By the time the sun bled away behind the roofs of the dead city, the market stretched around us like the ribs of some ancient beast.
A day had passed since that Devil vanished with Lucy, and every hour had worn at our nerves like slow-grinding stone. We moved through the vast market without speaking, our footsteps the only sound in streets that once hummed with barter and laughter. Then we found it. A weaponry market—its sign half-torn, the painted swords and shields faded to the color of ash. The front door hung from a single rusted hinge, groaning in the wind. Angelica went in first.
I watched her pale silhouette drift across the dark interior as if the shop itself recognized something divine, and feared her. She closed the door behind us with a soft click that sounded too loud in the emptiness.
Then, one by one, she sealed the windows.
Each shutter slammed with a wooden bang, the sound carrying like a gunshot through the hollow market. Dust spiraled upward, catching what little moonlight seeped through the cracks. When the last window shut, the room drowned in a murky half-dark, the kind of darkness that makes every heartbeat feel like a warning. Angelica turned, her wings folding close against her back. In the near-silence, I thought I heard feathers whisper like distant rain. Sis Misha sank down onto a crate near the back, brushing the mud from her dress with slow, absent hands. I stayed on the floorboards, cross-legged, my legs heavy with a fatigue that felt older than the day itself. Angelica moved like a sentinel, checking the door once more before she finally stilled. Silence settled thickly, like smoke that refused to leave. Sis would then rose after a while and drifted toward the rows of weapons. Swords leaned in dusty racks, their edges dulled by time; spears rested against the wall like forgotten sentries. Her fingers hovered over them but never touched, as though the cold iron might bite back. I watched her move from blade to blade. She studied each with a quiet intensity, eyes shadowed by something I couldn't name. I swallowed, the quiet pressing harder with every passing second.
"How…" My voice cracked against the dark. I cleared my throat, softer now. "How was Sir Lucy like?" The question hung in the stale air. My sister froze. Her back stiffened; her shoulders, already tense, seemed to draw inward. Slowly, she turned to me. The torchlight from the single candle Angelica had lit caught the hollows of her face, and in that faint glow her eyes looked heavier than I'd ever seen them. Gloom settled over her features like a slow-moving storm. Angelica, standing near the door, bit her lower lip. For the briefest heartbeat her eyes softened and, there, almost hidden, a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. A smile she tried to chase away, but couldn't. It was the kind of smile that carried both longing and an ache too deep for words, as if the name Lucy itself had lit something bright and fragile in the darkness.
"He was.. An odd man." Angelica answered softly. Misha didn't hear it, but i did.
—
A few hours bled away beneath the market's roof, marked only by the occasional creak of wood and the far-off groan of the wind. The candle we'd set in the middle of our circle burned lower, its flame a trembling shard of gold that barely kept the shadows at bay.
Angelica sat cross-legged, her white robes dulled by the soot and the night's grime. Misha leaned forward with her arms wrapped tight around her knees, chin resting on them. I sat opposite, the cold boards biting through my trousers. No one spoke. The silence was not peace, it was a thin glass stretched over too many thoughts. I cleared my throat, the sound sharp and lonely. "I… I know where they're keeping him." Misha's head snapped up. Angelica's gaze sharpened, though she said nothing.
"They're not just men." I began, my voice low, as though the darkness itself might be listening. "They call themselves a… a sort of order. A cult. They hide beneath the catacombs." Misha frowned. "The old tunnels under the east ruins?"I nodded. The words felt heavy on my tongue, like stones I'd been forced to swallow. "They believe the spirits down there protect them from the demons. They think… they think the more spirits they have, the stronger the protection." Angelica tilted her head slightly, her silver hair catching the candlelight. Her eyes were unreadable. "More spirits?" she asked, her voice soft, but edged. I swallowed again, my throat tightening. "They… kill children." I said at last. The syllables scraped out of me like broken glass. "They believe the younger the spirit, the stronger it becomes. So every few weeks, they—" My voice caught. I forced the words out. "They choose a child and… offer them." The flame flickered, as though recoiling. Misha's lips parted in shock. For a heartbeat, no sound came out, only a sharp inhale that seemed to shake her whole frame. Her eyes, wide and glassy, darted from me to the candle's quivering light. Angelica's expression hardened. The faint glow carved sharp angles across her face, and for the first time since we met, I saw something like fury coiled behind her calm, an anger deep and cold, older than the market walls. "You… saw this?" Misha whispered finally. I couldn't look at her. I stared at the floorboards instead, tracing the lines of old mud and dust. "…Yes." The word fell into the silence like a stone into a well.
