Mal woke up, disoriented and alone, in a cold, dark place filled with swirling shadows and haunting echoes. He had no memory of who he was or where he had come from, yet a heavy pain pressed down on his heart. That pain had brought other companions—sorrow, fear, and guilt—that coiled around him like serpents.
His teeth chattered from the bone-chilling cold of the surroundings as he silently walked along the only visible path, his arms wrapped tightly around his trembling body. Tears streamed down his face—shed in fear for the last time in that accursed place.
Ahead, a massive, powerful figure sat on a throne, as though waiting for a long-awaited guest. Mal felt the immensity of the being's power and immediately understood: this was no ordinary figure; this was a god. Hope flickered within him, fragile and desperate. He rushed forward, his heart crying out for salvation.
"Where am I?" Mal's voice wavered, small and uncertain.
The god grinned, a malevolent smile that chilled Mal's very soul. In that moment, the flicker of hope was extinguished. Mal suddenly realized the truth—his life as he had known it was over.
"Your home, my boy," the god said.
The figure rose, descending from the platform with hoofed feet that stomped against the stone steps. Mal flinched as the sound echoed ominously through the vast emptiness. The god reached out, seizing Mal by the front of his clothes, and lifted him effortlessly to eye level.
Mal's legs dangled uselessly, his small hands clawing at the god's rough skin. "I… I…" he stammered, searching for words he couldn't find. He wanted to say 'I want to go to my mother,' or 'I want to go home.' But there was no mother, no home. There was only that monstrous grin, those unyielding hooves, and the ghostly pain that had no beginning and no end.
"My brother has given me a great gift," the god said, his grin widening. "And I'll take full advantage of it."
"Let me go," Mal pleaded, his voice breaking.
The god's other hand clamped around Mal's head, raising him even higher. Slowly, he began to squeeze, his laughter drowning out Mal's terrified screams. The boy writhed in agony until everything faded into black.
When Mal woke again—if waking was even the right word—he found himself staring up at the towering figure. He didn't know if he had lost consciousness or died, only that to his horror, he had returned to this horrible place.
From his full height, the god loomed over him and spoke menacingly. "Here's your first lesson, boy: your creator knew what would happen to you when he sent you here. This was his will."
"Why?" Mal rasped, his voice raw with confusion and fear.
"Because you exist," the god replied simply. "You're a creature of darkness, my son. He fears you. So, he sent a child into the womb of death and agony to make sure nothing could threaten their world."
"I don't believe you!" Mal shouted, his voice breaking. He didn't remember a creator, didn't remember anything before this place. Yet some stubborn part of him—some tiny, flickering light—rejected the god's words. "They'll come for me! They'll save me!"
His desperate assertions were those of a child still clinging to the hope that someone, somewhere, cared for him.
The god laughed, the sound a low rumble that reverberated through the darkness. "You and I have plenty of time, my boy. The moment will come when your hope dies—just as everything else in this place."
Then, without warning, the god's massive hand struck Mal across the face, the blow harder than stone.
"That's your punishment for screaming," he said.
Mal barely registered the words as his small, broken body crumpled to the ground.
Once again, he died.
*—*
Malbonte soared through the darkened skies, the wind biting against his wings with each powerful beat. Below, an endless black expanse stretched in every direction, broken only by the jagged silhouette of the occasional island. After several hours of flight, he and his followers reached their prepared sanctuary, perfect in its remoteness: Hermit City.
A refuge for the exiled and the hunted, it was now the cradle of the rebellion. The faint scent of woodsmoke tickled his nostrils as the base came into view. The stark layout was illuminated by scattered campfires. Corrugated barracks sprawled across the rocky terrain, their utilitarian design punctuated by the occasional sturdier structure. A throng of people were collecting at one end, attracted by the new arrivals.
As Malbonte's feet touched the ground, several figures emerged from the crowd to greet him. They led him toward the heart of the camp, past rows of watchful eyes and whispered murmurs. His eyes swept over his surroundings with cool appraisal, his mind actively cataloguing everything.
