The mountain winds had died.
In the scorched clearing beyond the ridge, the demon and angelic forces regrouped in sullen silence. Campfires crackled low beneath black iron braziers. Medics murmured incantations over the wounded. A layer of frost settled over the blood-soaked ground, giving the illusion of peace until the wind shifted and the stench of scorched bone returned.
At the center of the gathering stood the two commanding figures of the army.
Seraphion, the angel general tall and austere, his wings tucked neatly behind him, a breastplate that shimmered with cold starlight across ancient silver.
Malgareth, the demon general broad-shouldered and sharp-toothed, a crimson cloak draped over molten obsidian armor. His helm, horned and smoking, hung from one clawed hand.
They stood over a hovering tactical map glowing with dull red sigils, quietly analyzing the failed breach.
"We underestimated how quickly they could adapt," Seraphion said, voice like polished steel. "They set the trap well."
Malgareth growled low. "They'll bleed eventually. Their resources are stretched, their minds fraying. We've got them starving now. We just need to keep squeezing."
"They're not weak," Seraphion replied, eyes narrowing. "They're clever. And Morpheus is watching from the shadows again. I can feel it."
Before Malgareth could respond, the air shimmered a sudden pulse of light that seared gold through the camp like a spear. Shadows bent. Sparks danced.
Two figures emerged from a curling ring of golden flame.
The first was wrapped in pale-gray robes threaded with silver serpents. His footsteps didn't disturb the snow. His eyes were the color of old moonlight, and his shadow didn't quite match his movements.
Icelus, god of nightmares.
The second strode forward with arrogance in every motion, clad in sun-worn bronze armor etched with scenes of conquest. Wild black hair crowned his head, and a permanent sneer rested on his lips.
Zelus, god of rivalry and zeal.
They stopped just past the perimeter of the command circle. Every soldier around them turned some lowering their eyes in reverence, others in irritation.
"Well," Zelus said loudly, surveying the camp. "I see the 'unified force' has taken quite a bruising."
Icelus chuckled beside him, voice like velvet soaked in ink. "We were told the mortal shrine would be ashes by now. Surely you're not calling this… progress?"
Malgareth turned slowly, heat rippling faintly from his shoulders. Seraphion didn't speak. He merely watched them, wings coiled tighter against the cold.
Zelus stepped closer, arms outstretched mockingly. "We came to help. But this this smells of retreat. Of stagnation."
Icelus's smile grew wider. "Surely, two gods however minor—can end this faster than weeks of fruitless siege."
A long pause followed.
Then Malgareth's voice rumbled out, deep and scorched.
"You are not here to end anything."
Seraphion stepped forward. "You are here to serve. That was the agreement."
Zelus's smirk faltered. "Excuse me?"
"You came through the Veil because you were weak enough to slip between its cracks," Seraphion said coldly. "Be proud you're still gods at all. But do not mistake presence for power."
Malgareth snarled, stepping forward with a clawed hand pointing to the mountains behind them.
"You think you know war? You think this is glory? We've lost thousands. Entire wings of angels. Legions of demons. We've bought every inch of ground with blood."
"We are not failing," Seraphion added. "We are pressuring. Strategizing. Starving them out. You'll follow our lead—or you'll be sent back through the Veil, broken and forgotten."
Zelus stiffened. His hand twitched near the hilt of the blade at his side.
But Icelus laid a calm palm on his arm.
The nightmare god smiled thinly. "Very well. We'll play along."
Malgareth gave a single sharp nod. "Then fall in line. You're here for muscle, nothing more."
"And muscle we shall be," Icelus said, with a glint in his eye. "Until there's nothing left of that shrine but dust."
Seraphion didn't reply.
He simply turned back to the map where new lines of assault were already forming.
***
From the outermost shield line, Kazuki barked orders over the din of spellfire. His cloak whipped in the wind as streaks of golden light and crackling red bolts clashed above the barricades. Beneath him, squads of witches and wizards transfigured rubble into makeshift cover, while others returned fire in synchronized bursts.
"Hold the left flank! Reinforcements incoming from the northern cliff—cut them off before they flank!"
"Focus fire! You've all trained for this! Think of your families—this is their last line!"
"Squad Three, sweep wide—pick off the ones lingering back!"
Kazuki strode the front like a living banner, unshaken and sharp-eyed, anchoring the defense as another angelic strike peeled back and vanished into the clouds.
Far below, tucked deep into the lowest chamber of the shrine, Morpheus stood in silence.
Here, stone silence pressed like a weight, broken only by the faint dripping of water echoing through the cavernous halls. Glowing moss clung to corners of the walls, and the air buzzed faintly with magic so old it barely remembered language.
In front of him hovered a floating mirror an ornate silver oval, dull from age. With a flick of his fingers, Morpheus tapped the surface twice.
It rippled like disturbed water.
Then Herpo's tired, mud-splattered face appeared in the frame, a glowing orb floating at his side, flickering with deep green light.
"I've got it," Herpo said, brushing swamp muck from his chin. "The power source. Bastard thing was buried beneath three feet of sludge and guarded by what would I call them—'swamplings'? Disgusting creatures."
Morpheus exhaled, visibly relieved. "That's good. Can you bring it?"
Herpo narrowed his eyes. "Can I bring it? I'm not flying halfway across the world like an owl."
Morpheus gave a half-grin. "I'll send Negari to fetch it."
Herpo rolled his eyes and muttered, "Could've done that in the first place."
"No," Morpheus said with a chuckle. "I couldn't, brother. You're the only one I trust to find it. Negari would've taken ages, and I doubt he could've gotten past those… things. Whatever you found down there."
Herpo tilted his head and grinned with that familiar slyness. "Ha! I knew you knew exactly where it was. You just didn't want to go yourself."
Morpheus hesitated then sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "Alright. Maybe. But I figured you could use a chance to stretch your legs."
"I'll 'stretch' your face next time I see you."
They both laughed.
Morpheus nodded once. "I'll send Negari immediately. Thank you, Herpo."
The mirror rippled again and dimmed.
Morpheus stood there for a long moment, the stone walls humming faintly with the echoes of ancient magic. He slowly turned and walked deeper into the chamber, gazing at the rows of statues carved into the walls some broken, some weathered, others decayed into almost unrecognizable shapes.
His footsteps echoed as he passed each one, frown deepening.
With a low sigh, he clicked his tongue in frustration. "I thought the stasis charms would be stronger," he muttered.
After a long walk up the winding stone steps, Morpheus emerged back into the corridor that connected to the upper halls of the shrine.
As he climbed, he passed several of the American reinforcements resting or eating along the side halls.
Then, from the far end of the corridor, he noticed movement.
A young squib maid carrying a tray had just turned the corner. She froze for a fraction of a second when she saw him, eyes narrowing subtly just enough to be noticeable—before quickly averting her gaze and walking away down another corridor.
Morpheus paused.
His brow furrowed slightly. He tilted his head, watching the shadowed hallway where she'd vanished.
But after a long beat of silence, he turned and continued toward the upper battlements.