Barcelona, Spain, 1637
The Franco-Spanish War of 1637 cast a long, dark shadow over Catalonia’s rolling hills and sunbaked plains. As the powers of France and Spain vied for supremacy, the people of the Catalan Republic found themselves trapped between generals’ ambitions and royal decrees. In Barcelona’s narrow streets, whispers of discontent swelled into open fear when the Spanish crown heaped staggering taxes upon the peasantry and leveled suspicion against every neighbor.
The royal troops compelled families to house them, and those soldiers, hungry, ragged, and brutalized by war, repaid these families with sacrilege in the candlelit chapels, torched the fields and barns that fed their hosts, and committed unspeakable violence against the women of the region. From these embers of outrage and grief, a rebellion sparked. Catalans rose amid smoke and steel to reclaim their land, their honor, and their faith.
Now, inside Barcelona’s ancient basilica, a hush settled like dust in the arched, cavernous nave. Jovias stood beneath soaring stone ribs that traced patterns of rose windows high above, where fragments of colored light played across the floor in fractured mosaics. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of incense and molten beeswax, and the soft drip of candle wax echoed from distant alcoves. He paused at the threshold, fingers brushing the worn wood of the massive door, heart steady beneath his simple woolen robe.
He moved forward until he kneeled before the marble altar, its surface polished by centuries of reverent touch. Bowing his head, he spoke the words of Lamentations, chapter 3, verses 22–23, in a low, unwavering tone, “It is of the Lord’s mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is thy faithfulness.” Each syllable filled the cavernous hall, resonating with an unbroken promise against the turmoil beyond these walls, a promise that sustained him across centuries of wandering.
When he rose, his joints creaked with the memory of long journeys and hard seasons. He seated himself in the front pew, its oak surface smoothed by countless worshippers, and folded his hands on the backrest in silent anticipation. A stray beam of pale daylight caught the silver embroidery at his collar, shimmering like a distant star.
Footsteps hurried. First, a gentle rustle of skirts, then the heavier stride of a giant. Angelica entered on the arm of Kyros. She was tall, with golden hair cascading in loose waves over a flowing, slate-blue gown that swept the stone floor. Her cheeks glowed like dawn; her eyes, warm and bright, carried the comfort of home. At the sight of Jovias, she slipped free of her companion’s grasp, hurried to him, and embraced him as a sister. “Brother!” she whispered, her voice a balm against centuries of hardship. In that instant, Jovias felt centuries of loneliness fall away.
Beside her stood Kyros, towering at six feet nine, a living monument of muscle and sinew. A heavy bearskin robe draped his broad shoulders, its coarse fur brushing the ground. In the candlelight, his red hair, braided into a thick ponytail, shone like copper. His braided beard framed a grin that shook the rafters. His forearms, crisscrossed with old battle scars, flexed as he moved, and when he roared Jovias’s name, the echo rolled off the arches like thunder.
In one sweeping motion, Kyros upended the pew and scooped Jovias into his arms. Jovias’s feet dangled as Kyros spun him once, twice, until the world blurred into golden candlelight and laughter. “You are so blessed, my brother!” Kyros roared, setting him down as gently as a father lays down his child. Jovias landed on worn stone, shoulders loosening from the bear-hug’s vice-like grip.
“My brother, my sister,” he said, voice thick with joy. “I have missed you both. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you here alive, well, together.” He reached for Angelica’s hand and nodded at Kyros; each gesture was a silent vow that no trial, no war, no separation could ever break bonds forged in faith and love.
The doors crashed open on battered hinges, sending a shudder through the ancient timbers of the church, splitting the peaceful sanctuary from the turmoil outside. The nave, cavernous and sun-drowned in the dust-laden light, held its breath as the outside spilled in. Two figures crossed the threshold first, each an exile from his own century, trailing the ghosts of lands and battles and gods forsaken.