Fencio withdrew an amulet from his cloak and handed it to Malbonte. The artifact pulsed faintly in his palm, its energy evident even in its dormant state. Malbonte focused inward, channeling his power into the amulet. A wave of energy rippled outward, expanding until it enveloped the entire island. For a moment, his breath caught—the strain had been more than expected. Then, the sensation passed, leaving behind a faint hum in the air, the island's defenses and secrecy now enhanced a hundred-fold.
After the tour of the main areas of the camp, and a brief consultation with his innermost circle of followers, Malbonte was taken to the chambers prepared for him. The furnished room bore a spartan elegance: it had a sturdy bed, a desk, and bookshelves. A full-length mirror reflected the flickering glow from a lit fireplace, and a door to the side led to a private bath already prepared with steaming water and fresh towels. It was simple, practical, and exactly what he needed.
Dismissing everyone, Malbonte turned his attention to more immediate needs. He stripped off his bloodstained clothes and entered the bath. The water was almost scaldingly hot, but it soothed his body, easing the ache still lingering from the ritual. He sank into the tub, letting his head rest against the rim, his wings draping over the sides like heavy curtains. Slowly, methodically, he began to scrub away the grime of the battlefield, the dust from the flight, and the blood from the ritual.
He felt the aftershocks of the rejoining. He could feel Bont's memories and Mal's intertwining, their separate perspectives clashing as they struggled to fuse into a single narrative. Knowledge from both halves surged and retreated, leaving him reeling from their sheer volume.
He remembered his parents. The soft warmth of his mother's embrace, the strength of his father's hand. The solstice feastival that had changed everything—the seraph's death, the cosmic swirls on Shepha's visage as he made his cruel decision. The splitting. A thousand whispered words of condemnation and despair. A thousand lifetimes lived as two halves of a broken whole.
And then Shephamalum made his presence felt, reestablishing his mastery over Malbonte.
The whispers began faintly, curling at the edges of his mind like smoke, sly and insidious.Well done, my boy…The voice cackled, its tone both approving and mocking.Very well done, indeed…
Malbonte clenched his fists, water splashing over the rim of the tub as he forced the voice away. He wouldn't succumb to it—not yet. Not while the storm within him was roiling. It was disorienting—this merging of pasts, of lives lived so differently, now colliding in the shell of one man. He felt like a stranger to himself.
As the water began to cool, he shifted, the weight of his sopping wings dragging heavily against his back. He twisted to glance at them, frowning. They were weak and inadequate for his needs.
Malbonte stood, the water cascading off his body, and stepped to the edge of the bath. He gripped the rim, his knuckles whitening as his resolve hardened. Reaching back, his fingers curled around the base of one wing. With a sharp, violent motion, he tore it from his body. Pain exploded through him, but he had endured worse. Blood spattered across the tiled walls and stained the water.
Clenching his jaw, Malbonte reached for the second wing. The process repeated. When both wings lay discarded, he hunched forward, his breaths ragged, blood dripping in steady rivulets from his back.
And then, it began. A surge of power built up, radiating from his core. His back and shoulders burned anew, but this time the pain was laced with an intoxicating strength. New wings unfurled, powerful and commanding. He stretched them wide and flapped them a few times, testing their span and heft.
He sluiced fresh water down his back, washing away all the blood, and stepped out of the bath. Steam clung to his skin as he wrapped himself in a towel, water dripping onto the stone floor with each step. He walked back into the main chamber, his new wings casting long shadows against the walls.
The full-length mirror in the room caught his eye. For the first time since his rejoining, he stopped to look at himself. The face staring back was both familiar and unrecognizable.
He supposed he looked more like his Mal-half than Bont. His hair was jet-black, contrasting to Bont's silvery-white. His irises were fathomless pools of darkness, drowning out the pale blue of Bont's. His features bore a hardened edge with shadows that had not been there on his angelic half. More significantly, Shephamalum's mark was now etched on his back like a tattoo. He felt the ridges pulsating faintly against his skin.
His wings—deep maroon, powerful, and imposing—were a sharp contrast to either Bont's angelic white wings or Mal's horned bat-like ones.
