A Father's Wrath

by Throwaway1971

All credit goes to the OG author ThatOneGuy69 on QQ

40. Chapter 40

Imagine beta'ing your chapters. Could never be me

---

At first, its awareness wasn't even awareness. It was a haze—no, less than that. A state of... existing, if it could be called that. There wasn't darkness or light, only an endless in-between, where place and time had no meaning. Nothing was solid. Nothing was definite.

It drifted, caught in a place where the concept of place itself did not exist, where time held no meaning, and there was nothing to give it form or purpose. It sensed an almost-familiarity, as if it could recognize the idea of something without truly knowing what that something was, just a mass of raw Possibility waiting for a shape and to be bestowed a name.

It waited for Him to give it a Purpose.

It wasn't thought, either. It wasn't anything, really. Just drifting, a feeling of almost familiarity, as if it could recognize something without knowing what it was. It was raw, unformed—an "it," one that bore no relation to the "IT." Merely a bundle of potential, not yet bound to any shape or purpose. There was no "before" to compare to, no memory to give a name to the void it floated in.

The drift continued without direction or end. There were no boundaries, no edges to mark where it began or stopped; there was only the formless state of being that wasn't even being. The nothingness wasn't empty so much as it was... waiting, poised on the edge of becoming, though what it was supposed to become remained elusive.

Then, there was a pull—a sudden force that gripped the unshaped, as if drawing it from the depths of the unformed. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't unkind.

It simply was.

The drift quickened; the haze thickened, collapsing inward until there was a sense of movement, of direction, a shift from simply existing to becoming.

"Be," it was ordered—a command that burned into its very essence.

A force guided the unmade toward becoming. It felt like a hand, unseen but undeniably present, tugging the raw substance from its shapelessness.

Something was happening. It could feel itself being shaped, drawn tighter and tighter, the formlessness giving way to something more defined. The blur resolved into contours and boundaries, a shape taking hold where there had been none before. It wasn't just an idea anymore; it was a thing.

Awareness emerged, dim at first, then growing as the blur resolved into definition. There was movement, direction—an unspoken command rippling through the nothingness, forcing the unshaped into shape. The haze pulled tight, like clay drawn toward form. The act of becoming was not gentle; it was a stretching, a twisting, bending the undefined toward a purpose it didn't yet understand.

The nameless was unraveling. The unbound was binding. It was being shaped into something else—no longer an "it," no longer a thing drifting between what was and what could be. There was a word, a decree, and the decree blazed through the nothing like fire, carving the raw potential into form:

Let her form be bound and unbound.

Let her know herself by the name given.

Let there be Lilith.

And there was.

The world did not reveal itself all at once.

At first, there was the sensation of touch, the coolness of something beneath—earth—a word seemed to form in the depths of awareness. There was a softness, the brush of something light—grass. Yet, how did it know these names? It hadn't been told. It hadn't been taught.

Then came the colors—blurs at first, smudges of green and gold that slowly sharpened into distinct shapes. Trees, their branches weaving overhead, sky peeking through the leaves, light spilling down like water. It recognized them all without knowing why. The world was both strange and familiar like a memory from a life never lived.

It—no, she, now—blinked, the movement and sudden recognition of having eyes. She touched her face, felt the smoothness of skin, and felt the gentle press of breath leaving her lips. There was a word for this too—life. And there was a word for the place where she now lay: the Garden of Eden. She knew these things, though she could not recall learning them.

Around her stood the six-winged ones, a gallery of Not-Her—Seraphim, with wings veiling their heads, and covering their feet. They bowed, not to her but to the One above, and though she had not seen Him, she knew who He was.

She could feel the weight of His presence in the air, the silent reverence that poured from the mouths of the angels like a song. God. She knew this name, and it echoed in her newly-formed thoughts like a truth she had always known.

God did not speak, for no words were worthy of his decree, beyond the reach of creation itself.

He willed.

Behold,

the First Woman, crafted by My hand

Breathed into life by My command.

She shall be the equal, the companion, the destined bride of the First Man,

and He, her equal, her companion, her ordained husband.

Stand forth, Lilith, and take thy place at his side,

as was spoken from the beginning

and set into the foundations of all things.

A shuffling of feet behind her alerted Lilith.

She turned and then she noticed another— the one who stood apart from the winged beings. Different from the six-winged ones. His form was like hers, yet different, familiar, and yet wholly unknown.

Not-her. Him.

Even so, there was no need for anyone to tell her who he was; she already understood. The name came to her, unbidden and fully formed, settling into her mind as though it had always been there, waiting for the moment she would need to use it.

The First Man.

Adam.

He was watching her with a look of quiet wonder and an expression she knew but did not recognize.

She looked at him and then at herself, the similarities and differences almost instinctual. They were the same height, standing equal in the way their bodies reached toward the sky. Yet, there was a difference—something about him was more and less.

Adam was broader, his form carrying a weight that hers did not. She noticed the shape of his arms and the strength in his shoulders, as if he had been molded from denser clay.

And then there was the thing atop his head—hair, yes, that was the word. His was the color of the soil at the bottom of a river, but darker, but not the kind of darkness she knew. It wasn't void; she knew void and had felt its depth in the formless black in the o-so-insignificant fractions of time before "it" became "she.".

Her own, though, was something entirely else. It wasn't dark at all; it was light, pale, almost shimmering in the sunlight. Blonde. The word came to her mind as if whispered by an unseen voice. It reminded her of something else—wheat. She could picture it somehow, the golden stalks bending in a summer breeze, though she had never seen it before.

His eyes were a bright, golden hue, gleaming with the sun's light, while hers were a soft lilac, like the faint glow of twilight. Words and meanings seemed to bloom within her, one after another, filling the once-empty spaces in her thoughts.

Uncertainly, she saw that Adam was smiling. She knew what a smile was and what it could mean—a mix of happiness, excitement, and something else. Nervousness. She knew the word and understood its meaning.

Hesitantly, she tried to mimic the expression, uncertain if she was doing it right. A smile formed on her lips, small and tentative, mirroring his. Happy, excited, and nervous. Yes, those were the feelings she could sense in him—and perhaps in herself, too, though it felt strange to name them.

She took a tentative step closer, her bare feet brushing against the cool, dew-kissed grass of the garden. It felt alive beneath her as if the earth itself was welcoming her presence.

He drew nearer.

"My wife, Lilith," he said, and the words spilled from his lips with a gentle reverence that made her heart flutter.

She could feel a warmth spreading through her, and a lovely tingle danced in her chest.

"My husband, Adam," she echoed, the title rolling off her tongue like a sweet melody.

His face lit up, eyes sparkling with giddy delight that made her giggle softly.

"My wife," he repeated, holding her and practically bouncing on his feet. Clear excitement bubbled within him as her hands settled gently on his shoulders.

She laughed softly, a sound that surprised even her, as if joy had slipped out before she could catch it. She didn't mind. It felt right. "My husband." She leaned closer, her forehead brushing his.

Then, a chorus of voices rose up—a harmonious symphony of the angels. Light poured over them, brilliant and pure, and she felt something sacred weave around them like a veil.

The Lord blessed them, the words of the Angels ringing out in the light, declaring them bound and beloved.

And Lilith, standing there in the garden, was happy.

For a long time, she was happy.

Until she was not.

---

Seth's instincts screamed at him.

His mother's blood in his veins rejoiced in preparation for the declaration of rebellion against the False Demiurge.

"Answer me, Coward!" The voice of that thing bellowed—the same presence that seemed to think itself God, bringing with it the same disgusting sensation Seth had felt before the golden chain appeared over a month ago.

That thing. The presence he had sensed during his father's ascension. Once again, Seth felt its raw, malicious hatred, which nearly made him double over. It clawed at him, vicious and consuming, until he thought he might choke.

Beside him, he saw it attempt to take hold of Azura and Aclima, saw the faint shock and sickness ripple across their souls, even as his own essence surged forward, layering his will over them like armor. He barely registered Belphegor's authority as it spread across his own. Even then, the shield was feeble against that overwhelming, repulsive force.

The only reason it held was because that rage was not directed at them. Otherwise...

Then, as suddenly as it had come, it disappeared. His father's presence returned in full force, and whatever stain had tried to claim them, whatever hateful residue had latched onto their souls, was banished with it.

"All is well," his father's decree echoed once more in his soul.

"Be not afraid," it reassured.

It did no such thing for Seth.

---

A breath of relief was released from Adam's lips.

Lilith's heart hammered in her chest. Each beat pounded so fiercely it felt like it might break through her ribcage. Her legs locked up, refusing to move as a wave of cold fear washed over her. She tried to steady her breath, but it only came out in quick, panicked gasps.

"Hah... Hah..."

A horrible feeling, one she had grown so familiar with in the past few days, spread through her core. It was the same sensation the Son of the Man in front of her had mocked her for forsaking—saying that it proved her inhumanity.

Fear.

She felt afraid.

"I'm feeling real great," Adam muttered, his voice heavy, dripping with something like relief—though there was a bitter edge to it. It sounded almost as if he said more to himself to convince himself.

Lilith felt afraid.

His body was covered from head to toe in blood. The thick red liquid pooled beneath his feet and was steaming slightly. It wasn't his; it couldn't be. Red, not gold. Whose blood was it? It didn't matter.

A single golden eye glimmered from the mess on his face. It was the only spark of color in that sea of crimson, glinting with an unsettling calm. Adam was never supposed to be calm. Subdued, pensive on rare occasions, yes—but never calm. Not in heaven during the seven years, and certainly not ten thousand years ago in Eden.