Galal strode in with the deliberate arrogance of a knight, as if the sanctity of the church were another realm to be conquered. The uniform he wore this time proclaimed a Spanish soldier, black boots scuffed but polished to an edge, the crimson sash of an officer cutting a cruel line across his chest, and the saber at his hip swinging in rhythm to his heavy footfalls. He was not just tall, but imposing, his frame filling the archway as if he meant to block the very sun outside. Performance was everything: the squared shoulders, the broad grin, the palpable, infectious confidence that rippled outward and made every eye in the nave flicker toward him, as if unsure whether to fear or applaud. Yet even as he commanded space, Jovias saw through his old friend, the way he smirked, eyes squinting to hide his weakness for laughter.
Before anyone could rise to greet Galal, he cut through the hush with a cackle that echoed off the stone. “Who is that large peasant?” he declared, gesturing grandly at Kyros, whose jaw stiffened for a moment before he burst out into laughter at his old friend’s bantering. The group erupted in laughter and joyous greetings.
Beside Galal stood a man of stark contrast, smaller, unmoving, his presence like a stone dropped in a river, almost invisible, but impossible to ignore. His name was Ioel, though he had worn many names throughout the centuries. Where Galal’s entry was a siege, Ioel’s was a muted infiltration. He pressed his palms together, fingers steepled up to his chin, and bowed with the precision of a ritual born of a thousand repetitions. With a white belt cinched, the knot embodies discipline. His waist lacked a sword, but this omission conveyed a message: a warrior required only silence. “Blessings to you all,” he murmured, voice carrying despite its softness.
They greeted the arriving friends. Galal and Kyros smacked each other’s arms with thunderous claps and boisterous laughter. Ioel and Jovias shared a calm, warm hug of long-lost friends. Ioel stepped back. “Blessings, my brother. The Lord has treated you well.”
Jovias murmured, “Blessings to you as well, Ioel.”
Kyros ran to Ioel and lifted him high and spun him. Kyros’s laughter echoed once again in the cavernous hall. Ioel taunted Kyros, “Monster! Please lower me before I lower you to your knees.” The smile was deceiving. Kyros dropped Ioel, who floated like a cat. Ioel looked up to Kyros. “Greetings, my big brother.” The smirk was mischievous, but the words were genuine.
Galal stood in front of Angelica. He bowed, his right hand across his stomach. “My lady.”
Angelica curtsied, her hands on both ends of her dress, flailing them to the side as her knees bent. “My brother.”
The door swung wide again. Through the halo of dust and sunlight, a slight figure emerged, backlit and almost spectral, but as the shape solidified, she revealed herself with a grace that made the air around her shimmer. She moved like water, gliding the length of the aisle, her hair a rope of midnight spilling down her spine, tied at the base in a defiant ponytail bouncing with each step. Her name was Anani, though she had taken a hundred names from the mouths of the people she’d healed and rescued.
“Nina!” Angelica’s voice broke with joy as she rushed forward, embracing her as a sister returns from the dead. For a moment, the world receded, and Anani and Angelica became the only two people in the cavernous church.
The others circled the ladies. All of them shared greetings, a huddled mass of brothers and sisters. Long-lost friends, years passed since they were last together, crescendo at this moment.
The last arrival, however, drew startled glances. He lingered at the threshold as if unsure he belonged, and the light behind him painted his silhouette ragged and weak. He shuffled forward, shoulders hunched, head down, his hair a wild tangle that spoke of sleepless years and uncounted, restless nights and unwashed dreams. His coat, once handsome, now smeared with mud and dirt, hung off him in tatters. Jovias’s heart sank as he recognized the stranger.
Could it be true? The man’s eyes flickered up, and for a moment, a blue so sharp it could have cut glass peered out from the disarray.
“Auriel?” Jovias asked, more prayer than statement.
The man nodded, a pale smile fissuring the dirt on his face. “Yes, my friend.” His voice was soft, but it carried, as if the aisle itself stooped to hear him. He opened his arms, and Jovias stepped forward, drawing him into a tight, desperate embrace. Auriel was lighter than he remembered. Had the years worn him down so much? Or was it just that all the burdens Auriel once carried were now visible on his frame, bones sharp against Jovias’s chest?