Malbonte's gaze narrowed as he stared at his reflection. Slowly, he raised a hand and ran it down his face, as though trying to connect this image to the bisected memories twining within. The longer he looked, the more his anger simmered, slowly building into a tempest. This wasn't him—not the Bont who had longed for freedom, nor the Mal who had burned with hatred. It was someone else, something in between, yet alien.
In a swift, violent motion, his fist shot out.
The glass shattered into a web of jagged cracks, splintering his reflection. For a fleeting moment, the broken fragments seemed to shift, refracting countless versions of himself: a dark-haired boy with blue eyes and gray wings; the same boy, now white-haired and lost; a young man with leathery, obsidian wings, his darkened eyes blazing with hate and rage; and Bont, the innocent angel, whose spectral form whispered softly, endlessly:Forgive… forgive…
The fractured images flickered, distorting and merging, until the cracks radiated outward, and shards rained to the floor with a dull, final clatter.
Malbonte turned away, his breathing uneven, his chest heaving as if he'd just fought a duel. He shook off the bits of glass sticking to his fist, wiped off the blood with his towel and put on the fresh set of clothes laid out on the bed.
A knock at the door broke his thoughts. He opened it to find a young demon holding a tray of food. The aroma hit him before the sight did, stirring a hunger he hadn't even realized was there. Without a word, he took the tray and closed the door.
The meal was simple—grilled vegetables, warm bread, and a thick, hearty stew. Once, he might have balked at such fare, bound by ideals of compassion. But now, he ate with purpose. Each bite revived his strength as the turmoil within began to settle.
Once he finished his meal, Malbonte set the tray outside and summoned Fencio for a full report on the battle and the aftermath. The angel arrived promptly, exuding a sense of barely suppressed triumph as he recounted the events. It was a grim summary, punctuated by losses, victories, and betrayals, but the most interesting piece of news came at the end.
"Satan is dead," Fencio said.
"That's…unexpected. How did he die?"
Fencio's face twisted as though he had swallowed a lemon. "Rebecca's daughter killed him," he ground out.
Malbonte's expression remained unreadable, but his mind reeled.Rapunzelhad killed Satan?!Impossible!Then he remembered seeing a sword clasped in her hand, blood dripping from its blade…
"I don't know how an Unclaimed managed it," Fencio added, his words laced with bitter dissatisfaction. "But I'll find out."
Pushing aside the matter of Rapunzel for now, Malbonte pivoted the conversation to the camp. "What of the new arrivals?" he asked, his tone sharpening. "Are they being accommodated? Ensure they're monitored until their allegiances are verified."
Fencio inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'll see to it."
"Good," Malbonte said. "I'll address them in the morning."
After Fencio departed, Malbonte added more logs to the fireplace. He didn't need the fire to warm himself, but after eons in the coldness of Shephamalum's dungeon, he found that he liked the sight and sounds of the crackling dancing flames. He prepared for bed, knowing the coming days would require his full strength and focus. Formulating strategies and finalizing plans would take precedence in the dawn, but tonight…tonight he would rest, if possible.
As he slipped under the covers, his mind drifted to Rapunzel. He had been suppressing any thoughts of her since catching her pained, accusing stare across the battlefield. But now, with the news Fencio had brought, the memories refused to be silenced any longer.
That morning, Bont had kissed her, and she had looked at him with trust and affection. By evening, he had betrayed her.
No—why see it that way?Bonthad kissed her.Malhad done what was necessary. She belonged to the old fractured life—she had no place in the new one.
And yet, the remnants of Bont and Mal continued to whisper at the edges of his consciousness. He couldn't reconcile the pieces yet; perhaps he never would. But Bont's voice was beginning to fade, slipping into the background like a shadow retreating at dusk. After all, it was hisMal-half that had endured Shephamalum's tortures for centuries while his angelic half slept. It was his Mal-half that had cried out from the abyss the longest, demanding to be heard.
Nevertheless, there was no denying the sense of completeness that had emerged—strange and uneasy though it was.
Malbonte let the tension drain from his body as sleep began to claim him. The morrow would bring new challenges, and with them, the chance to establish himself as a tangible force in a world that, for centuries, had known him only through fearful whispers and shadowed speculations. Tomorrow, the world would begin to understand what it truly meant to confront a legend made flesh.
