivors from the later waves. Now their silence was eternal, drowned in blood.
Her thoughts blurred, nightmare images from her visions overlapping with the grim reality around her. Then her gaze was drawn to a lone figure amid the corpses.
There, at the center of the slaughter, stood Death. Impassive. His twin scythes spun with ruthless grace, cutting down the humans who charged at him with weapons drawn. Each strike spilled blood. Each swing piled corpses at his feet like a grim harvest.
Every blow from those deadly blades felt like it struck Aisling, too, splitting her chest with unbearable grief. A raw, visceral ache twisted her soul.
“No!”
Without thinking, she ran toward Death, her throat tight with horror and despair. Strife reached for her, trying to stop her, but she slipped free, driven by an unstoppable instinct.
She lunged at Death, grabbing one of his scythes with both hands. Her palms clenched the cold metal, trembling. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she raised her eyes to his.
“Why are you doing this?!” she cried, her voice breaking.
Death barely turned his head, then ripped the scythe from her grasp. In one brutal motion, he seized her by the arm and flung her behind him. The breath was knocked from her lungs just as a man with a spear lunged from behind, a blow that would’ve pierced her had Death not intercepted it.
Her heart pounded. Nothing made sense. These people, survivors who knew she was the next Guardian, why were they attacking? And why was Death fighting them with such brutal resolve, without a word, without hesitation?
Around her, chaos raged. Death struck, parried, sliced, always keeping her close. Every time she tried to move or step between the fighters, he pushed her back toward safety. When humans closed in around them, he pulled her tight, his scythes carving deadly arcs through flesh and steel.
He never let any of them near her without exacting their lives in return. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but panic strangled the words in her throat.
Suddenly, in a gap between attacks, Death shoved her backward, toward the edge of the clearing. She staggered, nearly falling, but caught her balance. As she turned, she saw a new group arriving, Ulthane and several other Makers.
Among them, a towering woman with braided, flaming red hair spun a massive hammer, hurling a human into a tree with brutal force. With a swift motion, she grabbed Aisling by the shoulder and pushed her toward the forge’s underground entrance.
“Get to safety, girl!” she barked, keeping a wary eye on the melee.
Nearby, another Maker, serene-faced, with long white hair and a blue ribbon covering her eyes, stood like a priestess. Raising her arms, she summoned a barrier of roots and stone that encircled a group of terrified humans, shielding them from the chaos.
Aisling recognized some of them, from her island. Why were they here?
“What’s happening?!” she cried, her voice cracking with fear.
But before she got an answer, another human lunged at her. A single, clean gunshot dropped him. Strife’s pistol smoked; he had made his choice.
Aisling fell to her knees, overwhelmed by the violence, paralyzed by confusion. Tears streamed down her cheeks unnoticed, her throat tight with panic and horror.
Then, a sudden, chilling silence fell over the clearing. The air trembled. Aisling looked up just in time to see Death begin to change. His form swelled, shadow taking shape around him. A dark, ominous aura enveloped him, and he transformed into a towering Reaper, unfathomable darkness beneath his hood.
His scythes became one — massive and singular. With one fluid sweep, he unleashed a wave of dark energy that swept across the clearing. The hostile humans froze in terror. Some fled. Others dropped dead.
Aisling could only stare, transfixed and horrified. Death stood as a grim titan over the battlefield. Even the Makers held their breath.
Then, with a slow, commanding gesture, he returned to his usual form. The scythe vanished in a whisper of spectral steel. Calm returned gradually, but a tense stillness lingered — as though the Reaper’s shadow had not entirely left.
The thorn and stone barrier receded. As dust settled and silence reclaimed the clearing, Ciaran, the old herbalist, emerged from the group of survivors. Despite his age and stooped frame, he moved with surprising agility. In a heartbeat, he was beside her, kneeling so quickly his tattered cloak brushed the ground.
“Aisling… by the Creator, are you alright?”
She collapsed into his arms, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She tried to stand, but her legs failed. Terror gripped her, freezing her in place. Ciaran held her close, his wrinkled hand stroking her hair to calm her, though he looked close to tears himself.
Around them, other survivors began to approach, equally stunned, their eyes vacant as they took in the blood-soaked field. Some moved hesitantly, others stood frozen, expressions of horrified disbelief on their faces. The tall, white-haired Maker leaned over the silent group who still hadn’t dared move.
Meanwhile, the other Makers roamed the battlefield, finishing off the wounded, striking down enemy survivors with ruthless efficiency. Strife approached Death, trying to get his attention, but the Reaper remained still, his gaze locked on Aisling.
His eyes pierced her. A cold shiver climbed her spine. Trembling, she looked up at him, tears streaking her face.
“Why?”
Death didn’t need to hear the words to understand her agony. Her despair hung heavy in the air, palpable. He made a slight movement, as if to approach, but she flinched, fear in her eyes. After a long pause, he turned away and gestured silently for Strife to follow.
Strife hesitated, torn between his brother and Aisling. After a final glance at her, he followed Death, his face dark with concern.