The reunion of old friends filled the room; their voices laughed and hugged in celebration after centuries apart. Kyros and Galal clasped hands, forearms straining as if to test each other’s reality. Ioel and Anani exchanged a nod so slight it might have been only a trick of the shifting light, but something in the air seemed to settle as they acknowledged one another.
They gathered, as if by instinct, at the front of the altar and formed a circle. They kneeled in unison, centuries of memory flooding back, and placed their hands together, as if for the first time. Jovias looked at their faces, worn and changed, but unmistakable. He felt the urge to speak, but his own voice sounded small, as if he were again one of the Watchers sent to earth to watch over man, a lesser-ranked guardian waiting for permission to speak.
He began, “Lord. We thank you for this blessed day. We are meeting together for the first time in centuries.” His voice wavered at the memory. How many lifetimes had he spent waiting for this?
“We are not worthy of Your mercy, but You show us how steadfast Your mercy remains to Your children.” He felt the others’ breathing shift, as if the words stirred something raw instead of soothing, but he continued.
“We humbly offer ourselves to you, Lord. Amen.”
He bowed his head, and the others followed. The six remarked in unison, “Amen.”
Jovias raised his sight, and he saw that Auriel did not bow his head. Auriel’s face turned upward instead, his expression stricken and raw, as if the request called forth a wound too deep to be spoken.
Auriel’s pupils contracted to pinpoints; his jaw tightened beneath his matted beard. Each person’s shadow elongated across the worn stone floor, as if trying to escape.
The others felt the rise of evil in the room. They shifted, turning outward as one, their circle tightening around the altar. Cold air engulfed the room and chilled the summer air. They could see their breath fog the air with every exhale.
An ominous, deliberate clap echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the church, each echo dying only to be reborn by another slow, thunderous strike of palm against palm. Auriel’s hand trembled, his knuckles bleaching white, veins protruding like blue rivers beneath translucent skin. Jovias enveloped his quivering fingers within his own calloused grip, feeling the pulse racing beneath. Their eyes locked. Auriel’s irises constricted to pinpricks of terror, the whites marbled with crimson capillaries, pupils drowning in unshed tears of recognition.
From the velvet darkness behind the ornate gold-leafed altar, a massive silhouette detached itself from the shadows, each footfall sending dust motes dancing in the guttering candlelight. The creature emerged into the yellow glow, revealing a grotesque smile stretched across its face, jagged teeth like broken tombstones, gleaming with viscous saliva that dripped in silver threads onto the worn stone floor. The monster towered above Kyros, its shoulders spanning the width of three men, exceeding seven feet of rippling, obsidian muscle that flexed and coiled with each calculated movement. Its face stretched long, the skin blackened and cracked like ancient leather left too close to flame, splitting occasionally to reveal raw, pulsing tissue beneath.
Blood-red eyes glowed from cavernous sockets, pupils slitted like cats, reflecting the candlelight with a sinister glow. Crowning its terrible appearance, pitch-black hair hung in greasy, matted strands around two massive ram horns that curled from its temples, not mere protrusions but living extensions that seemed to pulse with dark energy, their ridged surfaces etched with symbols too small and many to decipher.
“Belial!” Jovias’s voice erupted like thunder, spittle flying from his contorted lips. The beast’s face split open, revealing row upon row of needle-sharp teeth that seemed to multiply as its grin widened. “Ah! My dear friend Jovias,” it hissed, venom dripping from every syllable. “How long has it been? Four hundred? Five hundred years of your pathetic existence?”
Auriel’s heart slammed against his ribs, cold sweat breaking across his brow as pure terror froze his limbs. Galal lunged to his comrade’s side, ripping his sword from its sheath with a metallic shriek.