Adam felt wrong.

Like Eve had felt wrong all those years ago.

He took a step forward, his foot squishing on the soaked floor, and instinctively, Lilith stepped back. Her breath hitched as he drew closer, each of his unsteady steps matching her own retreat.

She clenched her fingers, trying to summon the embers of her power, but they flickered weakly on her fingertips before fizzling out into nothing. She felt helpless, small, as he reached out a hand—only to grab the edge of the doorframe and push the door closed behind him with a soft, dreadful thud.

Her mouth opened to yell, but the words died in her throat. Who could she even call for? Charlie? Sweet, kind Charlie, who would rush in without a second thought—but what could she do? Adam had approved of Charlie's dream, encouraged it even. But if it came to a choice between her and Lilith, would he still show kindness?

A warning, at most, like she had watched him give Satan, Beelzebub, and Asmodeus. Like her uncles and aunt, Charlie would refuse to heed it. Like her uncles and aunt, Adam would definitely treat her...

No, Lilith couldn't.

The lock clicked, sealing them away from the rest of the world.

Another step forward.

Adam let out a breath, steam leaving his mouth.

Lilith stumbled back, her feet tangling beneath her until she fell to the floor, landing hard on the carpet.

Adam moved closer, dripping blood onto the plush fabric as he approached. His balance wavered with each step. Desperately, she scrambled backward, her palms scraping against the carpet, until her back hit the edge of the bed, leaving her trapped.

She looked up, her voice breaking as she croaked, "N-No!"

Another step forward.

Soon enough, he loomed over her, and the smell of burnt flesh hit her, filling her with nausea and twisting her stomach. She saw it then—faint embers smoldering beneath his skin, blood bubbling and hissing as if it were boiling. His skin seemed to glow faintly beneath the spilled blood.

He didn't stop.

"Don't...!" she tried to order, cold sweat glistening on her skin. "N-No—!"

"For how long do you intend on whimpering?" He cut her off with a bemused tone. "I am in a favorable mood. I would appreciate it if you don't sour it with your sniveling."

Lilith's eyes widened, and she clenched her teeth.

"I still have need of you. Be silent and wait patiently, or find yourself far less useful to me." He continued, and whether from fear or tiredness, it seemed to her ears as if his voice echoed subtly, yet the power laced in his tone wasn't subtle—it was Pride itself. "If you leave this room before that, I will bring you back, and I can't promise that I'll be gentle. Am I clear?"

She gritted her teeth so hard that her jaw ached. For a moment, the fear she felt was replaced by a fury fueled by eons of inadequacy and unfairness. "Yes," she said finally, lowering her head in reluctant obedience, hiding the resentment in her eyes. She cursed him in her mind.

Adam's hand rose again, and she flinched, expecting him to grab her and strike. But his fingers moved past her head, closing around the bedcovers behind her. He didn't even look at her as he staggered past. He walked by, unsteady, dripping onto the carpet, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake as the covers hung loosely from his grip.

He reached the bathroom, shoved the door open, and stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind him. For a moment, there was only silence, then the sound of shuffling clothes, followed by water splattering against the floor tiles.

What just happened? Why had he ignored her? The fear didn't leave; it returned but twisted into something else—confusion, disbelief. She didn't know if she should feel relieved or terrified all over again.

---

Zarimora, the latest creation decreed by ₮ⱧɆ ₳ⱠⱠ-₭₦Ø₩ł₦₲, ₳ⱠⱠ-₴ɆɆł₦₲, ₳ⱠⱠ-₭ł₦₲—₳ ⱤɆ₣ⱠɆ₵₮łØ₦ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₮ⱤɄɆ ₳Ⱡ₥ł₲Ⱨ₮Ɏ, ₮ⱧɆ Adam ₭₳Đ₥Ø₦—came into existence in a single breath, fashioned from the shattered remains of a grotesque, lifeless moon. A planet, though perhaps, given its size, "star" might have been a more fitting name. An astounding quarter of a million miles in diameter, it spanned across seven colossal supercontinents, each vast and varied in climate, suited for the beings who would inhabit it—whether ruled by Sin, the Ars Goetia, or other forces.

Countless islands dotted Zarimora's surface, numbering in the millions, scattered like jewels around the vast landmasses. It was a world large enough to house trillions, where Hell's meager billion could roam unbothered, and the tens of thousands of fallen angels and infernal nobility barely made a mark. Here, there was more than enough space for all.

Or so the decree of the First Man etched in their existence claimed. His earlier rage still echoed, making all hesitant to believe him, yet that very same rage prevented them from voicing their doubts aloud.

Such was life for the residents of Hell: when something with power beyond comprehension declared something, you agreed wholeheartedly.

They simply lowered their heads and resumed tearing each other apart.

For Zarimora was as beautiful and grand as its inhabitants were greedy and envious. Just a day after its creation, chaos erupted.

Small skirmishes for territory broke out, and soon enough, the overly ambitious, self-proclaimed King of Avarice clashed with the naive Wolf of Voracity and the stubborn Dragon of Wrath, shaking the ground.

Eight thousand years later, here they were again, squabbling over the same old scraps, as if they'd learned nothing since the Fall and Rebellion. Had they really not figured it out by now? Honestly, she'd be happy if they'd just leave her out of it this time.

For all her faults, Lilith had at least been able to get the Morningstar to step in and keep the others in line every now and then.

Now, with—!

Swiftly halting her inner monologue, Belphegor interjected, darting forward to snatch the plates out of her guest's hands before the other woman could react. "Ah, it's okay. I'll do it."

"Oh no, it's actually not bo—" the angelic guest began, flashing a sweet smile. Way too sweet. She was too much like Cain—too kind, too eager to help. And that was definitely evil. No one truly good could make Belphegor feel guilty enough to throw a dinner party, host guests, and actually put in effort to make them like her. Work was evil.

None of Adam's children had brought up the colossal elephant in the room, so Belphegor did what any sensible host would: shut up and act like nothing happened.

Another rumble made the walls shudder, rattling the chandelier overhead. Her chandelier and The Walls of Her house. It was a damn nice house too—a sprawling mansion on the hillside with marble pillars and tangled gardens, looking both grand and overgrown, like it couldn't decide if it was trying or giving up.

Every bone in her body told her to dig a hole and lay low lest the New God smite her.
It looked lazy. Fashionably lazy!

Just the way she liked it. But damn, it was too big! So was the massive metropolis it overlooked, where her Baphomets had settled in. A whole city, glittering drowsily under Zarimora's twin suns, complete with buildings, streets, and everything those Baphomets could ever need.

Belphegor had a bad feeling about it all.

Sure, the First Man had a talent for architecture and plumbing—she'd give him that—but she didn't want more land, or more buildings, or more… anything. More land meant more responsibility, and more responsibility meant work. And work was bad.

Did her husband's family not get what Sloth was about?

Yet another earthquake shook the ground beneath her feet, rattling the dishes in the cupboards and sending a fresh wave of dust drifting down from the rafters. It was almost normal at this point—just another side effect of the same old clowns in a new circus.

Maybe Belphegor was the actual fool for expecting this new Hell to be different from the old one.

Now that Lucifer—no, even saying his name felt wrong, somehow. What the hell had the First Man done to the Morningstar?—was probably dead, and Lilith soon to follow, even bottom-feeders like Abezethibou or loose cannons like Azazel, soon to become the Sin of Lust, were starting to puff up their chests, yammering on about alliances and power plays.

The silver lining? At least she didn't have to deal with Azazel's nonsense while her guests were here. Not even that human-obsessed idiot would be foolish enough to show up with the First Humans around. As much as he was probably dying to meet them—and probably more, knowing him—Azazel had enough sense to stay away from the Blessed Son.

Because if he didn't, Seth would be the least of his problems. If Azazel showed his face here, Belphegor would tear his guts from his asshole and push down them his throat before he had a chance to pull his usual shit.

She sighed, pushing the thought away. At least for now, she had the perfect excuse to avoid dealing with anyone who might come knocking. Hosting exceptionally powerful and terrifying guests had its perks—keeping the vultures at bay was one of them.

"The fat clown didn't waste any time, huh?" Seth said with a hint of amusement, leaning on a chair with his feet propped against the railing of Belphegor's mansion, a drink in his hand. "Isn't that right, sis?"

Belphegor opened her mouth to respond, but three different voices answered at once as his sister-wives and Belphegor replied in unison.

"Seth, take your feet o—"

"And you didn't waste any time making—"

"Well, Mammon had delusions of gra—"

The responses cut off abruptly, and a brief, awkward silence settled over the group. Seth threw his head back and laughed.
Belphegor's face went pink as she suddenly realized he had probably been talking to his actual sisters, not her. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and fought the urge to sink into the floor. They must think she was desperate now. It was Seth's fault for calling her Sis-Sis all the time! "S-sorry," she muttered, eyes darting to the ground, hoping it would open up and swallow her whole.

Azura and Aclima exchanged amused looks—Azura's lips twitching into a grin, while Aclima's eyes shone with sympathy. With a small nod, they silently motioned for Belphegor to continue, making it clear they were giving her the floor.

Belphegor caught the nod from Azura and Aclima and, even though her face still felt like it was on fire, she forced herself to keep talking. "Well, Mammon's always been quick to make a move—like he's got something to prove. And Satan's not exactly the kind to roll over without a fight."

