There was no room for us to mourn over the wicked. I am sure he would hate such sentiment anyway, so the first thing we did was to break away our sweat and grabbed our weapons. At the end of this tunnel, what awaits is the grievous terror of a hundred men. What awaits, could be the sight that Angelica wishes to see, or the one she's been dreading this entire time.
—
The echoes of battle still rang in my ears, the splatter of blood across my face that refuses to ne wiped away, even as silence reclaimed the catacombs. My lungs burned with every breath. The stink of sulfur clung to my tongue like ash, and my blood coated arm twitched at every second.
"We… we need a break," I rasped, my voice raw from shouting, from fear. My words sounded small against the cavern's endless dark. "Miss Angelica, just.. " But she was already gone. I caught only the silver flash of her hair as she bolted into the darkness, a sudden streak of light swallowed by shadow. Her steps struck the stone in a rhythm of desperation, too fast, too reckless. I glimpsed her face just before she vanished into the tunnel's curve, and something inside me twisted. Tears. Not the wild, gasping kind, but a quiet glisten on her cheeks, barely there, yet unmistakable when the faint glow from her still-fading sword caught it.
"Angelica!" The name tore from my throat before I could stop it.
The tunnel narrowed, the ceiling pressing lower, stalactites dripping a slow, patient rhythm. Angelica's figure flitted ahead like a phantom, her borrowed human form impossibly swift. Misha's breathing grew ragged behind me. "Angelica! Wait for us!" Misha shouted, the name breaking into the vast dark like a plea.
The catacombs swallowed our voices and gave them back as cruel echoes.
Somewhere above, the world was still. Here below, only the sound of our pursuit, our frantic steps, our calls to her, the drip of unseen water, reminded me we hadn't all turned to stone.
Then I saw her falter.
Not stumble, she was too sure-footed for that. No, she simply slowed, as though the weight of something unseen had settled onto her shoulders. I reached out instinctively, my arm outstretched, fingers grazing only empty air.
"Lucy!" I cried, the name bursting from me like a prayer. Misha joined me, her voice breaking with it. "Lucy!"
Angelica came to a full stop.
The sudden stillness was worse than the chase. It fell over us like a held breath, as if the earth itself waited. Ahead, she stood frozen, her back to us. The soft glow of her sword had faded to an ember, casting only the faintest halo around her form. Her shoulders quivered, not from fear, I thought, but from something heavier.
I slowed to a halt beside Misha, chest heaving.
Then I saw what held her still.
A door. It rose from the black stone like an apparition, ancient and silent. Its surface was iron, veined with rust and faint streaks of something darker, something I hoped was only time's stain. Strange sigils had been etched deep into its skin, curling lines of a language that felt older than sin.
Angelica stared at it as if the door itself might breathe. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her knuckles were white. I swallowed the dryness in my throat. "Is… is he..?"My voice cracked. I could not finish the question. Because in the silence, the truth pressed close: behind that door could be only two things. The one whose life bore the fragile hope of a ruined world, or the absence of him.
Her wish, or her nightmare.
I stepped forward, my arm still half-raised as if I could shield her from what waited. Misha drew close beside me, her bow trembling in her grip. Angelica did not turn. The tears on her cheeks caught the faint glimmer of the sigils like tiny shards of light.
I wanted to tell her to breathe. To wait. To gather strength. But the words died before they left me. The door stood there like a judgment. The catacombs fell utterly silent, no drip of water, no rustle of air. Even the lingering stench of smoke seemed to hold its breath. For a heartbeat, all of us were statues carved in dread. Angelica lifted her hand, fingers hovering just inches from the cold iron. I felt the weight of the world tighten around us, as if heaven and hell both leaned in to watch. Her wish. Or her nightmare. The silence shattered with the sound of her trembling breath. And then her fingertips touched the door.
In the stillness before Angelica moved, my thoughts turned, unbidden, to the boy we had risked everything to find. Lucy.
The name carried so much weight for others: messiah, savior, hope. Yet to me he was only a shadow of a promise. I had never spoken to him, never even looked into his eyes as he looked into mine.
What if he was gentle? The kind of soul who listens more than he speaks, who carries the burdens of others as naturally as breathing?
Or perhaps he was a spark of mischief, quick-tongued and bright, an irritation I'd somehow grow to admire.
Maybe he was clumsy. Maybe he was the sort who laughs at his own jokes until everyone else does too.
Perhaps, my chest tightened, perhaps he was cruel. The kind of cruelty that hides behind charm and prophecy. A boy built not of light but of storms.
I had no shape for him. Only a name and a thousand guesses. And so I clung to the simplest, fiercest hope: that the moment I laid eyes on him, the truth would finally have a face. Angelica's fingers tightened on the iron handle. The door moaned open.
A rush of heat struck first, a dry, blistering breath that carried the scent of burning wood and singed flesh. The crackle of fire followed, sharp and restless, like a thousand whispering tongues. Light spilled into the catacomb, violent and golden. We stepped inside. Men and women knelt in perfect rows, their weapons, blades, rifles, jagged scrap, laid carefully at their sides. None looked at us. Their foreheads pressed to the blackened stone floor, bodies bent in a single, unbroken prayer. The flames rose high around them, licking the walls, yet none flinched. My heart thudded. This was not worship born of peace; this was something else. Something darker. My gaze climbed, drawn toward the dais at the chamber's far end. And there he stood.
Lucy.
For a moment my mind refused the image. I had imagined him in so many ways, but never, ever like this. He stood beneath the writhing firelight, arms outstretched as though hung upon an invisible cross. His coat billowed in the furnace air, his dark hair lifted and swept back as though the flames themselves bowed before him. In each hand, he held a severed head. Blood still glistened at the ragged necks, dark, wet, impossibly real. The faces of the dead were unmistakable. I had seen those faces, etched into my mind. The two men who always decided which children is next to burn. The leaders of the cult who had taken him. Lucy held them aloft like trophies, no, like offerings.
My breath caught, the thousand possibilities I had imagined for him collapsed in a single heartbeat. The kind soul. The irritating boy. The mischief-maker. The cruel one. All of them burned away in the furnace of this moment. Only this truth remained. A figure of prophecy, standing as still as a statue, bathed in firelight. The savior we sought, our messiah, gripping death in both hands as if it were his birthright. The flames roared, throwing wild shadows across his face and the walls behind him. His coat rippled like a banner.
All my expectation of his were washed away, there can never be a way to simply describe such a man of gentle smile and cruel arms.
A Sinner Savior..