*—*
Malbonte rose before dawn; only faintly glowing embers remained of the spent logs in the fireplace. He moved to the window, his maroon wings catching the first rays of morning. Stretching them experimentally, he reveled in their strength—yet a flicker of unease stirred within him. Something felt…off-kilter.
At first, it had been a vague dissonance, like the distant echo of a melody just beyond his grasp. He had dismissed it last night as lingering fatigue from the ritual. But the unease persisted. He flexed his fingers, summoning a flicker of dark energy to his palm. It responded, coiling and shifting with ease, but the sheer force he had commanded from Shephamalum's dungeon was gone. He was missing the full suit of his powers.
Could Bont's light have canceled out part of his dark energy during their merging? As a child, both sides of his energy had coexisted harmoniously, but his two halves had been apart for too long. There was no way to know how the ritual had altered the delicate balance of his essence during reintegration.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, probing his own aura. No, the light energy that defined Bont's essence was still there—dormant yet intact. Relief softened the tension in his shoulders. Whatever else he might feel about his angelic half—resentment for its innocence, frustration at its naivety—he knew he could no longer exist without it. He would rather dissolve into nonexistence than endure another second of a half-life, let alone two.
Mal and Bont weren't independent halves of a fractured soul. They were the foundation of his very being. Without both, his integrity as a person would cease to exist. Shephamalum had honed Mal into a creature of malice, while Shepha had nurtured Bont's innocence to the brink of naivety. As Mal, his sole aim had been revenge: to kill Shepha, destroy Shephamalum, annihilate the world, and take himself along with it. Bont's dreams had been far simpler—freedom and exploration. Well…at least until he had met Rapunzel. After that, Bont's dreams had become nauseatingly saccharine.
Neither extreme had survived their amalgamation. How could they, in the real world? Such absolutes were destined to collapse under the weight of their own imbalance. With the reunion of his two halves, an unexpected metamorphosis had occurred.
Morning had brought clarity to Malbonte—and with it, a new vision. Fragments of both identities endured: the demand for justice and retribution from his darker half, and the yearning for restoration from his lighter one. The blind fury that had driven Mal's darker nature was now tempered by the steadiness of Bont's angelic essence.
Standing on the precipice of infinite possibility, Malbonte realized his purpose: Balance. He would not be a destroyer, and he certainly was no savior. Instead, he would become a force of equilibrium. He would level the scales of Nemesis.
Justice would be his guide, not fury. The scales would tip no longer in favor of one side. The inequity that placed angels above demons in the hierarchy, treating one as inherently superior to the other, was a disparity he would not abide.
Yet, Hell was no bastion of virtue. Both immortal realms had grown complacent, their ancient powers festering with decay. He would purge them, as Hercules had cleansed the mythical Augean stables, sweeping away centuries of corruption.
In their place, he would forge a new world—a world where beings like him, caught between light and darkness, could exist without torment, isolation, or abuse. No child, regardless of their origin, would endure what he had suffered.
But the desire for vengeance burned too deeply to be extinguished by visions of balance. Shephamalum would face retribution—not through confrontation, but through calculated inaction. The dark god's prison, slowly disintegrating into the void of the universe, would eventually collapse. Malbonte would take grim satisfaction in Shephamalum's prolonged descent into oblivion.
Shepha, however, would not be afforded the luxury of such a passive fate. The god of light, the primary architect of his suffering, would answer for his indifference and cruelty. Malbonte would ensure that Shepha's reckoning came swiftly, delivered directly by his own hands.
*—*
Malbonte emerged into the crisp morning air, the first rays of sunlight glinting off the distant cliffs. It felt good to walk beneath the open sky, the muted warmth of the sun soft against his face. Around him, the camp buzzed with activity. Soldiers were already at their drills, the rhythmic clash of weapons echoing through the rocky expanse.
The core of his movement consisted of young immortals—those disillusioned by the stagnation of both Heaven and Hell. Positions of power were monopolized by a select few influential families, their grip unyielding over millennia. For those from lesser-known lineages or families fallen out of favor due to political machinations, advancement was little more than a distant dream. The system was designed to preserve the status quo, trapping the ambitious and disenfranchised alike in its suffocating web.
