The silence that followed the meeting was more eloquent than any speech. Abraham's words, still echoing with the resonance of past wisdoms, hung in the air thick with smoke and tension. The attendees dispersed like shadows, forming small groups where the murmurs were as dense as the gloom enveloping them. To Elyion's eyes, the room was a mosaic of flickering auras: Samuel's furious, inflexible red as he withdrew, followed by Miriam's athletic, watchful silhouette, her deep violet radiating a sharp distrust as keen as the scars on her arms; the anxious greens of the new recruits; the dull grays of the veterans who had seen too much.
Abraham seemed to shrink suddenly. The ancestral authority that had possessed him dissipated, revealing a teenager with monumental dark circles and a gray sweatshirt that swam on his frame. He pressed the cold soda can to his temple as if the metal could soothe the buzzing of a thousand lives in his skull.
—Wow—he murmured, in a voice that was finally only his own—. That was… exhausting.
—Can you handle it, Abraham? —asked Melanie, approaching. Her yellow jacket was a beacon of warmth in the coldness of the place, her vibrant pink aura pulsing with concern.
—As always—he replied with a tired smile—. It's like being the host of a very, very loud party you never invited. Sometimes the guests quiet down, and I can speak. —He looked at Elyion—. Seriously, thank you for coming. Samuel…
—Samuel can rot in his dogmatism—Elyion cut in sharply, pulling out a red Marlboro. A snap of his fingers, a flash of electric blue, and the tip of the cigarette lit up—. We're not here for him. You said dawn. That gives us hours. I need to see the equipment. And I need to talk to Rivka. I want to know exactly what she heard.
Abraham nodded toward the back of the hallway.
—Storage, for the first. For Rivka, try the roof. She says the closer to the sky, the clearer the whispers. —A grimace—. Though what she hears is usually anything but celestial.
Elyion nodded, exhaling a puff of smoke.
—Melanie, are you coming?
—Yes!—she said, too quickly.
As they walked down the hallway, Melanie lowered her voice.
—What if Samuel is somewhat right, Elyion? About… about what you taught me. Was it irresponsible?
Elyion stopped and looked at her. His eyes, brown and normal for now, were wells of a fatigue that went beyond the physical.
—Yes—he admitted, plainly—. It was. I didn't know the price then. Now I do. —His gaze went to her eyes, then to the immense, radiant aura enveloping her—. Regretting it doesn't erase what was done. I can only make sure the price you pay is worth it. That every second you lose… counts.
Before she could respond, he opened the storage room door.
The room was an extension of the methodical chaos of Abraham's mind. Shelves crammed with supplies, disassembled electronic components, and artifacts of brass and glass that pulsed with a faint residual light. In the center, on a workbench, rested the Bonds. Not just bracelets. A sturdy military bracer for Samuel, an intricate silver pendant for Rivka, thin gloves with silver runes for an unknown user. Elyion ran his fingers over the table, stopping at a simple bracelet of dull metal.
—It's amazing what he's achieved—murmured Melanie, admiring the craftsmanship.
—It's a crutch—Elyion corrected, his voice bitter—. A forced channel for a power that should be beyond our reach. —He picked up the bracelet—. Like putting a valve on a geyser. You control the flow, but the pressure is still there, destructive. And in the end, the valve always gives way.
—But it gives us a chance—she insisted, her voice soft but firm.
—Yes—he whispered, putting the bracelet down—. A chance to fight a god who has already condemned us.
He dove into the supply boxes, checking bandages, ruin maps, and strange instruments for measuring spiritual energy, his analytical mind finding familiar refuge in logistics and numbers.
While he worked, Melanie stared at the Bonds. She reached out a hand but didn't touch any. Instead, she closed her eyes. The air around her cooled by a few degrees. An ethereal presence, the spirit of a soft autumn breeze, materialized beside her, playing with the sky-blue streaks in her hair. It wasn't a summoning, just a brush, a silent reminder of the connection that now defined her existence. A small shiver ran through her, the familiar, icy drain she felt every time she used her gift, however minimally. A fair price, she thought, for not feeling completely alone.
Almost an hour later, Elyion was satisfied.
—We have what we need—he announced, stubbing out his third cigarette—. Now, Rivka.
Going up to the roof was like ascending to another world. The air was cold and sharp, laden with the smell of ozone and ash from the dying city. The smog parted up here, allowing a handful of defiant stars to pierce the blackness. And in the center of the terrace, with her back to them, was Rivka.
She looked like an apparition. Her elegant, sleeveless black dress fluttered with a ghostly grace, the side slit revealing a leg. But it was the soft orange glow emanating from the marks under her eyes that truly captured attention, as if two live embers burned on her face. She didn't turn at the sound of their approach; she was elsewhere, her consciousness projected onto a plane only she could navigate.
Rivka's power, the Whispers of Sheol, was not like Elyion's Angel Sight or Melanie's Spirit Invocation. It was not an ability to see or summon, but to listen. She listened to the Sheol, the plane of purification where immature souls—those who had not reached fullness upon death—continued their slow and painful process of maturation. But her gift went further. She could hear the echoes of those tormented souls, the whispers of those who had gotten trapped in the veil between life and death, and most crucially, she could perceive the distortions in that ethereal plane caused by His interference.
