The northern citadel's fall sent shockwaves through what remained of the Church's command.
Messengers—those few who had escaped Behemoth's landslide—reached Sanctum's inner precincts by dawn on the sixth day. They knelt before the last surviving High Prelate in the fortified undercroft beneath the cathedral ruins, faces gray with ash and terror.
"The mountain walked," one whispered. "It spoke with the voice of judgment. Nothing remains."
The Prelate—old, trembling, once-powerful—clutched the arms of his chair.
"Then the Light has withdrawn its favor," he said. "The vessels are too strong. We cannot hold."
A soft voice answered from the shadows behind the throne.
"No. We can still hold."
Lucifer stepped forward—Lucian's body moving with unnatural grace. The boy's eyes were molten gold again, but the fever had broken; the bruises had faded. He looked almost healthy—almost human—if not for the faint glow beneath his skin.
The Prelate dropped to his knees.
"My Lord—"
Lucifer raised a hand. Golden light flared—soft, comforting.
"Rise. The time for despair is past. The World-Eater grows arrogant. He believes mercy has won him the city. He believes refusal has broken me."
He smiled—Lucian's gentle smile overlaid with something ancient and terrible.
"He is wrong."
He turned to the handful of remaining knights and inquisitors who had gathered in the undercroft.
"Prepare the Gate."
Murmurs of awe and fear rippled through the room.
The Gate—the hidden rift beneath the cathedral's foundations, sealed since the first descent of angels—was the last direct link to the heavens. Opening it fully would summon what remained of the celestial host, but at a cost: the boy's body would not survive another full manifestation. The tether would snap. Lucian would die.
Lucifer knew this.
He had always known.
He looked down at his own small hands—Lucian's hands—and flexed them once.
"So be it."
Outside the city, in the hidden safe-house they had moved to—an abandoned monastery on the western hill—Elias felt the shift before anyone spoke.
The golden cracks on his right side flared suddenly—bright, burning, pulling.
He gasped, clutching his chest.
Elara was at his side in an instant. "What is it?"
"He's… opening something."
Behemoth rose—stone grinding. Liora's shadows thickened instinctively around Lucian, who lay on a low cot, still unconscious but now stirring fitfully.
Outside, the wrong-coloured sky split again—not a wide rift this time, but a thin, vertical tear directly above the cathedral ruins. Golden light poured through—narrow, focused, like a spear aimed at the heart of the city.
Lucifer emerged from the tear.
Not fully manifested.
Not yet.
He stood atop the broken cathedral spire—Lucian's body silhouetted against the unnatural dawn—six golden wings half-unfurled, tattered but radiant. His voice rolled across the city—gentle, boyish, yet carrying to every corner.
"People of Sanctum. Children of the Light. Your saint has returned."
Crowds gathered—hesitant, hopeful, terrified.
Lucifer raised both arms.
"I was taken. I was used. But I fought. I closed the rift to save you. And now I offer you one final chance."
Golden light spread outward from him—soft, healing, touching the wounded, mending broken stone, easing pain. People wept. People knelt. People believed again.
"I offer you redemption."
The light reached the monastery hill.
Inside, Lucian's body arched on the cot—eyes snapping open, gold flooding in.
Lucifer's voice spoke through him—close, intimate, terrible.
Come to me, brother. Bring your vessels. Witness the Gate. Help me open it. Or watch me tear it open alone—and take the child with me.
Elias staggered to his feet.
The golden cracks burned hotter—linking him to Lucian across the distance.
He looked at the others.
"We have to go."
Elara's face hardened. "It's a trap."
"I know."
Behemoth lifted his club. "Stone walks."
Liora's shadows coiled. "Let's make it hurt."
Elias nodded once.
They moved—out of the monastery, down the hill, through streets that parted before them—toward the cathedral ruins, toward the tear in the sky, toward the boy who carried their enemy and their hope in the same fragile body.
Lucifer watched them come—golden wings spreading wider.
And smiled.
The counter-strike had begun.
The Gate waited.
And the world—already fractured—held its breath for the final choice.
End of Chapter 30