It was Bee who puzzled her, though. Why had Beelzebub chosen to throw in with Satan against Mammon? Had the last few months finally shattered that idealistic little family vision she'd been holding onto? Belphegor didn't want to admit it, but if Bee's hope had finally died, it was... well, kind of tragic. As naive as Bee could be, she'd never been one of the bad ones. Certainly less of a screw-up than the rest of them.

'Maybe I should send her those drugs she always wanted,' Belphegor thought. 'God knows I'm not going to use them anytime soon.'

But an alliance with Satan? Was Mammon any worse than Satan? In Belphegor's eyes, they were the same brand of rotten, just wrapped in different packaging. Lucifer might've been the Sin of Pride, but Mammon and Satan were both as ambitious and vain as they came, just in different flavors.

If Mammon hadn't pulled his stunt, Bel would bet that Satan or Leviathan would've the moment they were back to full strength.

She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the thought. A thousand years, and they were still playing the same stupid games. Leviathan with his self-importance, Satan with his hair-trigger temper, and Mammon clutching at every scrap of power he could find. "But you don't sound all that surprised, Se—b-brother."

Don't stutter… Bel closed her eyes in embarrassment as her ears drooped.

Seth's grin widened as he threw her a self-pleased look over his shoulder and took a slow sip of his drink. "Not really. He's not hard to figure out. The second he asked for a piece of that Rahab heart, I knew what the fat clown was aiming for."

Aclima's eyebrows went up, and she looked between them, a hand settling on her cheek. "You say that like this is all... normal?"

"Yeah," Azura added, scratching the back of her head. "I expected Hell to be, I don't know... chaotic. But, I thought... they would be a bit more... since they go way back."

Did she think the Sins and fallen to be friends? The younger sister was surprisingly naive and earnest, it seemed. How adorable.

Every single person down here had their own agenda, Belphegor included. People are only your friends if they're useful.

"It's Hell," Belphegor said flatly, with a familiar tired edge to her voice. "People don't change just because the scenery does." This place might be a whole new Hell, but the same old Sins were still running the show. It was only a matter of time before this place fell into the same pattern as the old one.

"Give it a couple of days. It'll calm down for at least a bit afterwards," Seth said with a shrug. "The fat clown's winning—slow, but sure."

Aclima's brows furrowed, and she bit her lip—she really was Cain's twin. The resemblance was almost uncanny—and she crossed her arms. "He better not think about coming here next." Her voice held a sharp note of concern, and for a second, Belphegor felt... touched. Aclima was worried. That was kind of sweet. "Seth, if he did..."

"He won't," Belphegor reassured quickly. If that woman could have Bel working her ass off without ever meeting her, she'd definitely cause Seth to slaughter Mammon just to ease her mind. As deserving of a death as he would be, it will only invite more problems. What a fearsome power genuinely nice people possessed.

Mammon also had to know this place was off-limits if he didn't want Seth—or worse, the First Man himself—on his back. "Mammon may be a clown, but he's the furthest thing from a fool. He won't push any further. Even if he will win eventually, he's already lost in all that matters."

"He's not winning fast enough," Azura said suddenly, snapping her fingers as something clicked.

Belphegor nodded in agreement, sharing a knowing glance with Seth. Mammon might be gaining ground, but he was up against two Sins who, even still injured from Adam's beating, weren't backing down. Unlike Lucifer—there it was, the same nagging feeling once again—who'd crushed every opponent without breaking a sweat, forcing even Satan and Leviathan to kneel, Mammon's so-called victory was hard-fought, and everyone in Zarimora could see the struggle. He'd win the battle, but the war? That was a different story.

Sitting on a shaky throne would be suicide if one couldn't crush all opposition. The only one who could would be...

No, it was far too early.

That girl was still too naive.

Charlie Morningstar was simply not fit to rule Hell.

And now this was a different Hell altogether. Whatever claim she might have pressed was nonexistent.

Whether he knew it or not, the King of Zarimora was Adam.

"All this talk about war and plotting is disheartening," Aclima said with a sigh before she slowly clasped her hands together. "Our reunion here is for a joyous occasion, so why don't we focus on what's important? Like how to welcome Cain when he returns, isn't that right, Miss Belphegor?"

"Ah, no need for the 'Miss' part," the Sin of Sloth said, waving a hand hesitantly.

The younger sister, whom Bel had an easier time talking to, quickly nodded in agreement. "That's right, sis! We're all sisters here! We must show that when Cain returns from his journey."

Right. Journey, Belphegor thought, holding back a sigh at the mention of the fool who ditched just hours before his siblings could arrive. Leaving behind a message that made her really afraid.

'I am going on a short journey! ＼(＾▽＾)/ Lol, keep my brother and sisters entertained! Don't worry, they like you! Be back sooooon ( ＾▽＾ ) Don't wait up! teehee~ P.S. Throw away all the drugs in the garbage! Being a Sin is to reason to slack off! P.S.S The idiot formerly known as Lucifer and the self-sabotaging Lilith are no longer a problem (≧∇≦)/. '

my ass! Belphegor gritted her teeth. What kind of moron leaves a letter like that. She almost thought it a fake had it not been in his handwriting, carrying his scent, and written with his power.

That idiot better not have run away, because if he did!... Belphegor would continue playing host until he was ready to meet them. But she'd huff and puff and complain! In her mind. Where no one could hear her.

Though the last part was a bit of a reassurance even if she didn't know how he knew. At least, the wine and fruits Cain had left next to the letter were pretty damn good.

Even if they gave her a bit of much-needed nostalgia...

"You always told me he was a green thumb. Maybe do something with that?" her brother-in-law (was it in-law?) suggested, cutting her out of her musings.

Aclima's serene smile brightened as she turned to Bel. "Then perhaps it would be best if we prepare a little something for him in the garden. It would feel right, wouldn't it, sis? If you don't mind, of course."

Belphegor bristled at Aclima's use of "sis before she gave a short nod. The oldest daughter of the First Man had a way of reminding her of Cain—his calm demeanor, his steadiness—while still carrying that unexpected warmth.

Or maybe, Belphegor simply didn't know how to deal with people who didn't try and backstab her. Aside from her husband, but there have a lot of stabbing in their earlier days.

"Y-yeah," Belphegor stammered, fidgeting with her hands. "Cain always loved nature." He's the reason she even planted all those forests and gardens in the old Sloth Ring. "It's… it's part of him, I guess. But maybe we should keep it small. Cain is… shy. I think something grand would be too much for him… I think."

"Of course," Aclima nodded in agreement. "It will be something small but heartfelt. Something to remind him that he'll always be a part of our home, as would you from now on." She finished with a small laugh.

Belphegor felt a swell of affection at Aclima's words, as well as the urge to hide behind her own hair. She wanted her husband's family to like her, to feel worthy of being Cain's wife.

After all the shite she gave Bee for wanting a family, it was kinda pathetic that Bel wanted this to work out.

"Ah, yeah. That sounds lovely," she said with a small smile. She wanted this gathering to be perfect, wanted Cain to feel the love of his family, and maybe—just maybe—she could feel like she truly belonged, too.

"Peaceful, too," Seth interjected, a snort escaping his lips. "Like making sure Azura doesn't punch him."

" Me? Punch him? Please, I'm the picture of affection and love," Azura raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. ".Don't try and paint me as a brute, asshole."

"It's the way you express that affection and love that I'm worried about." Seth threw his wife a shit-eating grin. "I'm just saying, let's keep the violence to a minimum. We're trying to welcome him, not scare him off."

Belphegor couldn't help but smile at their banter, her initial nerves easing slightly. "Yes, let's keep it peaceful. Maybe some Eastern lilies and daffodils, too. Cain always loved the way they smelled… it might help him feel more at ease."

Aclima gave her a soft, reassuring smile. "Shall we go to the garden, sis?" She stepped forward, gently placing her hands on Belphegor's shoulders. She spared her siblings a look.

"Azura, could I leave the clean-up and preparations to you two?" She said, receiving a nod and smile in return. "And Seth—please prepare the table. There are limits to guest's rights."

Seth just rolled his eyes before he gave a mock salute and a bow, his grin returning with a hint of its usual mischief.

"Of course, Ma'am!" he said. "I'll even make sure the knives are facing the right way."

"I'll hold you to that," Aclima replied with fond exasperation. "Shall we?" she asked Bel, who simply nodded.

But just as they turned, she noticed Aclima sparing a quick, meaningful glance at Seth and Azura.

Belphegor doubted the look she gave him was about preparing tables.

Nonetheless, she let the younger woman guide her to the garden.
As Aclima led Belphegor toward the garden, her voice softened, lost amid the gentle sway of the leaves. Seth watched them go, a slight furrow in his brow.
Once they were out of earshot, he turned to Azura, hands on his hips. "So," he began, the teasing glint still in his eyes, "you ready to show that 'affection and love' of yours in a way that doesn't involve a brawl?"

Azura rolled her eyes, crossing her arms with an amused smirk. "Oh, don't pretend like you aren't hoping I'll have a chance to knock some sense into him eventually." She chuckled, gesturing to the table that waited for them. "But fine, peace and flowers it is… for now."

'After a ton of snot and waterworks, I'm sure, you damn softie,' he thought, though he kept that part to himself. He simply looked at her and smiled.

He tried not to feel disappointed when his wife's smirk faded into a worried frown as Aclima and Bel were finally out of earshot.

That obvious, huh.
"What is it?" she asked softly, her hand gently cupping his cheek.

He sighed, his larger hand covering hers. "I am afraid," he admitted, his own heartbeat loud in his ears, a chill spreading through his veins.

"Of…" Azura hesitated, wetting her lips. "Of what we felt earlier?"