Kyros tore his fur covering aside and hefted his massive battle axe, muscles bulging. “You are not welcome here, demon!” he roared, veins pulsing at his temples. “Begone! We rebuke you!”
“Do you really, Kyros?” The demon’s laughter cut like a knife as it thrust forward a blackened, twisted finger tipped with a nail like a dagger. “I’ll split you open like rotten fruit and watch your entrails steam on the floor!”
Anani grabbed her bow, bringing it forward from her back. The quiver full of arrows dropped to the ground beside her feet. With an arrow in hand, she placed it on the string and pulled back until her knuckles touched her chin. The bowstring creaked under the tension as she drew back. She let go, and the arrow erupted with a blinding blue light, illuminating the cavernous hall. Belial was not alone. He brought his legion.
Angelica’s eyes darted upward; demonic abominations with gleaming eyes and dripping fangs lined the railings above. “Seven, eight, nine, ten…” she whispered, her count climbing higher with each passing heartbeat. She reached beneath her skirt, fingers finding the cool rod strapped to her thigh. She hesitated to reveal her true nature before the onlookers. Drawing it forth, she felt the ancient power surge within the staff as it elongated in her grip, its runes flaring with celestial light. It expanded, and she slammed one end onto the ground. The staff stood as tall as her as she squinted and continued her count, “fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…”
Ioel’s knuckles whitened around his katana, which he drew from within his gown, his face a mask of righteous fury. “Lord!” he commanded through clenched teeth. “Give us strength to send these abominations back to the pit that spawned them. Fill us with your righteous power! We fight for your glory.”
Belial’s chant ripped through the hall. His body twisted, arms flailed, and the altar’s stone cracked. Smoke poured up like a living thing, spawning more demons from its depths.
In moments, the nave drowned in battle. Demons poured in from shattered arches and broken doors, their screeches echoing through the vaulted ceiling. Kyros met them head-on.
He swung his massive axe in a roaring arc, steel biting through flesh and shadow. The blade cleaved a demon clean in half, its black torso slamming against the marble floor with a wet crack that rippled through the sanctuary. The very walls shuddered from the force.
Kyros threw his head back and laughed, a deep, thunderous sound that rolled through the chaos like a war drum.
“Come, heathens!” he roared, planting his boot on the corpse to wrench his axe free. “Kyros the Mighty awaits!” He laughed uneasily as he waited for the oncoming onslaught.
A towering demon lunged at him with serrated claws. Kyros pivoted, grinned, and caught the demon’s arm mid-swing. Bones snapped like brittle twigs. Before the creature could scream, he swung the axe upward in a brutal, rising strike, which split its skull and sent a geyser of black dust spiraling toward the rafters.
Another demon tried to flank Kyros. He allowed it, and at the last second, he spun, his axe whistling through the air before embedding itself in the demon’s chest with a crunch that shook the pew it collapsed upon.
He ripped the weapon free, ichor spraying across the ruined nave. Like a cloud of dark dust, ashes puffed into the air and then disappeared.
Behind him, Galal and Ioel moved like mirrored spirits. Ahead, Anani’s arrows streaked blue fire. Beside them, Angelica’s staff cracked through the wave closing in.
Kyros rolled his shoulders, grinning as the next line of demons hesitated at the doorway. “Good,” he snarled. “You understand fear!”
Back-to-back, Galal’s longsword and Ioel’s katana moved as if sharing a single heartbeat. Galal’s heavy blade carved wide, thunderous arcs; cleaving demons in half with brutal finality. Ioel’s katana flashed like silver lightning, each cut clean and swift. Every strike was a memory of millennia of war distilled into instinct.
Galal stepped forward, sword sweeping low; Ioel stepped back, blade rising high. Their twin motions formed a perfect wheel of steel, each covering the other, each expecting the next attack before it came. A demon leaped at Galal’s exposed flank. Ioel spun, and his katana split it from collarbone to hip without Galal ever turning his head.
Another lunged for Ioel’s legs, and Galal’s downward slash crushed it into the stone floor with an echo that shook the rafters.