Misha's hands tightened around her knees until her knuckles whitened. Her voice wavered, heavy with both disgust and an aching pity I wasn't sure I deserved. "You… you had to watch all of that…" I gave a single, hollow nod. Angelica said nothing, but when I finally dared to meet her gaze, there was no judgment there, for she has already decided. There is a particularly frightening air within her eyes, a recognition of horrors neither of us could undo, and the ways she can punish those who did it. The candle burned lower, casting the three of us in a deeper, almost mournful glow. And in that fragile circle of light, the weight of what lay ahead settled on us like a final, unspoken vow.
Angelica in particular had been silent for so long I almost forgot she was there. Only the faint rasp of her breath reached me, slow and dangerous. But her eyes, when the candlelight caught them, were no longer silver. They burned, a storm-cloud glare darkened to the color of iron. Her hand rested on the hilt of her blade, knuckles whitening with each heartbeat. Misha and I stayed close, sitting shoulder to shoulder. Neither of us spoke. The market's air grew heavier, as though the dark itself had bent closer to listen. Then it happened. A sudden, ringing clang! tore through the stillness. Angelica drove her sword down with such force the wood beneath us cracked like dry bone. The candle quivered; wax spattered the floor. Her wings flared wide with a thunderous snap, white feathers exploding into the cramped room like a sudden storm. The rush of wind slapped against my face, cold and almost metallic. I flinched. Misha's hand tightened on my sleeve.
Angelica's head hung low, her cascade of curls falling like a veil, hiding her face from us. But we didn't need to see her expression, her fury leaked into the air like poison, thick enough to choke on. When she finally spoke, her voice was no hymn. It was a tremor of raw wrath, a sound that did not belong to heaven.
"Lead the fucking way." she hissed, every syllable a blade. "Take me there—" her grip tightened on the hilt until the leather groaned, "—and I'll subjugate them all myself." The words rattled in the air, sharp and merciless. For a heartbeat, the flickering candlelight seemed to recoil, throwing her silhouette against the wall, an avenging shadow with wings unfurled. I felt my chest tighten. Fear moved through me on instinct, old and primal. I couldn't speak; my throat was a knot. All I could do was nod, slowly, silently, like some small creature bowing before a storm it could never hope to tame.
Misha didn't move. She only swallowed hard, her wide eyes fixed on the angel who, in that moment, looked less like a savior and more like judgment itself. Angelica didn't lift her head. The sword remained embedded in the cracked wood, wings still trembling with a fury that seemed older than the earth.
And I, my heart beating against my ribs like a warning drum, could only obey.
Angelica stood there, unmoving, a statue carved from rage and moonlight. Her wings still quivered, feathers sifting to the floor like the ashes of some holy fire. The candle's flame wavered in the wake of her outburst, shrinking to a trembling pin of light. Misha's breath wavered against my shoulder. Then, slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. "Angelica…" Her voice cracked, but she forced it steady. "Not tonight." The angel did not stir. "My brother's legs…" Misha swallowed, her fingers tightening at her sides. "He can't even walk without pain. If we rush in now, we'll lose more than we'll save."
For a long, awful heartbeat, the only sound was the restless rustle of Angelica's wings.
I looked up at her, heart pounding. Even in the candlelight she seemed larger than life, like some wrathful seraph poised on the edge of war.
"Misha's right," I whispered, barely aware I was speaking. "We… we need a plan. Please."
The air held its breath. Then, with a sound like a slow exhale, Angelica's wings eased back. Their glow dimmed, the storm receding. Her fingers, still wrapped around the hilt buried in the floor, loosened. She gave a single, sharp tug; the blade slid free with a soft metallic hiss. The anger in her eyes hadn't vanished, but something else bled through now, weariness. A weight that looked older than her face. She turned the sword in her hand once, almost reluctantly, and slid it into its sheath. The click of the guard locking home sounded louder than it should have. Then, as though the fury had burned the strength right out of her, Angelica's knees gave way. She sank to the floor, her wings drooping until the tips brushed the dusty boards. The sudden quiet wrapped around us like a shroud. Misha crouched beside her, the stiffness in her posture softening. "Tomorrow," she said gently. "We strike tomorrow."
Angelica bowed her head, curls spilling forward to hide her face. Her shoulders trembled once. Whether from anger, exhaustion, or both, I couldn't tell. And for the first time since I'd met her, the angel who had seemed untouchable, wrathful, unshakable, suddenly looked achingly human.