The walk to the Throne stretched longer than logic allowed. Endless marble pillars—each etched with flowing scripture older than stars—loomed as if watching. Silken light poured from unseen skies, bending to caress every step Ramiel took. Behind him, Alec, Selene, and Tobias remained at the golden threshold. Only he was summoned, bluntly, could withstand Elyon's presence.
At the end of the plane,
Ramiel knelt once—fist to the ground, eyes closed—and whispered:
"You who spun stars from thought, who shaped flame and soul alike... I am dust beneath the hem of Your presence. I come, not as one worthy, but as one willing."
As he rose, his breathing grew lighter, the air itself vibrating with ancient power. At the end of the path stood no towering figure, no golden statue—only Light. Infinite, sentient, consuming without malice. A throne woven from stardust and silence, and at its center:
Elyon.
Not seen, not heard—felt. The presence that birthed awe, terror, love, and surrender in equal measure. His radiance bent Ramiel's knees, and for the second time in millennia, he bowed completely.
A voice echoed—however rather than air, it felt like reality itself.
"You are the last fire of the First Ones. Ash Walker"
"Why do you come before Me, unbidden?"
Ramiel lifted his head slowly. "I seek aid. An army—not to conquer, but to resist annihilation. The Choir of Blades—"
"You ask Me to move the blade of Heaven for your quarrels?"
Ramiel clenched his jaw. It was going to be a mammoth task convincing he that could read the mind. "This is no personal quarrel. The realms fall. The old order crumbles. Even now, Hell bends the seas and skies to its will."
Silence.
Then:
"Did I not give the world to itself?"
"Did I not bless the fire with choice, the clay with desire, the light with distance?"
The Throne pulsed. Time faltered around Ramiel's breath. He felt like life was leaving him the louder Elyon spoke.
"All was made for My pleasure. Ruin, Defiance. Even rebellion."
Ramiel lowered his eyes. "Then I am a heretic. For I would see what was Yours made whole again."
A pause. Then, like sunlight breaking a storm:
"You would borrow My blades?"
Ramiel nodded. "I will owe the debt in blood."
"You already do."
Elyon's presence rippled forward. Something unseen passed through Ramiel—a vision, a knowing. The cost.
Vladmir.
The Throne quieted. Elyon spoke one final time:
"Take the blades. But their echo shall claim your heart."
Ramiel bowed low, sorrow glinting in his chest. As he turned and walked back down the celestial path, light behind him dimming, he whispered again:
"What did Heaven demand?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The moon loomed full over the Gothic spires of Crimson Hollow, draping its haunting silver over the ancient seat of vampire sovereignty. The scent of iron and stone lingered in the wind like the breath of history. Within the candle-lit hall, Vladmir stood in silence, a glass of dark-red wine untouched in his hand. He had been in bad mood these days for obvious reasons.
A gust of chilled air announced the arrival.
Fenric Grayclaw stepped from the shadows. His coat, a sleek, modern blend of leather and plated chain, flared with the movement. His grin was as sharp as his name.
"Still drinking your grief, old friend?"
Vladmir's eyes narrowed. "I see the rumors were true. You're consorting with demons now."
Fenric laughed, tilting his head. "I prefer to think of it as... negotiating with hell's potential."
He took a few measured steps forward, the heavy floorboards creaking with anticipation.
"They want the Djinn dead, Vlad. And you—you've chosen to protect him. That paints a target."
Vladmir sipped slowly, placed the goblet down with care, and rolled back his sleeves. "If you're here to take me, you'll bleed for it."
A blur—two blurs. Fangs gleamed. Claws clashed. The hall burst into violence. Chairs shattered, stone cracked beneath their speed. Fenric's blows were cunning, precise—Vladmir's, brutal and relentless. A whirlwind of strikes, counterstrikes, leaping over chandeliers and crashing through walls.
The crypt was dark, lit only by a dying torch. The air stank of damp stone and old blood.
Vladmir stood tall, his coat ripped and stained, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Across from him, Fenric crouched low, claws flexing, lips curled back to show long fangs.
"Always the noble one," Fenric sneered. "Still pretending you're better than the rest of us."
Vladmir said nothing. His eyes stayed locked on Fenric's.
Fenric lunged.
Claws slashed for Vladmir's throat, but he twisted aside, caught Fenric by the arm, and drove a fist into his ribs. The crack echoed off the stone walls. Fenric grunted, but his other claw raked across Vladmir's chest, tearing fabric and flesh.
Vladmir hissed, blood soaking his shirt, yet he didn't fall. He answered with a hard kick that sent Fenric stumbling back into a stone pillar.
The two circled, low and fast, like wolves testing each other. Then they clashed again — claws flashing, fists striking.
Fenric's claw cut across Vladmir's face, leaving a red line over his cheek. Vladmir roared and slammed his forehead into Fenric's nose. Bone crunched. Fenric laughed through the blood.
They grappled, rolling across the floor. Fangs snapped, claws tore into arms and shoulders. Vladmir drove Fenric into the wall, hand tight on his throat, but Fenric gouged his side with both claws until Vladmir let go.
Fenric spat blood, grinning wider. "You're slowing, old one."
Vladmir answered with silence and a strike — his fist smashing into Fenric's jaw so hard the other vampire spun. He followed with another blow to the stomach, then a brutal knee that sent Fenric crashing to the floor.
For a moment, Fenric didn't rise. Vladmir staggered back, chest heaving, one hand pressed against the deep cuts along his ribs.
Then—
From the upper gallery, Seraphine dropped like silk death, daggers drawn. A vampiress of pale grace and crimson eyes, clad in a black slit-dress that was more illusion than armor.
"Your time is over, King of Nostalgia."
Vladmir snarled, pivoting just in time to catch her blade across his ribs. He grunted, turned—Fenric caught him in the gut with a knee, then spun behind him.
Steel flashed. Fangs sank.
A roar ripped the Hollow apart.
They tore into him together. Fenric holding him in place, Seraphine's knives carving without mercy. Even with centuries of might, Vladmir began to slow. He fought, roared, even stabbed Seraphine once—but it wasn't enough.
"Tell Ramiel..." Vladmir choked, blood in his throat, "...the old one never begged."
Fenric leaned close, face inches from the King's fading eyes.
"Oh, he'll know. But not from your lips."
With one final motion, Fenric plunged his claws through Vladmir's neck.
Silence. Then a whisper:
"Long live the traitor king."
They dropped his broken body to the marble floor, and moved for the second hunt....Varyselle.