The survivors hesitated. They had reason to.
Together, the two exiled warriors fought with the harmony of a forged duet; Galal, the storm, Ioel, the cutting wind that shaped it. Their blades intertwined, crossed, separated, reunited, moving in a cycle older than any kingdom standing in the mortal world.
The onlookers stared, spellbound.
Even among the Seven, people whispered and rumored about this level of precision, but never witnessed it until now.
Galal pivoted, cleaving through two demons with a single, bone-splitting arc. Ioel stepped into the opening, katana reversing in his grip, slicing through the third as if cutting through water. Smoke and blood misted around them, but not a drop touched their skin.
With a final synchronized turn, their blades swept outward in opposite directions. Four demons fell at once, bodies dissolving into drifting cinders.
The sanctuary fell silent.
Galal exhaled. Ioel sheathed his katana with a soft click.
“Still in rhythm,” Galal murmured.
Ioel smirked. “You finally learned to keep up.”
On the other side of the pews, Anani notched arrow after arrow, blue trails arcing through the chaos like streaks of lightning. All shots struck true, pinning demons to shattered pews before each one erupted into black dust.
She stooped to get another arrow. As she rose, a demon lunged from behind, its dagger whispering past her throat. A warning stirred through her spirit, that sixth-sense hum only the exiled angels possessed. She spun, swift as a gust, and drove the arrow upward into the creature’s neck. It dissolved, erupting into a plume of smoke and drifting ash, the arrow still in her grip.
Using the same smooth rotation, she drew the arrow back on the string. The bow hummed with celestial tension. She released. The arrow ripped through one demon’s chest, continued clean through, and pierced another’s throat behind it. Both collapsed into twin clouds of smoke and dust, swallowed by the sanctuary’s dim light.
Angelica whirled, her staff a blur of silvered arcs. She spun low, then rose in a sweeping strike that cracked against a demon’s jaw with a thunderous snap. Another lunged; she parried, twisted, and drove the butt of the staff into its ribs, sending it skidding across the blood-slick floor.
Her weapon sang as it cut through the air, each strike leaving a faint halo of light in its wake. Every impact drew out the hiss of dying creatures, their forms shriveling into smoke the moment her staff connected. A final spin, a downward arc, and another demon crumbled at her feet. Its death-cry swallowed by the storm of holy fire swirling within her.
Angelica spun, planting her heel as another demon vaulted toward her. Before she could strike, a streak of blue fire sliced past her cheek. Anani’s arrow. It punched clean through the creature’s skull, pinning it to a crumbling column before it detonated into dust.
Angelica didn’t need to look to know where Anani stood. They know each other’s moves through their working together centuries before being exiled. One the thunder, the other the lightning.
A demon lunged at Anani’s flank. Angelica slid in front of her, staff spinning in a halo of silver and force. The demon’s claws slammed against the sweeping arc; bones cracked, and Angelica redirected the blow, twisting her staff to trap its arm. With a sharp pull, she snapped the limb and struck the creature across the face. It hissed, staggered and Anani’s next arrow took its heart, turning the demon into a cloud of black shards.
Angelica exhaled, braced, and swept her staff in a wide, spiraling dance. A ring of demons closed in, too many for arrows, too close for precision.
“I’ve got them,” she murmured.
Anani didn’t answer with words, just stepped back, drew, and let her bow hum.
Angelica launched herself into the air, body turning in a controlled spin. Her staff slammed down, sending a shockwave of celestial force through the floor. Demons reeled and, in that frozen heartbeat, Anani let loose. Three arrows, three brilliant streaks, each splitting into mirrored shards midair. The fragments stabbed through the stunned horde like falling stars.
The sanctuary lit with blue and silver flashes. Smoke. Dust. Silence.
Angelica landed beside Anani, staff braced across her shoulders.
“Nice timing,” she said.
Anani smirked, notching her next arrow. “I follow your rhythm.”
