The moon bled that night—full and heavy, its light stained crimson by smoke drifting from distant pyres. The four vessels had made camp in the lee of a ruined windmill on a low hill overlooking the southern plains. No fire. No conversation. Only the soft rustle of wind through dry grass and the occasional crack of Behemoth shifting his weight against the crumbling stone.
Elias could not sleep.
He sat with his back to the broken mill wall, knees drawn up, staring at the blood-red moon. The sigil on his chest had been quiet since Thornvale, but the silence felt watchful. Waiting.
Around midnight, when the others had finally drifted into uneasy rest, a soft footfall sounded on the far side of the hill.
Elias tensed.
Liora stirred first—shadows peeling away from her like smoke, coiling protectively around her small form. Behemoth opened one eye; stone cracked faintly along his arms. Elara sat up, water already gathering in thin, shimmering threads between her fingers.
A single figure crested the rise.
Silver hair catching the red moonlight. White linen robe fluttering like a ghost. No guards. No weapons. Just Lucian Vale—alone, barefoot, looking impossibly small against the vast night sky.
He stopped ten paces from the camp. Hands open at his sides.
"I come in peace," he said. His voice carried clearly despite the distance—soft, boyish, yet it reached them without effort.
Elara stood. "You're a long way from your golden cage, saint."
Lucian's gaze swept the four of them—Elara with her water coils, Behemoth rising like a boulder coming to life, Liora half-hidden in shifting shadow, Elias still seated but now on his feet.
"I had to see," Lucian said simply. "To be sure."
Elias stepped forward. "Sure of what?"
Lucian's eyes met his. No gold flash this time—just hazel, tired, almost human.
"That you were still you," he answered. "That the thing inside you hadn't swallowed you whole yet."
Abaddon stirred—slow, amused.
Tell him the truth, vessel. Tell him how close we came in the chapel.
Elias ignored the voice.
"Why are you here?" he asked. "If the Church finds out you left Sanctum—"
"They won't." Lucian's tone was certain. "Not tonight. Not while the moon bleeds. The Prelates are busy with their own rituals. And I… I know the back ways."
He took one careful step closer.
"I did not come to fight," he said again. "Or to capture. I came to warn you."
Liora laughed—soft, mocking. "A warning from the saint himself. How generous."
Lucian ignored her. His eyes stayed on Elias.
"God knows Abaddon is free," he said quietly. "He has known since the stone cracked. He is preparing. The High Prelates have called for a kingdom-wide purge. Every pagan bloodline. Every hidden vessel. Every whisper of shadow or flame or stone or tide. They will burn them all before winter."
Elara's water threads tightened. "And you're telling us this why?"
"Because if they succeed," Lucian answered, "there will be nothing left to fight for. No one left to remember what the Church has done. No one left to question."
Behemoth rumbled low. "You serve that Church."
"I serve the Light," Lucian corrected gently. "Or I thought I did. Lately… I am not so certain."
Silence fell.
Lucian looked at the moon, then back at Elias.
"If you ever want the full truth," he said, "not the Church's version, not Abaddon's version—mine—find me when the moon bleeds again. In the Garden of Ashes behind the cathedral. I will wait."
He turned to leave.
"Wait," Elias said.
Lucian paused.
"Why help us?" Elias asked. "Why risk this?"
Lucian's shoulders rose and fell in a small, tired shrug.
"Because we are the same," he said softly. "Yet different. You carry ruin. I carry light. But neither of us asked for the burden. And neither of us is as free as we pretend."
He looked at each of them once more—Elara, Behemoth, Liora—then at Elias last.
"Be careful," he whispered. "He is watching. Always."
Then he was gone—slipping down the far side of the hill as silently as he had come. The red moonlight swallowed him.
Elara let the water threads collapse.
"He's lying," she said. "Or baiting us."
Liora smiled faintly. "Or both. Lies are complicated. Sometimes they hide truth."
Behemoth sat again, stone grinding.
"He speaks like one already half-broken," the giant said. "Like one who has seen the cage from inside."
Elias stared after Lucian's vanished silhouette.
Abaddon spoke then—quiet, almost thoughtful.
He is afraid, the demon murmured. Not of us. Of what happens when the game ends.
And he should be.
Elias looked up at the bleeding moon.
The purge was coming.
The Church would burn the world to save its lie.
And somewhere in Sanctum, a silver-haired boy waited in the shadows of a forgotten garden—holding secrets even the fallen angel inside him did not fully understand.
The four vessels settled back into uneasy rest.
But none of them slept.
The night stretched on—red, watchful, heavy with the promise of fire.
And somewhere far below, in the golden heart of the kingdom, bells began to toll.
Not for prayer.
For war.
End of Chapter 12