"I don't know," Seth replied after a moment, though it was a half-truth. His instincts had been on edge since the encounter, but this feeling clawing at him was something different. It wasn't fear—fear was an old companion. This was something else entirely, something he'd only felt once before.
How could he explain it? It wasn't terror, but its opposite—the lack of dread unsettled and terrified him. It was the strange elation pulsing in his blood.

An eerie euphoria that hinted his mother was near.

It was the same feeling he'd had nine thousand years ago, waiting for her, facing her, realizing that the creature before him wasn't some monster wearing her skin, but his own mother, alive and acting of her own will.

That thing was his mother, Eve.

No matter how much his father denied it, no matter how many times he tried to convince him otherwise—she was herself, and nothing could change that.

That unreasonable happiness in his blood even as they tore each other apart, and not once did she curse him or did he feel any hatred from her, even as the seal snapped her into Hell, and the last breathe of life left his cold lips.

Looking back, it had probably broken Cain's heart to see him lunge at her like a mad dog after all the effort he'd poured into keeping Seth alive.

He unconsciously touched the old scar that ran from his shoulder to his hip, a brutal reminder of when his mother had torn him in two as he plunged his broken sword into her chest. The ache flared as if the memory itself had come alive, gnawing at him from the inside.

Azura cupped his face with both hands, her thumbs gently caressing his cheeks. "It's going to be okay. Whatever happens, we'll handle it, like always. And now we have Cain and Father with us, even if they might need a little sense knocked into them." Her smile turned smug as she squished his cheeks together, feigning innocence. "But if things really go south… well, you can always hide behind me like you used to."

Seth stared at her for a beat, eyes wide, before a snort escaped him—a sound that quickly grew into hearty laughter. "Oh, the mighty Azura, defender of the weak! What would I ever do without my super-duper cool big sis?" he cried out dramatically, leaning forward and burying his head into her chest before sweeping her up and twirling her around, grinning ear to ear.

Azura's laughter rang out. "Stop it, you idiot!" she managed between giggles, swatting at his shoulder as he spun her, her feet kicking helplessly in the air.

Finally, he set her down on the edge of the table, gently lowering her to lie back as he loomed over her flushed smile, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You're lucky we're not at home, or—"

Azura shot him an unimpressed look, though the hint of a smirk played at her lips. "Is that all you think about?"

He shrugged, grinning unabashedly. "It's all I can think about with you."

She huffed, rolling her eyes as she poked his chest. "Hopeless." Her smirk softened, though, as she took his hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze.

Seth's gaze drifted briefly toward the direction where Aclima and Belphegor had walked off. He raised a brow, his grin turning thoughtful. "So… what do you think of her?"

"Belphegor?" Azura leaned back on her elbows, her expression contemplative. "She's… different than I expected."

Seth tilted his head, prompting Azura to elaborate.

Azura's gaze drifted, thoughtful. "She's… not as messed up as I expected? I mean, for someone who's technically a ruler of Hell and an embodiment of Sin, she's surprisingly down-to-earth and stable. Not what you'd expect from someone with that title. But she's proven herself pretty damn reliable. I approve of her!" She nodded firmly. "She's tough. Feels like family already."

"I knew you'd like her." Seth smiled, nodding back. Anyone who'd sacrifice herself for the ones she loved couldn't be all bad. "She'll make a good wife for our brother! Not nearly as good as mine, though." With that, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Azura rolled her eyes, giving him a playful shove that made him stumble back, hands raised in mock defeat. "Oh, woe is me!" he wailed, clutching his chest theatrically.

She burst into laughter, and Seth's grin widened, clearly pleased with himself. He reached out, pulling her back up beside him. "Alright, mighty protector," he chuckled, "time to show off those table-setting skills."

"Pfft, as if you don't need me for everything," she shot back, smirking.

"You two were the ones who dismissed the servants!" he argued, indignant. "I was perfectly happy to sit on my ass and be pampered."

"All you did was sit on your ass and be pampered," she snorted. "You took that 'make yourself at home' pretty literally."

He huffed in mock offense.

She huffed louder.

Seth caught the glimmer in her smile and, for a moment, managed to convince himself that everything would be alright.

But the dull ache in his scar, and the quiet, lingering fear, still didn't go away.

---

Across all of creation, the ability to see into the depths of a soul was rare, but rarer still was the gift to heal and mend it. Only a select few were bestowed with the power to reconnect the shattered fragments of a broken soul. Among these, the Archangel Raphael was revered in Heaven for his touch, which could heal both flesh and spirit, restoring souls to wholeness with divine grace. And the other? The First Murderer of Hell.

Though his mother—and now, likely, his father—could probably do the same and more, Cain didn't count them. The former was the very embodiment of Evil, and the latter, despite Seth's reassurances and insistence, had almost certainly transcended and crossed the threshold into godhood.

Even in his wildest moments of intoxication, asleep, or even drugged out of his mind—courtesy of Belphegor in their wilder days—Cain could tell a bare soul from a vessel. Now, there was no question in his mind as he sprinted forward, led by the route burned into his memory and the golden chain pulsing on his chest.

Cain was dead. Most likely.

Though his body was nearly identical to his old flesh and bone, it was unmistakably only a shell—his soul, bound and bare.

His knees bent as he launched himself over the cliff, bare feet crashing against jagged rocks, which softened the instant they touched him, as though cotton. His descent ended in a raging lake of acid, and he pushed through the viscous liquid. It did not burn his skin, nor did it tear his clothes; instead, he felt it grab hold of him before the lake merely spat him out into the air toward the other side.

After ten thousand years of wandering, the First Son of Man was a soul adrift, separated from its body. And Cain didn't really know how to feel about that.

So, he ran.

"Again," he muttered to himself as he landed on a colossal flower, which bent gently under his weight, lowering him to the ground, and his feet bolted once more.

He glanced back at the path he'd crossed as he ran—through tilted and reversed lightning storms, behemoth beasts, jagged spears of land giving way to lakes of acid. But nothing here had even tried to harm him. It was as if every hazard was just a part of the scenery, shifting aside just for him.

He turned his attention forward. Before long, he reached the edge of this Place. As he expected, he found an immense Wall before him that stretched endlessly in both directions. Its stone seemed alive with light, radiating from within, reaching thousands of miles into the sky. This was the boundary of this world, the gate that lay between him and the next one.

Eighteen lands he ran across, and Six... Worlds? Hells? He traveled three of those as well. This was the Eighteenth Wall he'd reached.

If the pattern continued, he should find himself outside of it.

He spread his feathered and heavy violet wings—He was definitely dead—and leapt toward the Wall, flapping hard with strength that felt both alien and instinctual.

Cain had no clue how he'd died or even arrived here. One moment, he was on the brink of losing his mind at the thought of facing his sisters, cursing himself for not coming up with an excuse to avoid them, and the next, he found himself in a land of twisted shadows and thick, dark mist. Yet, strangely enough, Cain felt no fear, no discomfort, not even dread about what had happened to him. He had… accepted it. He belonged here. But he had to leave.

His speed surged and his momentum reached its peak. Cain's body tore through the thick air as he flew fast enough to outspeed lightning itself until soon enough, he alighted atop the Wall.

Cain's wings folded in close as he touched down lightly atop dusted and aged stone. Before him stood the Gate—a massive, twin-doored archway. It seemed as old as time and inscribed with faintly glowing runes. His hand reached for the thick, golden key that appeared at the end of his Soul Chain, fitting it into the lock as he'd done so many times before. With a slow turn, he felt the heavy mechanism shift, and the Gate unlocked.

The Gate opened wide, and the world around retreated upon itself in a show of All and Nothingness—a kaleidoscope of sights and shadows. Cain raised his arm protectively and waited for the glare to fade.

Weary, Cain steadied his breath, letting his eyes adjust as New Hell settled into focus around him.

He once more found himself in a scenery that he was growing familiar with already: The Heart of New Hell. Here, at the center of all things known and unknown, the Ten Worlds—which he came to understand as what had come to replace the Seven Rings—loomed like stars against a dead canvas.

Their sizes defied logic, and each massive sphere seemed alive in a way—pulsing and shifting in eerie, ghostly hues bearing the Name of the Hell it represented in Adamic tongue, shadows flitting over their surfaces as if they were breathing.

He gazed behind him.

"Efer – אֵפֶר." That was the name of the world he just left. A fitting name, he supposed.

His eyes roamed the space he was in again. Cain's senses picked up the billions of souls contained within each of the Nine Worlds that circled the center. Sensory overload wasn't something he'd ever experienced until now. 'Can't say I'm a fan.'

Yet none of that discomfort compared to the Tenth World, Tahat—the smallest and easily eeriest one at the center. It seemed barely populated, hardly a million souls by his reckoning, but unlike the others, which gleamed with light, this world drank it in. It didn't glow; it absorbed everything around it, giving off a cold unease that prickled over his skin. He'd seen it only thrice before, and it never failed to disturb him.

That was the place where he had started. Frankly, he was thankful for the chain that kept him tethered; without it, he doubted his mind would have survived that place unscathed.

Steeling himself, he looked ahead. Tens of thousands of miles away, he could make out his destination—the next Hell, Nitzachon – נִצָּחוֹן. And between him and it was a "bridge."

Calling it a bridge was almost absurd; the path stretched between him and the next world was nothing but an impossibly narrow blade, as thin as a strand of hair, seemingly delicate, barely visible against the void.