God, in His judgment, was not just collecting souls;
He was corrupting the process. Rivka's Whispers of Sheol revealed to her that the Erelim were not created angels, but human souls ripped forcibly from the natural cycle, twisted and rewired to a perverse divine will, their essences consumed and reprogrammed as soldiers in a celestial army of extermination. She didn't hear orders; she heard stifled screams, laments of infinite agony. It was a brutal burden, one that left her mentally and physically exhausted, frozen to the bone by a cold no fire could warm.
—Rivka—Elyion called, his voice low, respectful. He knew interrupting her abruptly could be violent, like waking a sleepwalker from a cliff edge.
She shuddered slightly, as if being pulled from the depths of the ocean. The orange glow in her eyes intensified as she focused on them, a faint beacon in the night.
—Elyion... Melanie...—her voice was a breath, so fragile and faint the wind almost carried it away. It was the whisper of someone who has screamed so much they have no strength left—. The echoes... are agitated... He is active...
—Abraham said you heard the Erelim—said Elyion, keeping his distance, leaning slightly to catch her words.
Rivka nodded almost imperceptibly, a slow, exhausted movement.
—They're not whispers tonight... they're... screams... stifled... —She hugged herself, and for an instant, a pattern of incandescent lava, a painfully vibrant orange, traced across the skin of her arms—. They... did not choose to serve... Their souls are... chained... Twisted... He... gave them no choice... Consumed them... rewired them to His will... —She looked up at Elyion, and in her eyes burned an eon's worth of horror, but her voice remained a thread of sound—. We don't fight soldiers... we fight ghosts... Victims... And they yearn... for us to join them... in their misery...
A glacial silence seized the rooftop. The mission was no longer a simple incursion; it was an immersion into a divine nightmare.
—Can you sense their number? Their location?—asked Elyion, forcing his mind to focus on the practical, on the data. It was the only way not to crumble before the enormity of what Rivka described.
Rivka closed her eyes, submerging herself again in the stream of whispers. Her breathing was shallow.
—Many... Clustered... near the dry riverbed... They move with... intent... They're searching for something...—Suddenly, her body tensed. A silent gasp escaped her lips—. Oh...!
She staggered backward. Melanie lunged forward and grabbed her arm. Upon contact, an intense chill, a penetrating spiritual cold, shot through Melanie's body, so violent it stole her breath.
—What? What is it? —asked Elyion, instantly alert.
—Someone else...—gasped Rivka, her voice broken and weak, clinging to Melanie like a lifeline—. Another whisper... Clearer... More... lacerating... Not an Erelim... It's... human... Wounded... Disoriented... In the southern ruins... near the old bridge... They... haven't detected it yet... Still...
Elyion looked at Melanie. In her blue eyes, he saw the silent plea, the instant compassion that defined her. Then, his gaze lost itself in the dark, shattered skyline of the city. The logic was clear: the plan was the library at dawn. A detour was an unacceptable risk. Madness.
But that part of him, the one that had petted a dog on the night his world fell apart, the one that refused to accept the sentence of an indifferent god, rebelled.
—Coordinates—he demanded, his voice a low rumble.
Rivka murmured a series of numbers and streets, an approximate location pulled from the torrent of agony only she could hear, her voice so faint Elyion had to strain to hear.
Elyion pulled out his radio.
—Abraham.
—Trouble? —the young man's voice, laden with sleep and concern, responded immediately.
—Change of plans. There's a detour—Elyion declared. It wasn't a request; it was a report—. There's a survivor, wounded, in the ruins south of the old bridge. Erelim activity is high in the area, but they haven't located him yet.
The silence on the other end was heavy. Then, a deep sigh, carrying the weight of a thousand lives.
—Elyion, the operational risk...
—It's a life, Abraham—Melanie interjected, her voice trembling but clear as she spoke into the radio—. A real life, beating right now.
Another silence. Longer, more deliberative. When Abraham spoke again, his tone had changed. It was the voice of the ancestral strategist, cold, calculating, imbued with a pragmatic wisdom.
—Samuel will oppose this vehemently. He'll call it dangerous sentimentality. And he'll be partly right. —He paused, and the crunch of his soda can was audible through the receiver—. However... an act of compassion amid this slaughter could be the cement that binds this resistance tighter. Plus, an eyewitness to the Erelim's movements possesses incalculable intelligence value. —He took a deep breath—. Approved. But it's a quick operation: In, extract the target, and proceed immediately to the rendezvous point for the main incursion. No room for heroics. Understood?
—Understood—Elyion confirmed.
—And Elyion...—Abraham's voice lost its layer of elder for a moment, revealing the scared boy underneath—...be very careful.
The communication cut out. Elyion looked at the two women before him.
—Let's get ready. We leave in ten.
As they descended the emergency stairs, Melanie touched Elyion's arm gently.
—Thank you—she whispered, her voice laden with an emotion that cut through him like a knife.
Elyion didn't respond. He just nodded, his mind already charting mental maps, calculating routes and risk points, his expression a mask of determination chiseled from the iron of guilt and duty. The night suddenly seemed to darken further, charged not only with the threat of the Erelim but with the overwhelming weight of a single life depending on them, and with the thunderous echo of Rivka's words ringing in his ears: "He gave them no choice."