How long had she been here? Days? Weeks? Aisling had no idea.
Time stretched into a slow, agonizing blur, punctuated only by the rhythmic footsteps of the guards and the distant rumbling of the lava lakes. Curled up at the bottom of her cramped cage, she pressed her forehead against the scorching black stone floor, desperately seeking a trace of coolness. The ever-present, insidious heat seeped into every pore of her skin, wrapping her naked body in a suffocating layer of sweat. Breathing was a trial—each inhale brought air thick with sulfur, burning her lungs.
Solitude had settled in as a deafening, crushing enemy. At first, she had tried to interact with the guards, hoping for information or even just a reaction. But her questions were met only with mockery, cruel laughter, or worse—blows against the bars of her cage, the harsh clang echoing in her skull like a relentless, punishing bell. A few rare exceptions had offered her the barest sliver of mercy: a bucket of water, a damp cloth, fleeting glances of pity that, though silent, spoke of regret. But these gestures did not comfort her—they only reminded her of her helplessness. She had stopped speaking altogether, refusing to give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her broken.
Her fellow prisoners were of no help. To her right, a grotesque demon with pockmarked skin watched her hungrily, a lecherous grin stretching his blackened lips every time she moved, his eyes fixed on her chest or between her legs. To her left, a shapeless beast growled at her every movement, its red eyes gleaming in the dark. Aisling quickly understood that retreating into her own mind was her only escape.
She sought refuge in sleep, but it brought no peace. Her dreams were nothing but fire and torment, a feverish blend of delirium and sensations too real to be illusions. In her isolation, something had found her—drawn to the seed, or perhaps to her emotions. A strange awareness slithered into her mind, a colossal presence, vast beyond comprehension. Like her, it was trapped—burning, enraged. It called to her, whispered promises of destruction and chaos.
Each time she awoke, gasping and trembling, she felt as though she had just emerged from an inferno, her skin scorched, her mind filled with echoes of flames. And Samael's words repeated in an endless loop:
"It may be drawn to the burning heat of your vengeance"
Maybe, in the end, she had been the one to call him.
At first, she had fought against the presence, terrified of losing herself to its searing rage. But over time, she had let it consume her. This burning madness, this boundless fury—it was intoxicating. She understood the entity now, and what it represented: pure, unrelenting rage. Hatred for chains, for oppression, for everything that sought to hold them—her and this other—away from freedom.
That was why she was here, wasn't it?
To free him. To release him. To unleash him.
Memories fed the fire within her. Ren's stories about the Apocalypse, the destruction of Earth, the lies of those she had once deemed trustworthy, the visions of Nimrach and the horrors that humanity had become in this world. Worst of all, she kept seeing the body of the baby she had brought into the world—its empty eyes, its slow, soulless breath.
All of it swirled in her mind, a storm of resentment and despair. The Council, the angels, the demons, the Nephilim... They had all played their part in humanity's downfall, and none of them deserved redemption. Where were War and Uriel now? Nowhere. They had abandoned her, like all the others.
Rage boiled inside her, a fire fueled by that burning presence. They would all burn. She wanted to see the world reduced to ashes, every stone, every creature swept away by the devastating force of her wrath. She no longer feared the heat, the flames. They had become a part of her. And as she let herself sink into this incandescent ocean, a dark satisfaction took hold of her heart.
"Is she sick?" asked an uncertain voice.
Aisling slowly opened her eyes. The blazing, hazy light from the torches mounted on the walls made the sweat on her face glisten. Two angels stood before her cage, their imposing figures a stark contrast to her frail, weakened body.
"I don't know... These creatures are so fragile," the other angel replied dryly.
They watched her intently, almost as if she were some strange phenomenon. The first angel tilted his head slightly, his gaze growing more concerned.
"Look at her eyes... I'm telling you, she's sick!" His voice carried an almost extinct whisper of humanity, a flicker of genuine concern.
But Aisling no longer cared for such words. She had moved beyond that. Everything slid off her like raindrops on lava. Her weak fists clenched, her nails digging into her damp palms. Too late for remorse. The other angel shrugged, dismissing his companion's concern with a wave of his hand.
"What does it matter? Archangel Raguel has arrived. Her fate will be sealed today."
The words echoed in Aisling's mind like a death sentence. Her fate. Sealed. The last remnants of fear vanished, replaced by a cold, controlled fury. The angel suddenly swung the cage door open, a metal chain in his hand.
"Come on... Get over here, hairless monkey," he spat, grabbing her by the arm.