Cain hesitated for only a moment before taking his first step on the path. He set his foot down, feeling the sharp edge bite into his skin. Blood trickled down, and, unlike within the Ten Worlds, he felt the sting—sharp and real. Yet, the pain wasn't overwhelming. Physical pain was an old companion, after all, one he'd learned to ignore long ago.

His true ache lay deeper, rooted in his soul, and here, perhaps, he was meant to confront it.

Here, Cain was going to put his demons to rest.

He took another step, then another, feeling the rhythm of his body fall into place. His gait turned to a walk, slow at first, but with each step, his pace quickened. Cain moved from a careful stride to a measured jog, his feet gliding over the path without slipping.

Finally, he broke into a full run. His wings folded close to his body, he pushed forward with all he had, his speed increasing until he was racing across the impossibly thin path.

Cain's feet continued to beat against the narrow path in an urgent rhythm. No matter how he pushed himself, no matter the insane speed he reached, his steps stayed steady. It was as if something—or someone—held his footing, refusing to let him slip. He could not fall, and he wasn't allowed to stop.

He needed to hurry. He still had a wife and brother expecting him. And as much as he dreaded and was terrified of meeting them, and their more-than-likely disappointment at seeing him, Cain could not deny that a part of him wanted to see what became of his younger sisters, if only to apologize.

With those thoughts, he quickened his pace.

Then with no warning, a deafening boom tore through the air, so loud it sent a shudder through his chest. He whipped around. Behind him, the top of Tahat had erupted, the peak blasted apart in a roaring explosion. From it, a searing beam of flame burst forth like a comet tearing through the sky, so fierce he almost stumbled before the thin path snapped towards his limbs and held him.

"What the..!" The wave of energy that followed struck him like a tidal force, so overwhelming and sharp it cracked the air. This power..!?

For a split second, he thought of the Taxiarch. He'd met her once, long ago. But this wasn't her—no, this was something entirely different. It was far more Evil. The raw hatred and blinding rage rolling off that comet made him seize up in pure terror.

With a vicious roar, the comet thrashed and collided with the Second Hell, Shefelah, shattering through its realm. The impact unleashed another explosion that reverberated across it, causing fissures to ripple on the surface of the sphere.

Then, with no mercy, the comet ripped itself free and plunged into Azael, tearing through each realm in turn. Cain saw it head in his direction, crossing millions of kilometers in seconds, and he dropped to his knees, eyes closed, palms over his ears, and prayed to God that it ignored him.

The comet passed him by, paying him no attention, and a gut-wrenching sound emitted from it as it crashed through Cain's next destination and out of it.

Cain's heart thundered as he felt the aftershock of the blast tremble through his bones, almost rooting him in place. A sickening wave of malice seeped into his soul, spreading like poison even though its aim lay elsewhere.

One by one, each of the Ten Hells shook as it forced its way through, spewing flames and fury.

As it left the Tenth World, the comet flew upward and hovered.

"Answer me, Coward!"

The comet raged, and Cain felt all of Creation rage in tandem.

In that moment, Cain felt it—a raw, blistering rage that filled the comet, spilling out and sinking into everything around it. And though he didn't know why, he felt his own blood boil with it. He clenched his fists, his own voice caught in his throat, yet echoing the same defiant curse.

Together, he and that furious, blazing thing cursed God.

It was a primal fury, a wrath older than he'd thought himself capable of, one that surged through his soul as if it had always been there, waiting. For a fleeting moment, he felt bound to it—something unholy, ancient, yet somehow familiar.

And in that moment of resonance, Cain finally saw through the flames, the Demiurge that claimed its soul.

Twelve wings stretched, cracking and twisting as though they'd been wrenched into unnatural lengths, fissured with jagged lines that oozed dark red.

Four massive arms jutted from a hulking torso, each limb spiked and fractured, the flesh scorched and raw.

Six burning eyes glared outward, unblinking and vicious, and its maw gaped wide, jagged and wrong, like shattered glass forced into the shape of teeth.
It was a creature of blasphemy incarnate—a thing that should never have been, clawing at the universe.

Yet, in comparison to the █̶̣͕̮̔̂̽͂̐͛̾͊̂͌̑█̴̨͉͙̰͙͕͎̻̠̹̂̍͂͆̈́̊̋̄͜͝ ̷̨̝̯̱̼̟̟̜͈̲̩͇͛͛̾̒͘ͅ█̸̧̳̳̭͕͍̗̘͍̗͓̹̪̙̓̓̈́̌͐̿̿͛̏͑̋̊͘͘ ̵̛͇͎̗̖̼̜̙̭̯̹͆̀̆͐́̃̕͝█̷̢̲̲͉̯̑͆̎̌̇̈́͊̄̊̒̕̕͜͝ ̵̯̺̩̲͔͈̥̲͙̭͔͋̊̏̋̚█̸̢͙͉̭̹̤̃̚█̴̫̀█̷͙͈̹̹̠̑̌̎ ̸̛͔̙̋̈́͛͘█̷͍̞̲͉͉̼͚͋͌͗̆͛̏͝͠ that was next to it, the Demiurge's appearance almost seemed beautiful.

Just as Cain's soul was anchored to the Demiurge, the Demiurge's existence was anchored to █̶̣͕̮̔̂̽͂̐͛̾͊̂͌̑█̴̨͉͙̰͙͕͎̻̠̹̂̍͂͆̈́̊̋̄͜͝ ̷̨̝̯̱̼̟̟̜͈̲̩͇͛͛̾̒͘ͅ█̸̧̳̳̭͕͍̗̘͍̗͓̹̪̙̓̓̈́̌͐̿̿͛̏͑̋̊͘͘ ̵̛͇͎̗̖̼̜̙̭̯̹͆̀̆͐́̃̕͝█̷̢̲̲͉̯̑͆̎̌̇̈́͊̄̊̒̕̕͜͝ ̵̯̺̩̲͔͈̥̲͙̭͔͋̊̏̋̚█̸̢͙͉̭̹̤̃̚█̴̫̀█̷͙͈̹̹̠̑̌̎ ̸̛͔̙̋̈́͛͘█̷͍̞̲͉͉̼͚͋͌͗̆͛̏͝͠

Cain's gaze locked onto it—the █̶̣͕̮̔̂̽͂̐͛̾͊̂͌̑█̴̨͉͙̰͙͕͎̻̠̹̂̍͂͆̈́̊̋̄͜͝ ̷̨̝̯̱̼̟̟̜͈̲̩͇͛͛̾̒͘ͅ█̸̧̳̳̭͕͍̗̘͍̗͓̹̪̙̓̓̈́̌͐̿̿͛̏͑̋̊͘͘ ̵̛͇͎̗̖̼̜̙̭̯̹͆̀̆͐́̃̕͝█̷̢̲̲͉̯̑͆̎̌̇̈́͊̄̊̒̕̕͜͝ ̵̯̺̩̲͔͈̥̲͙̭͔͋̊̏̋̚█̸̢͙͉̭̹̤̃̚█̴̫̀█̷͙͈̹̹̠̑̌̎ ̸̛͔̙̋̈́͛͘█̷͍̞̲͉͉̼͚͋͌͗̆͛̏͝͠ next to the Demiurge.

It shouldn't have been here, couldn't have been, yet it crawled, colors like tearing flesh, limbs bending, then snapping back into themselves. He thought he saw eyes, but they melted, reformed, and blinked into something else. He tried—he tried to understand, but his mind splintered with each second.

Shapes—no, not shapes. His mind slipped, words broke. It twisted. No sense. Cain's name echoed in jagged fragments, CainCainCainCain—

The more he looked, the more he felt himself dissolve, slipping apart, slippingslipping, falling into the empty spaces in his own head, losing—

At the edge of madness, something pulled him back.

Calm.

Under the Almighty's Will, Cain's soul obeyed.

---

With a presence too vast for the eye to behold, He descended.

The veil of madness was torn asunder.

Time and Space crawled to a halt.

The Lord did not speak, for no words could ever be worthy of His Will.

Brilliant golden eyes, marked by eight intersecting lines of blue, gazed upon the decaying corpse of All Creation.

All Creation struggled to fashion itself a vessel and dragged its shattered remnants before Him.

Where it had once cursed, it now cowered.

Yet the Lord, as vengeful as He was merciful, did not punish.

For All Creation, in its feeble attempt at rebellion, was no more than a scorned child—

Hurt, afraid, lashing out at its Creator for denying it vengeance and perfection.

"Begone"

And All Creation obeyed.

Seething, hating and plotting.

The One True King offered it no reassurance, no recognition, no certitudes.

For the One True King was above such things.

And the rage, the hatred, the blasphemy of All Creation was necessary for the mending of All Creation.

For the last two catalysts had been willed.

For the last Archangel neared its ascension in the Light of the Lord.

For the echoes of a lost Son had been born anew from the depths and darknes of His Shade..

Formed on the same day, over two hundred years ago.

From the ashes and destruction of itself, All Creation would rise again.

The Eyes of the Lord turned to His Image.
His Image—His Son—His Forefather—continued in wrath, in grief, in defiance.

The flame of His soul burned, yet He was but a shadow of the One who bore him.

The Son's voice echoed, demanding explanations, seeking reasons,

Yearning for a thread, a sign, though his Father stood within arm's reach, yet unseen.

For rage and pain clouded the First Man's vision.

His cries echoed into the vastness, lost in the chasm of His Father's Wisdom.

The Lord remained silent, for silence was His answer.

He did not turn away; He simply gazed.

And in that gaze, the storm within the Son Most Like Him began to still.

Not through force, but through the weight of Divine Understanding of the Second Adam.