Most of the seasoned recruits did not follow Malbonte out of blind loyalty or fear. They followed him because they believed—or dared to hope—that he might succeed in breaking the inequalities entrenched in their world. The rest of his army consisted of escaped and former prisoners—those who had tasted the cruelty of the immortal justice system and now sought retribution against the powers that had condemned them. Together, they were a restless, determined force, bound by shared grievances and the fragile hope of a new world promised by Malbonte. And they were prepared to die for that cause.
The new followers from last night were assembled at one end of the camp, waiting for him to address them. Malbonte walked up to the crowd and stood before them, his posture exuding arrogance and supreme self-confidence. His eyes swept over the assembled crowd, a sea of young demons interspersed with a few angels. The weight of his stare was a challenge, daring anyone to step forward and test him.
One demon in the front row took the bait. Braver—or perhaps more foolish—than the rest, he stepped forward boldly.
"Satan is dead," he said. "You showed up at the very end and claimed the glory. Why should we follow you?"
A ripple of agreement spread through the crowd, emboldened by the challenger's words. Several voices rang out, shouting, "Yes!"
Malbonte's lip curled in a slow smile. "So," he said, his tone calm, almost casual, "you want to know why you should follow me?"
"Yes!" several voices chorused, the challenge growing louder.
The smile didn't waver. Without warning, Malbonte blurred into motion faster than the eye could track. In the blink of an eye, he was upon the demon. A sickening squelch sounded as his blade plunged into the demon's stomach.
The immortal gasped, a trickle of thick, foaming blood spilling from his mouth as his knees buckled. Malbonte yanked the blade free with a sharp motion, and the lifeless body crumpled to the ground.
The crowd froze, stunned into silence.
Malbonte stood over the fallen figure, his expression impassive. He wiped the blade clean with slow, deliberate swipes along one leg, then the other until its edge gleamed wickedly against the sunlight. His voice rang out, sharp and commanding, "Because my anger is enough to take you all down. Any more questions?"
For a moment, the silence hung heavy. Then, the tide shifted. A roar erupted from the crowd, a wave of excitement—no doubt mixed with fear—breaking over the ranks. Cries of loyalty rang out, their fervor surging as the immortals rallied behind their new leader.
Malbonte stood motionless amidst the uproar. Inwardly, he felt neither pride nor compassion. That display of authority had been necessary. The new recruits needed to understand, beyond question, that he wasn't someone to cross.
He issued swift orders for their accommodation and training. Then, he motioned for a few of his strategic advisers to follow as he strode toward the office prepared for his use. Inside, amidst maps and scattered communications, he began weaving the next threads of his plan: solidifying his position among the immortals and preparing for the battles to come.
Yet, through it all, the absence of his full powers continued to rankle. That sense of loss, that void, persisted as he convened with his advisers throughout the day. Reports were gathered, spies dispatched, and war plans drafted—but his frustration simmered beneath his outward composure.
*—*
A soft knock at the door pulled Malbonte from his thoughts. Meetings done for the day, he was alone in his office scanning communications from potential allies.
"Enter," he commanded.
The door creaked open to reveal a demoness. She stepped inside with deliberate poise, her dark gown flowing around her. Her confident smile held a spark of arrogance. "My lord," she began smoothly, "I thought you might like some…company."
Malbonte's sharp gaze flicked over her figure, her deliberate emphasis of the last word making her intentions obvious. "And who are you?"
"Austie," she said with a slight inclination of her head. "My father's name is Sonnelion."
Malbonte connected the dots. Sonnelion was the demon who had been stripped of his high-ranking position for illegally harboring half-breeds in the Catacombs. Had his daughter joined him seeking restitution? Testing her, he asked, "Were you in the group that joined us yesterday?"
"Yes." She tilted her head proudly.
"Why?"
"Because you've returned to claim what's yours," Austie replied, stepping closer. Her voice lowered, her eyes holding his with a daring confidence. "And I know power when I see it."
Malbonte studied her, intrigued by her audacity and the calculated ease of her movements. A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Come on, then, and close the door."