He yanked her forward, and she staggered, her legs too weak to hold her weight. She had spent too much time curled up in that cramped space, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest. But this physical frailty only fueled her rage. As the angel knelt to fasten a metal collar around her neck, she let her fury erupt.
With an animalistic growl, she raised a trembling yet determined hand and clawed at his face, leaving deep marks on his bronze skin.
"You little bitch!" he roared, staggering back with a hand pressed to his bleeding cheek. "A traitor to your race and to the Balance! We should have left you to rot in that cage!"
The flames of his rage seemed to dance in his eyes as he raised his hand to strike her. But the other angel stepped in, placing a firm hand on his wrist.
"Don't do this! We have to bring her to Lord Raguel."
"He didn't say in what condition…" the wounded angel growled, clearly frustrated. "Bah! How did you Hellguard manage to hold Earth for so long with such pathetic sentimentality? Traitors always recognize their own!"
With a grimace, he turned on his heel.
"Tie her up yourself. I'll be waiting outside."
Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. The second angel, now alone with her, let out a weary sigh before crouching to pick up the discarded chain. His movements were slow, almost hesitant, as if he feared another violent outburst. Aisling, crouched against the twisted bars of her cage, watched him with wary, glinting eyes, ready to pounce if needed.
"I'm sorry, little one," he murmured, his voice filled with regret. "I have to chain you."
His words echoed into the void. She clenched her teeth, a furious growl escaping her throat—a raw, guttural sound that carried all her pent-up rage and frustration. To her surprise, he looked away, almost ashamed.
"I know… I don't deserve any better," he said in a low voice, unable to meet her gaze. "But if you keep this up, they won't hesitate to kill you. Please..."
His careful, measured movements slowly wore down Aisling's primal instinct to fight. She let him approach, though every fiber of her being screamed not to yield. He fastened the collar around her neck, the chain clinking ominously with every movement.
"I'm sorry," he murmured again as he tightened the bindings.
This time, he dared to lift his head, finally meeting her gaze. Whatever he saw there made him shudder.
Aisling's voice broke the silence, hoarse and unwavering.
"Too late for that..."
The burning presence inside her purred, vibrating with exquisite rage. Every dark thought, every violent urge she harbored only strengthened the incandescent bond between them. Yes, let them burn.
The angel holding the chain froze, unable to respond to Aisling's wild, untamed stare. Then, with a weak pull, he urged her forward—without real authority. She obeyed with deliberate slowness, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction at her apparent submission.
With every step, her clenched teeth ached with the almost unbearable urge to bite, to tear, to rip apart anything that dared stand in her way.
When they left the dungeons, a shiver ran through the young woman. The stifling heat of the prison, suspended above the crater, gave way to a relative coolness that bit into her skin. The abrupt transition between floors made her grimace slightly, but she quickly lifted her head, refusing to let any weakness show. Her nudity, which could have been a source of humiliation, became instead a symbol of defiance. She walked with the pride of an unchained predator, every movement proclaiming her fierce determination.
The labyrinthine corridors of the fortress echoed with the sound of their footsteps. As they passed, the angels stepped aside. Some averted their eyes, their expressions disdainful or disgusted. Others, on the contrary, looked at her with something closer to pity. These last ones often wore dented armor and carried weary gazes. The fallen members of the Hellguard, she supposed. Aisling despised them even more. Their compassion was nothing more than an admission of powerlessness. Let them burn too.
Time stretched, undefined. They crossed floors, suspended bridges, and winding staircases that seemed never-ending. Her muscles, numbed by days of immobility, burned with every step. Her bare feet, scraping against the rough stone, sent sharp stings of pain through her body. Yet she paid no mind to her suffering. She moved forward, clinging to the rage roiling inside her, pushing her onward.
At last, they reached their destination. Two guards stood on either side of a massive double door. As they arrived, the sentinels pushed the heavy doors open in perfect synchrony, revealing a grand hall.
An immense circular chamber unfolded before her, bathed in an eerie, crimson glow. There were no walls—only towering, intricately carved pillars that supported a ceiling of stained glass in fiery hues. Each pane filtered the light from the boiling lava far below, casting shimmering reflections of red, orange, and incandescent gold across the chamber. At the center of the room, a vast circular pit yawned open like a gaping wound in the floor. A strange turbulence emanated from it—sulfurous fumes, scorching gusts of air spiraling upward in restless swirls.
The light spilling from the chasm bathed the faces of the gathered angels in a flickering, blood-red hue, deepening the shadows beneath their sharp features. They were many, assembled in a semicircle around the opening, their expressions tense, eyes locked onto something below. Their rigid postures betrayed a mix of displeasure, confusion, and perhaps even a hint of fear.
