The tunnels beneath Sanctum were older than the cathedral itself—narrow passages of damp brick and forgotten stone, lit only by the faint blue glow that sometimes seeped from Elara's palms when she needed to see. She pulled Elias along at a near-run, one hand clamped around his wrist, the other raised to summon thin sheets of water that sealed the passages behind them like liquid doors.
They did not speak until the roar of the cathedral bells faded to nothing.
When the tunnel finally opened onto a storm drain beneath the eastern aqueduct, moonlight spilled through the iron grate above. Elara released him and leaned against the curved wall, breathing hard.
"You idiot," she said. No anger—just exhaustion. "I told you not to go in there."
Elias slid down the opposite wall until he sat in shallow, cold water. His gray tunic was soaked, clinging to the black veins that still traced faint patterns across his chest. The sigil felt bruised, tender, as though it had been struck.
"I had to know," he said quietly. "If I could control it. If I could… not hurt anyone."
Elara snorted. "And how did that go?"
He looked at his hands. They still trembled faintly from the surge in the chapel.
"Not well."
She crouched in front of him, searching his face.
"Did he hurt you? The saint-boy?"
"No. He… helped. At first. Taught me breathing. Prayers. How to push it down." Elias swallowed. "It worked. For a while. Then they pushed too hard. The Prelates. The chanting. And Abaddon—"
He broke off.
Elara nodded once, as though she understood more than he had said.
"Leviathan did the same thing when I first woke him. Gave me control. Showed me how to call water without drowning myself. Then one day a Church patrol cornered my family. I lost it. The river rose. Swallowed half the village. Including them."
Her voice stayed flat. Matter-of-fact. But her eyes were distant.
"After that, I stopped asking him for help. I just… let him do what he wants when it's needed. Better that way."
Elias stared at her. "You let him take over?"
"When there's no choice." She shrugged. "He's not chatty like yours. Doesn't explain. Just acts. And afterward I'm still here. Mostly."
Elias pressed his palms to his eyes. "I don't want that. I don't want to be a passenger in my own body."
"Then you'll have to get stronger." Elara stood and offered her hand. "Come on. We can't stay here. The Church will flood these tunnels soon. We head east—toward the coast. There's a port town called Saltmere. Smugglers. Pagans. People who know how to disappear."
Elias took her hand and let her pull him up.
They emerged from the aqueduct into open country just before dawn. The sky was the color of tarnished silver. Far behind them, columns of smoke rose from Sanctum—whether from alarm fires or something worse, Elias did not want to guess.
They walked in silence for hours. Elias's legs ached, but the rhythm helped keep Abaddon quiet. The demon had said nothing since the chapel. No taunts. No laughter. Just watchful stillness.
By midday they reached the first proper road—a wide trade route that ran parallel to the eastern river. Wagons rumbled past, loaded with salt barrels and dried fish. Pilgrims walked in small groups, staffs in hand, singing softly.
Elias kept his hood up. Elara walked beside him, casual, as though they were simply two travelers heading to market.
That night they camped in a copse of salt-stunted pines near the riverbank. Elara built no fire—too visible—but she summoned a small sphere of warm water that hovered between them like a lantern, steaming gently in the chill air.
Elias stared into it.
"Do you ever think about running forever?" he asked.
"Every day." Elara poked at the glowing orb with one finger, making it ripple. "But running doesn't change what's inside you. It just changes the scenery."
She glanced at him. "What did the saint say? Before it went wrong."
"That we're the same. That none of us are free."
Elara gave a short laugh. "He's right about that part."
Elias hesitated. "He also said his Lord was curious. About me. About Abaddon."
Elara's expression darkened. "Then Lucifer knows you're awake. And if the Light-Bearer is curious, it means he's planning something."
She let the water sphere collapse into mist.
"Get some sleep. We move at first light. Saltmere is three days if we don't stop."
Elias lay back on the pine needles, staring up through the branches at stars that seemed colder than before.
Abaddon finally spoke—soft, almost thoughtful.
She is wise, your companion. Leviathan chose well.
Elias kept his eyes on the sky.
But she is wrong about one thing.
Running does change the scenery.
And scenery matters when the world begins to burn.
Elias closed his eyes.
He did not dream that night.
But somewhere far to the west, in the golden halls of Sanctum, a silver-haired boy knelt alone in the cracked lower chapel. The broken altar lay in pieces before him. Water stains darkened the stone where Elara's tide had struck.
Lucian traced one finger along a fracture in the marble.
Gold flickered in his eyes.
"Soon," he whispered—to the air, to the shadows, to the thing that lived inside him.
"Soon we will see which of us breaks first."
Outside, the eastern wind carried the faint salt smell of the sea.
The road to the coast stretched ahead.
And on that road, two vessels walked—one running from power, one resigned to it—toward a town where the third waited.
Unknowing.
Unprepared.
But already listening.
End of Chapter 7