The First Adam's breath slowed.

The fire in his breast flickered, dimming before the Eternal Light.

In the presence of his Father, all things—rage, grief, defiance—were but fleeting shadows.

The Eyes of the True King saw the destiny of His Son Most Like Him.

The Seed of the Fruit was yet to be planted, its soil now prepared from the dust of rebellion.

And so, the Lord Willed.

The Adam returned to his senses, rising swiftly to fulfill his purpose, casting aside the chains of All Creation,

Unaware of the Lord's presence, blinded by thoughts of his wife and family.

The One True King then turned His gaze to the child closest to Redemption,

For he had been worthy long ago; it was All Creation that was not.

The First Son of Adam and Eve came to his senses once more.

He raised his head and beheld the Second Adam.

And he bowed his head.

The Lord's avatar lifted an arm, pointing along the path.

Recognition fell upon the child—

A thousand apologies, a thousand reverences, a thousand praises, all uttered in a single breath.

And then, Cain ran, driven by love for his wife and family.

'Like Father, like Son.'

Yeshua smiled.

'Soon.'

He Willed Again.

---

The abrupt end of the water's hum jolted her, and it said much about her nerves that the silence alone nearly gave her a start. She steeled herself just in time as the bathroom door opened, releasing a wave of warm steam into the room.

"Ah, that felt good." Adam's voice was rich with relief as he stepped out, his damp, two-toned hair—blonde streaked with dark brown—sticking to his forehead. The blood had been washed from his skin, though the angry red of healing wounds remained, etched raw across his frame. His eyes, one blue and the other golden, gleamed with a familiar spark she could barely recognize but remembered well from Eden. Against her better judgment, the sight of it made her feel, however briefly, just a bit safer.

He walked with steady steps now, unhurried as he moved across the room. He stopped before the closet, throwing it open with casual confidence, sifting through its contents. "Ah! There they are." He smiled, pulling out a white tunic and matching pants, patterned with intricate decoration. "I knew I'd find them here."

He hadn't glanced her way, not once. She stayed rooted to the spot, unsure of what to think, or even feel. She watched as he let the covers drop from his body, her breath catching at the sight of the fresh wounds. Across his back, two brutal, parallel scars stretched from his shoulder blades down to his lower back, and a patch of raw, newly replaced skin marked his side just below his ribs. He seemed entirely unaffected, moving with ease as he dressed, securing his tunic with a blue sash and smoothing it down with a faint, satisfied smirk.

Finally, his voice broke the stillness. "You're not afraid anymore," he remarked. It was more to himself than to her, an idle observation devoid of question.

She swallowed, her chest tight. Every instinct urged her to stay silent, to wait. But the way he said it rubbed her the wrong way. She couldn't tell if he sounded pitying or disdainful, or something else altogether.

She wasn't sure if it was pity or disdain. But neither felt right. Perhaps, it was something in between.

"I should be," she said. Her jaw tightened, but she couldn't lie. "But I'm not."

He seemed to consider this, stepping closer. It wasn't the menacing approach she expected; instead, he looked down at her. His gaze was barely readable, almost curious.

"Good, I suppose," he muttered, ruffling his hair as if lost in thought. "It matters little in the end. And yet…"

The words trailed off into the quiet between them. She didn't know what he intended to say, but his tone hung in the air. Without another word, he moved away, turning his back to her as he walked to the table and looked out the window. Lowering himself into the chair, he stared outside, unceremoniously seated and silent once more.

She waited, tense and expectant. A not insignificant and more basic part of her begged her to remain still, quiet, to do nothing but anticipate his command. Whatever remained of her pride balked at the notion, but she knew they would be commands, nothing more.

"...Why are—" she began, unable to resist, but her words died in her throat as he raised a hand, palm up, still facing the window. She fell silent, watching him, her curiosity and wariness colliding.

A few moments later, a familiar chime echoed from outside, delicate and musical, like the toll of distant bells. Soft light flickered beyond the glass, illuminating his face from an angle, casting gentle warmth over his features.

Her curiosity was somehow sated as she felt the traces of a portal open outside of Charlie's Happy Hotel, and the loud squeal of her daughter confirmed it.

The first soul has left that place, she thought, her gaze fixed on him. Adam didn't move, didn't acknowledge her or even the light. The only reaction was a brief widening of his eyes, followed by a faint, almost wistful smile hidden behind his hand.

With the sunlight brushing over him, illuminating his features in a warm, gentle glow, he looked so strangely boyish—almost vulnerable. For the first time in what felt like eons, Lilith couldn't help but notice just how beautiful he was.

A quiet snort escaped her, bitter and soft. He'd always been beautiful, after all. They all had—Adam, herself, and even Eve. They were the first, crafted with an impossible beauty.

The thought surfaced unbidden. Memories of Eden stirred in the back of her mind, softened by time. It felt strange, recalling that place with a fondness she'd never felt while within it. Nostalgia? Or had she simply been too blind back then to appreciate it? She didn't know. Did it matter?

No... she supposed it mattered little now.

Adam's eyes remained fixed on the distance as he stared out into the open world beyond them. The tiny, almost unnoticeable smile had vanished, leaving behind... something else—a way too familiar something else that always seemed to stare back at her in the mirror.

After a moment, he finally spoke. "Do you remember it?" His eyes didn't leave the window. "Eden."

She blinked, taken aback. Eden? She hadn't expected him to bring it up, especially not now, after everything. But then again... there wasn't going to be another time, would there?

Closure... is that what you came to seek, Adam?

"Yes," she replied softly. "The memories feel delicate, like fragile glass, but I remember it."

He didn't respond immediately, his fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the table. Lilith felt like an intruder to his thoughts, an outsider in a moment that she somehow shared but couldn't understand.

"What do you remember?" he asked finally, the question coming out almost absently, as though he were talking to himself as much as to her.

She hesitated, not sure how to answer. What did she remember? Eden had been... more than a garden, more than a paradise. It was her birthplace and her prison all at once.

"I remember the light," she said softly, finally letting herself think back. "The way it filled everything. It was... different. Not like here." She bit her lip, the words feeling almost painful to speak, as if dredging them up could somehow hurt her again. "And I remember the silence. The way things seemed... still. Like they were always waiting for something. For us. It was perfect, and I had been happy."

"Until you weren't," he said.

She nodded. "Until I wasn't."

He turned then, just slightly, enough for her to see his expression. There was a faint shadow in his eyes of what looked like understanding. But he didn't speak.

Lilith continued, almost despite herself, as if she couldn't stop now that the memories had been loosened. "And... I remember feeling like I could never belong. Like I was something wrong, something... misplaced. No matter how hard I tried." She looked down, bitterness creeping into her tone. "I suppose that was the truth, in the end."

He didn't argue, didn't reassure her.

"Say, Adam..." she began, a question that plagued her whole existence. "You and I..."

"...Hn?"

Her breath hitched for a moment before she steeled it. This was her last chance.

"..Are we truly equal?"

For a moment, Adam simply stared, as if he hadn't quite heard her. But then his gaze sharpened, and she knew he had. She felt her heart pound, aware of the intensity in his eyes as they studied her. There was no hint of a smile, no hint of that detached curiosity he often carried. He was listening, fully.

"Equal?" he repeated, his voice low, measured. "That is your question?" He sounded almost... amused, but in a way that felt razor-sharp. Gone was the boyish charm of moments ago. This was the First Man that terrified her mere minutes ago as he stood covered in blood.

Yet, strangely, Lilith felt the last traces of her fear disappear.

She nodded. "It's what I've wanted all along. To be seen as... something other than a shadow, or a lesser." She swallowed. "So answer me, Adam. Are we?"

"No," he said, without hesitation. "We are not equal. The difference between you and I is as vast as that between Tahat and Araboth."

The bluntness of his answer landed like a hammer, and she braced herself for the sting of it. But instead, hearing it laid out so plainly, she felt the weight of it lift, freeing her from a question that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. What she felt was an unexpected lightness—a strange sense of relief.

Sadly for her, life never let her have the last laugh.

Adam spoke again. "But we used to be."

"Used to be," she echoed, almost to herself, her voice low and unsteady as the words twisted in her mind. Used to be. Like something discarded without a second thought, something left behind without care.

She had been discarded without a second thought.

"So, that's it?" Her voice rose. "We used to be equals, and then… what? You all just changed your mind one day? Decided I wasn't enough?"

Her hands curled into fists, nails biting into her palms until she felt the sting of blood. The frustration that had always simmered beneath her surface—the inadequacy, the unfairness—rose. She remembered the endless praise showered upon him in Eden, the reverence of the angels, their constant adoration.

Meanwhile, Lilith had been left chasing after scraps, clawing her way through argument after argument until she started avoiding him, enduring chastisement after chastisement until the sight of any angel other than Lucifer made her sick. Demeaning tasks piled on even more demeaning tasks, as if designed to remind her of what she wasn't, and that the so-called Almighty had a sick sense of humor at her expense.

"Equal?!" she spat with venom. Her feet carried her to stand over him, glaring, her eyes stinging. "Then why wasn't I ever treated like one?! Why did it feel like some twisted joke where I was always the punchline?!"

Adam's jaw tightened, a flicker of annoyance breaking through his composure. For a moment, his face lost its calm, revealing an edge she'd seen reflected hundreds of times on a dark, holographic mask—in case she forgot who she was talking to.

"You harp on about this as if it's something I took from you, Lilith," he said, his voice steely. "But you did that yourself."