Austie's lips curved, triumph flashing in her eyes. She obeyed and shut the door behind her with a deliberate click.
*—*
That night, as Malbonte slept, he was yanked into a vision as though he was a marionette on strings. There was no time to react. When the world around him coalesced into view he found himself in some park or garden.
It didn't seem like anywhere from his own memories. He scanned his surroundings. Children played in the soft grass, their laughter ringing out like birdsong. Swings creaked under the push of adults, while kids chased each other across the playground. Not a single one of them had wings. This was Earth.
His gaze shifted, drawn to a cluster of children near an ancient oak tree. One stood out—a girl of eleven or twelve with short, wind-tousled hair. She wore faded jeans and a dirt-streaked T-shirt, the sleeves rolled up like she was ready for anything. He instinctively recognized her as a younger Rapunzel.
But what truly riveted his attention was the dark, shimmering cloud enveloping her. Malbonte's breath hitched. That aura, pulsating and alive, was unmistakable. It pointed directly to the missing piece of himself. The energy he had lost during the ritual hadn't vanished—it had been absorbed byher.
As he watched, Rapunzel scrambled up the tree with practiced ease, her movements fluid and confident, like someone who had done it countless times before. The boys chasing her stumbled and grumbled, their frustration melting into laughter.
Perched on a sturdy branch, she glanced down at them with a triumphant grin. "What's the holdup?" she teased, swinging her legs idly. "Afraid of heights?"
Her laughter rang out, brimming with life and unrestrained joy. It echoed through the vision, as though taunting him across space and time.
The scene began to blur, quickly dissolving into darkness. Malbonte jolted upright in his bed, his chest heaving, seething with fury. Rapunzel carried the missing part of his powers, stolen without his consent. No wonder she had been able to kill Satan! Her kindness to Bont no longer mattered. He would make her pay for her theft.
But even as his fury simmered, a flicker of another memory surfaced, unbidden. A cliff, an array of corpses, and a stranger's hand brushing away his tears. That touch, so gentle, had stilled his rage and terror, if only for a while.
His anger faltered, giving way to confusion as recognition dawned. The stranger who had soothed him on the precipice of despair was Rapunzel—the very woman who now carried a part of his essence.
The revelation left him reeling. Were they both seeing visions of each other? How was that even possible? Could she be orchestrating these visions? If so, to what end?
Remarkably, she had reached into his past and left a tangible mark—a feat that defied explanation. Or was all of this simply a side effect of their forced connection, born from his stolen powers?
Malbonte shot up from bed, his confusion mounting. Sleep abandoned him entirely. He lit a few candles to illuminate the room. His gaze fell on the stack of tomes piled near his bed. One by one, he rifled through them, his movements sharp and impatient, searching for answers that continued to elude him.
When the pages yielded nothing, he summoned Fencio, indifferent to the late hour. If anyone could explain this anomaly, it was the angel. He was well-known for his scholarly expertise and mastery of spellwork.
"The girl from the ritual," Malbonte said when Fencio arrived, "has stolen a part of my powers. I need to know why—and how to reclaim it."
Fencio's eyes widened in disbelief. "That's…impossible! An Unclaimed can't handle that kind of power—it would've killed her!"
"And yet, here we are," Malbonte snapped.
Fencio's expression shifted, shock giving way to a flicker of bitter satisfaction. "So, that's how she killed Satan…" he muttered under his breath, half to himself.
"Perhaps," Malbonte said curtly, his patience wearing thin, "but that's irrelevant. Find out why this happened—and how to fix it."
Fencio hesitated only a moment before bowing hastily and retreating. His vendetta against Rebecca colored every decision he made—a trait Malbonte had exploited to recruit him years ago. But now, that obsession was beginning to grate.
Fencio's fixation had already caused problems, most notably when he had attempted to expel Rapunzel and Lucifer from the Academy before the ritual was even complete. That reckless act had nearly jeopardized everything, and Malbonte couldn't afford a repeat. If the old fool dared to step out of bounds again, Malbonte wouldn't hesitate to act decisively. The stakes were far too high to allow anyone—even a valuable ally—to endanger his meticulously crafted plans.
*—*