Angelica twirled her staff; the weapon glowed. “Then let’s finish the song.”
Auriel froze, eyes locked on Belial. Jovias yanked at his arm. “Snap out of it!” he barked.
Auriel turned to face Jovias. His face contorted, hollow. Jovias staggered back, heart hammering in disbelief. Auriel blinked; his inner agony surfaced. He thrust his sword beside Jovias’s head, cleaving a demon’s skull in a spray of black dust. Auriel’s chest heaved as he regained his composure.
Jovias turned to Belial, fury sharpening his voice. “Belial, this ends now! We stand with our Lord’s power, and you will fail!”
Belial laughed, low and cruel. “Your God? He no longer rules here. Men bow to the gods of greed and steel. They worship my master, Lucifer!”
Angelica spotted a human priest quivering in the corridor behind the marble altar. He trembled at the clash of demons and half-formed angels erupting in the nave. Desperate, he raised shaking hands and sank to his knees, lips moving in a silent prayer as his eyes stayed glued to the massacre.
A demon’s jaws split wide. It lunged, claws scraping stone. “Padre,” it hissed, spittle sizzling. “Come! Lord Belial demands your audience!”
Angelica vaulted between them, a dagger in her hand, its steel flashing.** She severed a wing, spun, and gripped the demon’s throat. It roared dry, crackling agony, then crumbled to ash under her tightening grip. With her free hand, she plunged a dagger through the beast’s chest; embers scattered. She whirled to the priest. “Hide! Do not come this way again!”
He stared, fear curdling into awe. “Are you…an angel?” he stuttered.
“I am what I must be,” she replied, voice flat as a gravestone, then dove back into the fray.
At the rear, robed clergy pressed into the doorway, eyes wide at the celestial battle in their church, the Seven versus hell’s horde.
On the raised platform, Jovias drove himself into Belial. Metal clanged against jagged red talons; sparks hissed like falling stars. Belial leaned in, his brimstone breath scorching cheek. “You dare strike me, exile?” he sneered. “Join me. Rule men as a god.”
Jovias’s knuckles whitened on his hilt. “Never!” he snarled, and his blade tore Belial’s arm. Black ichor oozed, a sulfurous stench pooling at their feet.
Belial roared, backhanded Jovias into the altar’s fissure. Heat and sulfur billowed as Jovias lay stunned. Galal and Ioel rushed to haul him up. “Jovias! Are you hurt?” Ioel’s voice shook.
Jovias nodded, trying to clear his head.
Belial stood dripping malice, eyes aflame, watching Auriel carve through the remaining demons with silent precision.
“Now,” Belial murmurs, “be who you truly are.”
Auriel halted mid–slash. His blade sank to the floor. Shadows coiled around him. The priests stared until one weakly raised a hand.
In a blur, Auriel seized him, yanking him forward. Jovias blared, “Auriel! No!” but it was too late. Auriel plunged his dagger into the priest’s belly. The blade quivered free, stained crimson. A final gurgle, then silence. The surviving priests scattered, scrambling for the back of the nave. One traced a trembling sign of the cross before fleeing after the rest.
Belial’s laugh cracked like burning coal. He waved an arm; the demons vanished into the chasm. The six angels converged, staring at the body. Anani’s whisper fractured the hush: “Why?”
“Brother…” Jovias whispers, grabbing his arm. “Why?”
Auriel’s eyes, empty as unfathomable wells, fixed on Jovias. He breathed in the fear radiating from his friends, drawing strength from their despair. “Why protect these mortals?” he asked softly. “They rot us from within, worse than any demon.”
“We swore an oath!” Jovias’s voice cracked, his hand stabbing toward the dead body on the ground. “Through Michael, we vowed to guard them, not punish them!”
Auriel’s lips curved, a serpent’s smile. “Mercy is weakness. Judgment is the only true salvation.” He turned away, steps echoing through the shattered pews, leaving his brothers in stunned silence.