"I am what I was created to be. As were you." His tone held a calm finality, as though this truth was as old and unchangeable as the stars. "If you believed yourself to be less, that's not because of anything I have done. Do not project your insecurities onto me." He rose to his feet, and though he was a few inches shorter, he seemed to tower over her.

Her glare didn't waver. Even as she became painfully aware of the god standing before her, of what he was capable of—what cruelty and pain he'd done to Lucifer—she didn't feel fear. Only the frustration that had haunted her existence since Eden.

"Project my insecurities?" she shot back with a sneer. "It's not insecurity when you're constantly reminded you're less. When everything I did was measured against your shadow, judged by standards I didn't ask for and could never meet!"

Adam's expression hardened. "And that is supposed to be my fault?" he asked, his voice quiet yet charged. "I was created first, not to outshine you, not to control you. No one compared you to me other than yourself! That was your choice to see it that way."

"Oh no, no, no." Lilith scoffed, clenching her fists even tighter. "No, Adam, that was your choice—to bask in the light of your 'firstborn' status while everyone else just fell into place behind you. I never wanted to be in your shadow, yet it was forced on me at every turn."

He took a step closer, his eyes cold. "And tell me, Lilith, what did you want? To be worshipped? To be praised for defying every order, every plan? You've always wanted to be something you were not."

"What I wanted," she hissed, "was to be seen—as an equal, not as some flawed afterthought! But I guess you wouldn't understand, would you?" Her voice broke, though she fought to hold it steady, eyes blazing. "You, who've never known what it's like to be cast aside."

"If you feel cast aside, Lilith, maybe you should ask yourself why. I didn't make you feel that way. I tried to reach out to you. God knows I did, but you... you liked wallowing in self-pity, didn't you? Made you feel special. Oh poor Lilith, stuck under the thumb of Adam the dictator!" Adam argued back, a sneer on his face. "I didn't make you feel that way. You did, with your endless rebellion, your constant defiance. You became your own shadow."

She let out a hollow laugh, raising her arms in mock reverence. "Of course. How convenient, Adam. I'm the one to blame for daring to want more, for not fitting into your perfect little world. Maybe the truth is you just couldn't handle someone who didn't grovel at your feet at every moment."

"And maybe the truth is you couldn't handle that being different doesn't make you better or more deserving," he said with an edge of finality. "It makes you… exactly what you are."

She felt her anger surge again, but this time it was laced with something rawer, more painful. "And that is?"

Adam's gaze bore down on her. "Lost."

The anger faded, replaced by a hollow ache that settled deep in her chest. Lost. That's all he saw her as? After everything they'd been through, all he could see was something broken and wandering.

Lilith tried to summon her rage again, to fight against the hurt clawing its way to the surface. But the fury didn't come—only memories, memories of Eden. Memories of trying so hard to fit into a place that never felt like home, of always being something other, something that didn't belong.

In that moment, she just wanted to make him as hurt as he had made her.

A bitter smile crept onto her face, and she felt the wetness of tears spill over, her voice trembling as she spoke, her words sharper than any blade.

"Worked out well for you, didn't it?" She looked at him, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Since you got rid of the lost and got yourself a better model. A 'First Woman' who was content to be your slave and broodmare."

She felt ashamed of those words as soon as her mind caught up with her mouth. The hurt on his face gave her no satisfaction.

The words were barely out of her mouth when a cold, consuming terror washed over her, pulling her back as though the very air had turned against her. She stepped back, instinctively, her heart hammering as she watched his face darken.

And then… no, not his face—the world around him darkened, twisting as though swallowed by a shadow too deep for light to touch.

The room splintered in her mind's eye, each heartbeat sending jagged cracks through reality. Dark shapes—wrong, twisted things she couldn't name—unfurled around him, reaching, alive and seeing, feeding on her fear.

A low, hollow sound pulsed in her ears, cold and ancient, indifferent. His face shifted, fractured in impossible angles, ancient and eldritch eyes upon eyes flickering, each one searing through her.

Slave. The word echoed, hollow and mocking, burrowing into her bones. Broodmare. It shattered, lost in the suffocating dark.

Silence.

Her voice was gone, her throat dry. She stared, alone, more alone than she'd ever been.

A single, shuddering breath, and suddenly she was back in the room, as if nothing had happened. Her legs buckled, and she sank to the floor, barely able to process the reality around her.

"…For... For both our sakes," Adam's strained voice broke the stillness, shaking like she'd never heard before. She forced herself to look up, and there he was—standing, his face tilted downward, one hand covering his eyes. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping silently onto the floor.

"I'll pretend those words were never uttered," he whispered, barely holding his composure.
He sank back into the chair, almost collapsing, and the only sound filling the room was the ragged, uneven breathing of both of them. Neither dared to speak, merely aching from wounds they'd torn open, seen and unseen.

"For what it's worth... I'm sorry," Lilith said quietly, her hand falling limp at her side as her gaze dropped to the floor. She wasn't sure if the apology was meant for him, for herself, or for both of them. It felt like the right thing to say, even if it couldn't undo anything.

"We never thought… it would end like that. It doesn't change it, but..." Lilith's voice wavered again, and she hesitated before finishing, "Eve didn't deserve it. You didn't deserve it."

Over an unfounded fear of death, of all things, she cursed herself inwardly. Of course God knew about what we did. Why else would He have made Eve?

It was an uncomfortable truth, one she hadn't fully comprehended until centuries later. Her mind wandered to Lucifer, and a tight knot formed in her chest. She had never told him, never found the strength to admit what had really happened.

The lie she'd held onto for so long—a desperate attempt to protect him, to shield him from yet another truth that could break him.

But deep down, she knew it was more than just that. She was afraid... Afraid that if Lucifer knew, the one last person who truly cared for her would grow to hate her.

"I never meant to hurt you…" Lilith murmured, her eyes turning away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. "I tried to be better, tried to be more than just... But in the end, I was always the one who fell short. I was always the one who was... less."

Adam snorted, his voice thick with something that wasn't quite mockery. "Even now, you still think you're so special."

Lilith felt a flicker of anger rise, but it quickly faded. It wasn't an insult, she realized. No, his tone was all wrong. It almost sounded... like a confession. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. "What are you...?"

He looked at her with a chagrined expression, almost annoyed that he had to spell it out. "I'm saying that, out of the two of us... you weren't the only one who saw the other as less of an equal... and more as a... rival of sorts."

For a moment, Lilith was speechless, trying to make sense of his confession. "A rival?" she echoed. Had that been how he'd seen her? How she had seen him?

"Yeah," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, but quickly stopping when he remembered the blood that stained it. "For all the 'equal' talk, for all the effort I made to make it work... I was beyond happy when you came to be, but there was always a part of me that saw you as something to be outdone."

Lilith didn't know whether to feel betrayed or understood as she watched him wipe the blood on the curtains. "What are you saying?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. Outdone in what? From the very beginning, there hadn't been a single thing where she had even been able to rival him. Everything had come to him naturally. Unless...

Her shoulders slumped.

"Oh…"

Adam seemed to catch the shift in her thoughts. "None of it was as easy as it looked," he said with a nod. "I was... showing off. At first, it was easy, since I was older, more used to it, but then you started catching up. You started learning faster than I did, and sometimes... better than me. That's when I started showing off."

"For the Angels?" she asked, because who else would care about that?

"Well, seeing them toot my horn was pretty nice, I admit… but, no." He looked at her with half-lidded eyes. "I wanted you to think I was cool."

"You… wanted me to think you were cool?"

He grumbled, "The conversation will get a lot more tiresome if you're just going to repeat my words."

"Sorry, it's just—pfft."

"Oh, piss off," he said, sounding genuinely annoyed as he tossed the handkerchief at her face, which only made her giggle harder.

She could hardly believe it. All those moments, all those silent battles she'd waged against herself, feeling inferior, feeling overshadowed—had he been trying to impress her?

"That was…" she trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Sad?" he suggested.

"Lovely… but unexpected."

Adam shrugged, wiping more blood on the curtains. He looked back at her, his face flushed just slightly. "Yeah. I mean, I knew you were trying to keep up with me, but… I wanted to keep up with you, too. You came into this place like you belonged—strong, stubborn, determined. And I…" He huffed. "I didn't want you to see me as... ordinary."
She looked at him, at the man she had spent so much of her life feeling frustrated by, and suddenly, something cracked within her—not anger, not resentment, but something more vulnerable.

"Adam," she said with a soft smile, "I never saw you as ordinary."

Adam looked back at her, a small, almost self-conscious smile tugging at his lips. "You're a shit liar."

Lilith shook her head, still smiling. "No, I mean it. For all my frustrations, for all the times I wanted to tear my hair out because of you—I never saw you as ordinary. I think that was the problem." She gave a soft laugh. "You were always larger than life to me. Even when I didn't want to admit it."

Adam didn't answer right away. Instead, he let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it lacked any real humor. "That's hindsight for you."

He continued after a second, stretching in his seat. "To be fair, we were supposed to guide the billions that came afterward. The Lord had to make sure we were ready for when things weren't as lovely," Adam said, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "And hey, we had an eternity to figure it out. Somewhere along the line, you'd think maybe one of us would actually ask for help—or, I don't know, talk to each other about it. And maybe I'd have finally gotten off my high horse and paid attention."

Lilith gave a short laugh, shaking her head. "That would've required us to admit we needed each other. And I don't think either of us was ever ready to give that much ground."

He shrugged, conceding. "Not at first." He paused, as though weighing his own words. "But after a few thousand more arguments? I'd like to think I would have. Even with every angel telling me I did nothing wrong, the thought of spending eternity without you made me... sick."