Ciaran kept gently patting her back, trying to soothe her, though his eyes glistened with panic. Ulthane finally approached and knelt beside them, his massive hand resting gently on Aisling’s shoulder.
“Don’t trust your eyes, little one. Look… look again.”
“No!” Aisling shook her head. “I don’t want to… They’re human, Ulthane! Why? Why slaughter them?!”
Ulthane remained calm, his deep voice soothing.
“Look…”
Summoning her courage, she turned and stared at one of the corpses nearby. Her vision blurred, as though seeing through a mirage. The body’s outline shifted, wavered. Gradually, the human shape stretched, grew more muscular. Pale skin darkened. Black hair faded into silver or white. Half-closed eyes gleamed with an eerie golden light.
Burn marks streaked the skin, red fissures as if burst open from intense heat, dark veins pulsing around them. Aisling looked away, horrified, but all the other corpses now bore the same features.
“Angels?” she whispered, unable to comprehend.
Ulthane nodded slowly.
“Dark angels. Spies,” he clarified. “They cut off their wings and used illusion magic to look human. They’ve been among you for some time.”
“But… What? How?!”
“Since the attack on Nimrach. They were likely part of the raid. They used this trick to follow you undetected.”
Aisling’s heart twisted in horror. All this time, their hunters had watched them, tracked every move, every hiding place. Her stomach churned. She clung to Ciaran’s arms, seeking something solid in the chaos. Their enemies had known where to strike from the beginning…
“They came for Ren,” Ciaran murmured, wiping his forehead. “They said something had happened to you, that Ulthane had sent them so Ren would join the elders on Earth. They spoke of imminent danger… something grave. Ren didn’t hesitate.”
He sighed, torn between anger and sorrow.
“He ordered Briana and the armed forces to stay in the Twilight Realm. Took only a few soldiers with us, to move quickly. Samyaza tried to stop him, said without Death or the other Horsemen, it was too risky. But Ren wouldn’t listen.”
Aisling clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.
“When we passed through the portal,” Ciaran continued, shaking his head, “Ulthane wasn’t even aware of our arrival. To him, you, Idris, and Fenja were still on mission. That’s when everything went wrong… These fake humans attacked the moment we stepped through. They slaughtered the soldiers in seconds. They tried to take us… Then Death and the Makers arrived. Without them, none of us would still be alive.”
Aisling felt guilt slice through her like ice. She remembered her terror at Death, her recoil. How could she have doubted him, when he had protected her people without hesitation?
But there was no time for shame. A new urgency burned inside her, consuming all else.
“Where is Ren?!” she cried, her voice trembling.
She scanned the battlefield, desperately searching for him among the wreckage and bodies.
“Where is he?” she insisted, grabbing Ciaran’s arm.
The herbalist lowered his eyes, unable to meet hers. The other survivors, scattered around them, also avoided her gaze. The silence crushed her.
Finally, one man pointed to the place where the tall, white-haired Maker still knelt over someone lying on the ground.
A shiver ran down Aisling’s spine, a dreadful déjà vu washing over her.
“No… no… please… not this…”
She scrambled to her feet and stumbled toward the group. She already knew what she’d find, but part of her refused to believe.
She dropped to her knees beside the body. Ren lay there, chest torn open, a wide pool of blood soaking the earth beneath him. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps.
The white-haired Maker placed a gentle but firm hand on Aisling’s shoulder.
“There’s nothing more to be done,” she murmured with compassion. “I can only ease his pain.”
Ren slowly opened his eyes and managed a faint smile when he saw her.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. This is my fault,” he whispered.
“Ren…” she choked, grabbing his icy hand, pressing it to her chest. “Why did you come? Why did you leave?”
“My darling, listen to me… you have to lead them now. They’ll need you more than ever.”
“No, no…” Aisling shook her head, tears pouring down her cheeks. “I need you. I can’t do this without you. Please stay with me…”
“You can. You can do anything. It’ll be alright, Aisling. Listen to me… it’ll be alright.”
“Don’t leave me! I can’t… I can’t do this alone!”
“You can…” he murmured with a faint, dying smile. “I raised you for this… I’m so proud of you. So proud…”
“Please… don’t leave… Don’t die!”
“Remember… You are the best thing that has happened to mankind.”
His breathing grew faint. His gaze darkened.
“And the best thing that has happened to me. Always remember that…”
She nodded, unable to speak, clinging to his hand as if it could anchor his soul.
“No, no, no… You still have stories to tell me, remember? You said you’d wait until I got back. Do you remember? Do you remember? Ren… Ren? REN!”
The portal closed with a deep, resonant thrum behind them, leaving Idris and Azrael back on solid ground, far from the swirling threads of the Void. They had barely taken a few steps when the angel suddenly slowed, pressing a hand to his chest, eyes closed.
Idris frowned, puzzled, and turned toward him.
“Something wrong?”
Azrael didn’t respond right away. Then he opened his eyes, and sadness filled his gaze as it met Idris’s.
“A new soul has entered the cycle, my boy. Your friend… she will need you now more than ever.”