The Silver Cathedral had once been a masterpiece of marble and faith, its spires reaching toward the heavens like white fingers. Now, it was a skeletal ruin. The roof had long ago surrendered to time, leaving the nave open to the cold, indifferent stars. The ground, once holy, had turned sour and damp, smelling of ancient dust and stagnant rainwater.
Gwaine stood in the center of the transept, his violet eyes glowing with a steady, rhythmic pulse. Beside him, Kignar checked the mechanism of his hand-crossbow, his face set in a grim mask. The air began to thicken, the temperature dropping until their breath came in heavy plumes of white.
Then, he arrived.
Count Zion did not run; he simply appeared at the far end of the nave, stepping out of the shadows as if the darkness itself had exhaled him. He moved with a predatory elegance, his boots silent on the cracked tiles. His presence was a physical weight, a crushing pressure that made the very stones of the cathedral groan.
"You," Zion said, his voice a cultured, terrifying purr that echoed off the broken arches. He stopped forty paces away, his crimson eyes locking onto Gwaine. "You smell of our kind, yet the scent is... distorted. Ancient, yet diluted by something repulsive. And you reek of Derial. You are the one who extinguished his spark."
"Derial was a scavenger, that's why I killed him" Gwaine replied, his voice a low, vibrating growl. He drew the Enochian broadsword, the runes on the blade glowing with a faint, expectant light. "And I will also be the one to kill you."
Zion's thin lips curled into a smile that held no warmth. "A bold claim for a creature that bleeds like a mortal."
Zion didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't need one. He raised a pale hand and sliced his own palm with a sharpened fingernail. The blood didn't fall; it levitated, spinning into three long, jagged whips of hardened crimson. With a flick of his wrist, the whips lashed out, moving faster than the eye could follow.
The sound was like a thunderclap. Gwaine moved in a blur of violet light, his super-speed pushing his mortal frame to its absolute limit. The blood-whips struck the marble pillars behind him, shearing through two feet of solid stone as if it were parchment.
Kignar saw his opening. He lunged from behind a fallen statue, throwing two glass flasks of concentrated holy water and firing a silver-tipped bolt.
Zion didn't even turn his head. He flicked a finger of his left hand. The air around Kignar suddenly solidified, turning into an invisible wall of force that slammed the hunter back against a pillar. Kignar gasped as the pressure pinned him there, his feet dangling inches off the ground, slowly loosing his consciousness.
"This is between immortals, little bug," Zion sneered, his gaze never leaving Gwaine. "Be silent while the adults are fighting."
Gwaine felt a surge of white-hot protective rage. The Angelic blood within him roared in protest, not at the vampire's power, but at it's arrogance. Gwaine realized that fighting as a man—or even just as a vampire—would not be enough.
He dropped the Enochian sword. The metal clattered against the stone.
"Giving up?" Zion mocked, sending all three whips whistling toward Gwaine's chest.
"No," Gwaine whispered. "Ascending."
He lunged forward, not away from the whips, but through them. He reached deep into his core, grabbing the dark thread of his vampiric strength and the burning thread of the angelic light, braiding them together with his will. His hands became wreathed in a pale, cold fire—a violet flame that hissed with the sound of a thousand stilled voices.
He caught the blood-whips with his bare hands.
Zion's eyes widened. The holy light in Gwaine's veins acted as a celestial solvent, vaporizing the dark magic of the blood-whips on contact. The hardened crimson turned to harmless steam in Gwaine's grip.
The battle turned into a masterpiece of violence. They tore through the cathedral, a blur of silver light and red mist. Zion was faster than Derial had ever been, each of his strike is precise, lethal, and backed by five centuries of malice. He closed the distance, his hand moving like a snake, and managed to drive his clawed fingers deep into Gwaine's side.
Zion grinned, preparing to twist the wound and rip out Gwaine's spine. But the grin vanished instantly, replaced by a howl of pure agony.
Instead of the cold, dark blood Zion expected to taste through his senses, he encountered the Blood of an Angel. It surged into Zion's hand like liquid acid, burning through his skin, muscle, and bone.
"What... what are you?" Zion screamed, staggering back. He held up his right arm, which was already beginning to blacken and dissolve into white, holy ash. The rot was spreading toward his shoulder, refusing to heal. His regal composure shattered, replaced by the primal terror of a predator becoming a prey.
Gwaine stood tall, the wound in his side glowing with a soft violet light as the two powers worked in tandem to seal it. He stepped toward the cowering Count, his shadow stretching long across the altar.
"I am the beginning," Gwaine growled, his voice echoing with power, "And I am your end."
He raised his hand, the violet fire burning brighter than ever, illuminating the ruins of the cathedral as if the sun had finally returned to the holy ground.