Auriel strode toward the exit, darkness pooling in his eyes. Jovias grabbed his arm. “Brother! Speak to me!”
Auriel jerked Jovias aside, his boots scraping the stone floor. His hand trembled as he leveled his sword at Jovias’s throat. “Stay back,” he rasped, jaw clenched. “Do not follow me, stranger. We are no longer brothers.”
The words hit Jovias like shards of broken promises. Around them, the others froze. In the hush, Auriel’s betrayal rang louder than any clash of blades.
Jovias stumbled forward, voice urgent. “Auriel, please,” but Auriel’s eyes flicked to the crowd gathered outside the church doors. Whatever mercy remained in them burned out.
Before Jovias could form another sound, Auriel’s face twisted; the words tore from him like a blade. “Centuries on this earth have taught me one truth,” he hissed, each syllable cold and hard. “I have watched empires rot from the inside, corruption, greed, rivers of blood.” He swept his hand toward the huddled, trembling crowd, eyes like flint. “These wretches have nothing left. Mercy is a luxury they squandered long ago. They are no longer of God’s realm; they are Lucifer’s fodder, his hunting pack. Let them feed the dark.”
“Brother,” Jovias’s tone was a fragile bridge strung out of hope and memory. Behind him, Anani, Ioel, Kyros, Galal, and Angelica formed a half-circle, their hearts torn. “We are here for you,” Jovias said, voice soft as candlelight in a storm. He saw Auriel’s chest rise, the internal battle between darkness and light rippling beneath his ribs.
Anani reached out a trembling hand toward him. “Come, friend,” Anani whispered. “Pray with us. Forgive. Receive forgiveness.”
For a fleeting heartbeat, guilt blurred Auriel’s resolve. He reached; his fingers brushed Anani’s. Then, a voice stabbed the air. “The Lord will cast you into hell for this!” a lone man shrieked from the fringe of the crowd. Fear and shame warred inside Auriel; in a single, furious motion, he snatched back his hand and lunged at the heckler.
He was on the man before anyone could react. Auriel’s grip coiled around the man’s throat, lifting him off his feet. The man’s booted legs thrashed.
“Auriel!” Ioel and Kyros roar together.
“Brother! No!” Angelica’s soft plea carried over the roar of the crowd and stalled Auriel’s wrath for just a breath.
Auriel moved his clenched gaze to Galal, who stood silent at the edge of the circle. “They would have betrayed you,” Auriel whispered, voice breaking. He lifted his dagger and pointed toward the onlookers. “I tried to spare you that pain. But none of you would listen. You have not seen what I have seen.”
Galal’s face tightened with sorrow. He stepped forward, every word coated in reluctant understanding. “Friend Auriel,” he said quietly, “I know agony when it comes from those we protect. I have felt their betrayal.” His dark eyes flickered between Auriel’s sword and the gasping man at their feet. “Still, we swore an oath. Who are we to break our promise?”
Auriel’s grip loosened. With a shuddering exhale, he released the man, who collapsed to the stones, coughing, blood tinting his lips. Villagers rushed forward to help him as Auriel turned his back on the chaos. Curses and frightened cries followed him like shadows.
Jovias took a trembling step towards Auriel. “We can pray together,” he began. But Auriel did not look back. Without a word, he strode away and vanished around the corner of the nearest house.
Angry chants rose from the crowd: “They’re demons! Cast them out! Our Lord demands their blood!” Fists pounded the church doors. Men with torches pressed forward, faces warped by fury.
Ioel sheathed his blade in a single, resigned movement. “We must leave now,” he said calmly, voice a stark contrast to the mob behind them. Angelica nodded, eyes haunted.
Jovias stared after Auriel’s retreating form until Angelica grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Come!” she hissed. “He’ll follow his own path. We must leave this place. Now.”
They turned their backs on the shouting crowd and ran, Ioel, Kyros, Anani, Angelica, Galal, and Jovias, into the waiting darkness of the woods, each step heavy with doubt and the echo of a brother they may have lost forever.