Dragged forward by the chain around her neck, Aisling tried to turn her head, straining to catch a glimpse of whatever held their attention so intently. But before she could make sense of it, the crueler of her captors stepped forward and seized the back of her neck in a brutal grip. He pressed down firmly, forcing her to move forward, deliberately keeping her from seeing what lay below.
All she could perceive was a distant cacophony, indistinct and distorted—perhaps the sounds of battle, or simply the capricious echoes of the crater's depths.
The angels around the pit turned their gazes to observe her arrival, their expressions ranging from open disdain to cold indifference. Some stepped aside without a word, while others exchanged barely audible murmurs. Their heavy silence only added to the oppressive atmosphere of the chamber.
On the other side of the room, after a long flight of stairs, a black throne, carved from volcanic rock, rose upon a platform. An angel of austere, icy beauty sat upon it, seeming to command the entire room with his mere presence. His appearance held something ethereal, almost unreal. His long, silver hair cascaded over his shoulders and down his back like a shimmering stream, framing an angular, severe face. His piercing, translucent blue eyes seemed as though they could delve into the very depths of one's soul.
He wore an ornate ceremonial armor, finely engraved with intricate patterns that gleamed with their own subtle light, as if each motif captured and reflected the surrounding glow. Over this armor, a nearly blinding white cape was fastened to his shoulders by wing-shaped brooches. Despite the opulence of his appearance, there was no warmth in his gaze. He seemed deep in thought, almost absent, his long, slender fingers tapping idly against the armrest of his throne.
Every movement, no matter how small, felt deliberate, imbued with a cold grace. He did not immediately lift his gaze when she was dragged before him, as if he were still weighing a decision of grave importance. But when his glacial eyes finally settled on Aisling, a shiver ran down her spine. It was not fear—she was beyond that—but an acute awareness of the relentless power emanating from this being. Lord Raguel, she presumed.
The silence, already heavy, became suffocating. Aisling forced herself not to look away, meeting that gaze that seemed intent on reducing her to ashes where she stood. Let them burn, that voice in her mind whispered again, feeding the flame roaring in her thoughts.
Lord Raguel rose with a composed elegance, his long white cape sliding across the stone floor with a silken whisper. His piercing, ice-blue eyes immediately fixated on the dark stain pulsing at the center of Aisling's chest—a mass of black, sinuous roots spreading like a venomous web beneath her skin. He stepped forward, each footfall echoing through the vast circular chamber, stopping mere inches from her, towering over her with effortless dominance.
"The Seed?" His voice, though quiet, carried an unyielding authority.
One of the jailers bowed respectfully before answering, head lowered.
"Intact, my Lord. We cannot reach it directly, but if we weaken the bearer—"
Raguel raised a slender hand to silence him.
"That will not be necessary."
With an almost surgical precision, he extended a finger toward her and gently placed it at the hollow of her chest, between her breasts, where the black roots seemed to converge. Aisling shivered despite herself, feeling the paradoxical coldness of his touch, as if a blade of ice were trying to probe the furious flames roaring inside her. His finger slowly traced one of the roots snaking up to her throat, then Raguel firmly grasped her chin between his fingers, forcing her face upward.
"She doesn't have long," he declared, his tone as sharp as steel. "The Seed will consume her. Until then, she belongs to us."
There was a fascinating cruelty in his gaze, an absolute certainty of his power and his right. Aisling, however, returned nothing but raw fury—an almost palpable rage dancing in her eyes.
A guard interrupted the tense moment.
"My Lord, the infernal diplomat requests an audience. There is also an envoy from the Council."
Raguel sighed in irritation, rolling his eyes as if these interruptions were nothing more than minor inconveniences in an otherwise perfect day.
"Incredible… Hell finally takes us seriously? About time. As for the envoy, no surprise there, is it? Fetch them."
With a dismissive wave of his hand, as if swatting away a fly, he then seized the chain hanging from Aisling's neck. With a sharp tug, he pulled her toward the edge of the pit in the floor, forcing her to move despite the trembling in her legs. The suffocating heat rising from the chasm already scorched her skin, but Raguel seemed entirely unaffected by the infernal furnace.
Suddenly, his gaze swept over the crowd assembled around the throne and landed on a figure he recognized. A nearly amused smile curled his lips.
"Uriel! You have perfect timing… Come forward!"