Lilith's breath hitched. She looked away, staring somewhere past him. "I never thought... Adam, you never—"

"I know," he interrupted gently, as if understanding the words she couldn't say. "I can self-reflect, too, y'know."

"I suppose I forget that some wisdom does come with age." Lilith sighed with a small smile.

"Of course then you fucked it up by listening to that short clown. Which was definitely your fault." He said bluntly.

"Oh, please," Lilith crossed her arms as the smile fell from her lips. "At least Samael actually listened to me, Adam," she gritted out. "Not just paid attention, but understood what it felt like to be dismissed, sidelined, treated as 'not good enough.'"

Adam raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Listened to you? Lilith, he egged you on. Don't act like it was some grand sympathy. He did tricks on your misguided pride until you two dipshits fucked yourselves, and the rest of us, over."

"Oh, because the choir of angels praising you wasn't feeding yours? Samael wasn't exactly throwing confetti every time I had a thought, unlike your angelic fan club." She shot back, the annoyance flaring in her tone. "Just admit it—you liked hearing you were the only one that mattered."

"Maybe because I actually took their advice into consideration." Adam scoffed. "As opposed to you two having your little self-pity parties? You and Samael, fueling each other's resentment like it was some twisted bond. Face it—you didn't want advice. You wanted someone to tell you what you wanted to hear."

Lilith let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, please. You actually think it was advice you were getting from them? They worshipped you, Adam. They weren't about to tell you anything that would challenge that nice little pedestal you were on."

"And Samael wasn't challenging you either, was he?" Adam shot back. "He fed you the lines you wanted so you could keep feeling righteous. Like somehow it was all my fault. Like you were the martyr in all this."

"Maybe I was," she hissed, the frustration in her voice finally breaking through. "Or did it ever cross your mind that I didn't just want to sit there and watch while everyone around me told me to be grateful and... fucking 'humble myself'?!"

Adam shook his head, the frustration now clear in his own voice. "And I suppose Samael was the solution, huh? He gave you what you wanted to hear, made you feel justified—until you landed on his dick." He growled, looking her in the eye. "The only one keeping you 'lesser' was you, Lilith. And it always has been."

"Fuck you," she cursed.

"Bitch, you wish." He replied, his tone sharp.

Lilith's mouth fell open, stunned at his crude response. For a moment, she was speechless. Then she let out an incredulous laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, wow. So, that's where you're going with this? Real mature, Adam."

He crossed his arms, unfazed. "Mature? You're the one yelling at me for not being some emotional crutch you could lean on whenever you felt misunderstood. And blaming me for every time you fuck yourself over."

"Oh, don't pretend this is all on me," she snapped back, the strength of her voice rising. "You stood there, letting everyone else push me aside, telling me to be 'grateful' and 'humble'—like I was just supposed to play along with that! I was miserable!"

"I know!" He said back, his voice cracking slightly with frustration.
"Then why did you—"

"Because I'm not a damn mind reader," he snapped, cutting her off. "I knew you were miserable, because seeing you like that made me miserable. But no matter how many times I asked, you kept giving me a shoulder that kept getting colder and colder."

Lilith stared at him, her breath growing heavier. "And what was I supposed to do? What the hell was I supposed to say, Adam? Every time I tried to talk, you shut me down or just—" She broke off, biting her lip.

"Because you were scaring me." Adam's voice was low, tight with frustration. "For fuck's sake, Lilith, you were questioning and arguing against God's orders! You kept insulting me. You called me a slave, a pet to the angels... and you called Eden a cage."

"It was a cage. To me, it was a cage." She shot back, her voice hoarse. "I didn't know how to get through to you either. I was drowning, and you just stood there, waiting for me to throw you a lifeline."

Adam's expression softened, just a little. "I wasn't waiting for a lifeline, Lilith. I was asking you to let me help. But you kept pushing me away. We were both drowning, but you wouldn't let me in."

"I didn't push you away because I didn't want you in," Lilith lowered her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I pushed you away because every time I tried, you turned it around, made it my problem, my fault."

Adam opened his mouth, but she cut him off, not giving him the chance to speak. "I was suffocating, Adam. In that damn garden, with all the angels whispering and you pretending everything was fine. I couldn't breathe, and you were standing there, playing the perfect son, while I just... I couldn't even reach you."

For a long moment, Adam said nothing. His gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers tightening around the bloodied handkerchief he still clutched in his hand. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, softer, like the fight had drained out of him.

"I didn't know how to help you, Lilith. All I knew was what I was told, what I was supposed to do. I didn't know how to be anything but what I thought I had to be. And I... I didn't know how to help you when you didn't even want me to try."

Lilith met his gaze then, her eyes searching his face. She spoke again, her voice small, her chest tight. "I didn't know how to help myself. How could I ask you for something when I didn't even know what I needed?"

Adam stayed quiet, the weight of her words settling between them.

The room fell into silence. Neither of them moved. Lilith stared at the ground, her breath shallow and uneven. Adam's eyes flickered around the room, avoiding hers as though there was something too heavy to bear.

Then, at the same time, almost as if it had been rehearsed in their minds for far too long, they muttered the same thing.

"I was scared."

"I was scared."

It wasn't loud, and it wasn't a grand gesture. It was quiet—almost too quiet—but it was there. A small admission that, for all their anger and pain, there was something else still lingering beneath the surface. Something they hadn't quite managed to let go of yet.

Maybe, in a way, they were equal. Equally full of self-delusion, equally damned.

Lilith let out a snort, half amusement, half regret.

A small part of her wanted to ask him why he'd never told her how he really felt, but another much larger part of her knew the answer all too well. It was the same reason she'd never told him. They'd both been too proud, too certain they had to keep their doubts hidden, even as they drove each other apart.

She spoke again, a trace of irony in her voice. "Was this what He intended back in Eden? That all it would take was talking it out?" She scoffed, the idea almost laughable.

If it were that easy, none of this would have happened. No, what had happened had been the product of years of resentment, pride, and all the little, bitter wounds they'd inflicted on each other without even realizing it. "Divine plan is as ambiguous as ever."

"Or maybe we're both just idiots," he said, with a tired shrug.

Lilith raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't say so. It only took us ten thousand years of hatred, regret, self-pity, my slow march toward death, and you—well, becoming a God. I suppose congratulations are in order."

Adam gave her an unimpressed look. "The whole world would lose its faith if they knew their supposed 'God' wiped blood on curtains."

Lilith blinked, recalling the sheer terror she'd felt minutes ago, the force of his power emanating around her, that darkness that had felt endless. She'd been sure, convinced, that he'd become something beyond mortal. "But... I felt your ascension, Adam. And Cain said you ascended to Godhood."

"Just because someone says something doesn't make it a hundred percent true. People can be..." He waved a dismissive hand. " Remarkably unreliable."

"But I felt the power back when,..." she insisted, frowning. 'Back your son tried to kill me When your son succeeded in killing me..'

"You're too damn persistent." He sighed, visibly exasperated. "I've already had this conversation with a hundred others. The person you're all convinced is God is standing here, telling you he's not God. Do you really want to see me struck down for blasphemy that badly?"

"That would be unfortunate," she said truthfully, receiving a hum in response.

Once more, a heavy silence lingered between them before Lilith's voice broke through.

"Have you come to kill me?" Her tone was devoid of the fear that might have once accompanied such a question. She almost sounded curious.

Adam met her gaze. "The thought tempted me for a long time," he said, his voice low, almost pensive. "But seeing what has become of you... and now that my heart and mind are clear... no. I haven't come for that."

Lilith let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She almost wanted to believe him. Almost.

"Have you come to hurt me?" she asked again.

Adam's gaze softened, though the frustration and bitterness still lingered in the corners of his voice. "No more than you'll hurt me." He sounded resigned. "If you're asking whether I'm going to do to you what I've done to the serpent... the answer is no. I take no joy in that, and there would be no meaning in it. What is a drop of rain to a woman already drowned?"

Her lips parted as if she might ask another question. One that had been hanging there since he came, one that had lingered in the back of her mind throughout their entire conversation. But she didn't ask. She wouldn't. She already knew the answer. He already knew the question.

She wouldn't hurt him by asking him to save her.

And he wouldn't hurt her by refusing.

After all, no matter how much they might understand one another, forgiveness was not something either was willing to give.

They had scorned each other too harshly for too long.

It would have been different, their meeting.

If she hadn't been dying.

If his eldest had not saved her.

This conversation was simply nothing more than a man humoring a dying woman. Giving her the closure she sought, and perhaps finding his own in the process.

"Why have you come, First Man?" she asked with the cool that once befitted the Queen of Hell, even as life seeped from her.

"I've come seeking answers, First Woman." Adam replied with the same gravitas, as the Father of Humanity was wont to do. "Why does the heart of The Child of Sin beat in tandem with my own?"

Lilith's gaze lowered, and a trace of sadness crept into her eyes.

"The heart and blood of a father and child are bound by more than just flesh—they are bound by sin, by creation, by all that we have done and undone."

---

AUTHOR NOTE:
Am I late? Yes! But I've probably given you the biggest chapter yet, so I expect some leniency!

Also, here's the long-awaited Lilith and Adam conversation. I know some of you were probably expecting something a lot more "wrath-like," like with Lucifer, but Lilith is a lot more personal to Adam. As mentioned in the chapter, this is a dying woman we're talking about, and whether or not Adam's involved, her time is running out. This one's a little different, and I hope it's still worth the wait