Aisling felt something shift within her—a tiny spark of hope trying to rise amid her fury. But it shattered the moment she saw the woman step out from the gathered assembly. Uriel walked forward slowly and knelt before Raguel, her posture humble, eyes cast downward.
"My Lord," she murmured with complete deference.
Raguel leaned slightly toward her, a cruel smile playing on his lips.
"No one here is unaware of your tireless efforts to restore the honor of your legion… and your own. The Heavens are pleased, then, with the two offerings you have brought."
Aisling felt her fury explode. She could not recall ever wanting to strike someone so violently. Her fists clenched, despite the exhaustion weighing down her limbs.
Uriel. Uriel had betrayed them.
She searched for signs in the angel's posture—shame, regret, even the slightest hesitation. Perhaps they were there, but Aisling was blinded by her rage. The flames of her inner consciousness roared, ready to consume everything. Uriel, still kneeling, finally dared to speak, her voice tinged with barely concealed anxiety.
"Does this mean the Hellguard will be reinstated?"
Raguel, amused, let a heavy silence hang in the air before responding—but Aisling no longer heard him. All she could see was the back of the one she had once considered an ally, now bowing before this enemy. Traitor.
The angelic lord erupted into a chilling laugh, ringing through the hall like the sound of shattered bells. His expression was filled with utter contempt as his sharp gaze settled on Uriel, still kneeling.
"My dear," he began, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "wouldn't that make your punishment for failing so admirably a little too light? Your efforts are appreciated, certainly, but they are far from sufficient. Your exile remains, and for now, the rest of your legion remains nothing more than a collection of second-rate soldiers."
Uriel clenched her fists but remained silent, her gaze still lowered.
"Your orders remain the same: bring the Horsemen to the justice they deserve, or, failing that, go die far from my sight. You should consider yourself fortunate that I haven't already shown you the mercy of throwing you into the pit with your dear friend, War."
At these words, Raguel gave a sharp tug on Aisling's chain, forcing her forward to the very edge of the searing chasm at the center of the hall. The heat and the sulfurous fumes hit her immediately, making sweat bead on her skin. Instinctively, she lowered her gaze to see what lay within the crater.
Below, the pit opened into a hellish landscape of volcanic rock and a molten lake, where War—covered in blood and soot—fought relentlessly against creatures that seemed to rise straight from the magma itself. Despite the distance, it was clear he had been battling for a long time, his strength unyielding but his body marked with wounds.
Aisling felt her heart clench. War had not abandoned her. Perhaps he had even searched for her. Did he know she was being held here? A flicker of hope tried to ignite within her, wavering between her rage and her suffering.
She lifted her gaze toward Uriel, searching for a reaction. An indelible shame was etched across the angel's face. Aisling wondered: was it guilt for having delivered them to Heaven? Or regret for failing to restore the Hellguard? The reactions of some angels before her—the sorrowful glances, the rare acts of compassion—suddenly made sense: remnants of that fallen legion. Did they regret the events on Earth, the apocalypse that had destroyed humanity? Or were they simply burdened by their disgrace, forced to fight for a lost honor?
As for War, he still fought. He had not stopped. He had not surrendered. Perhaps she, too, should not give up.
But the burning voice in her mind, that titanic consciousness gnawing at her, whispered with a caressing tone: What does it matter? Let them burn. All of them.
Uriel, still prostrated, did not move as Raguel shifted his attention elsewhere. Aisling watched her for a moment before the tension on her chain grew unbearable. So be it—she will burn too.
The massive doors of the hall swung open once more, and a grotesque figure appeared, followed by an entire retinue of monstrous warriors.
It was a scrawny demon, hunched under the weight of his excessively large robes, which were burdened with an overabundance of glittering jewelry. His rough skin was pockmarked, and his glowing, coal-like eyes immediately fixated on Aisling and the dark Seed in her chest. The diplomat bared his teeth, a displeased sneer twisting his already hideous features.
Raguel's lips curled into a sarcastic smile, his voice adopting an overly courteous tone.
"Ah, dear emissary," he called out with mock warmth. "I imagine you've come to resume our 'negotiations,' haven't you? Before our End War truly begins? Oh, but forgive me, I forgot… You already consider it won. How charming. And yet, I'm certain I still hold a few cards in my hand."
The demon lifted his head with a guttural laugh, hissing between his sharp teeth.
"Mockery does not suit you, Raguel," he replied, his voice honeyed but laced with venomous sarcasm. "You almost sound like a demon yourself."
Raguel's eyes narrowed in irritation, and his grip on Aisling's chain tightened slightly.
"You wanted to talk? Then let's talk."