The monastery on the western hill had become a fragile sanctuary.
Its walls—cracked stone overgrown with ivy—offered little protection against the fractured sky, but they were high enough to hide four vessels, one unconscious saint, and the growing fear that time was running out.
Elias spent the hours after Lucifer's counter-strike sitting beside Lucian's cot.
The boy had woken twice more—briefly, painfully. Each time the hazel eyes surfaced long enough to recognize Elias, to squeeze his hand once, to whisper the same broken plea:
"Don't let him win."
Then the gold would flicker back in, the body would tense, and Lucian would slip under again—trapped in whatever internal war still raged between saint and fallen angel.
Elias did not sleep.
He could not.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the cathedral again: the rift, the descending angels, the moment he had almost let Abaddon finish it. He saw Lucian's terrified face begging for death. He saw the golden cracks on his own skin pulsing in time with the boy's heartbeat.
Abaddon spoke rarely now—watching, waiting, patient in a way that felt worse than rage.
You refuse me still, the demon said at last, soft as distant thunder. Even knowing the cost.
Elias stared at Lucian's pale face.
"I know the cost either way."
Then choose.
"I already did."
Silence inside him—long, heavy.
Then Abaddon murmured—almost curious.
How long do you think you can keep choosing mercy before mercy itself becomes the greater cruelty?
Elias had no answer.
Outside, the wrong-coloured sky deepened. The stars that should not exist burned brighter. The ground trembled—not from Behemoth this time, but from something deeper, slower, as though the world itself were beginning to tear at the seams.
Elara entered the room quietly—carrying a bowl of rainwater she had collected from the roof.
"He's burning hotter," she said. "Whatever's happening inside him… it's getting worse."
Elias nodded.
She set the bowl down and sat across from him.
"You're going to lose him," she said—not cruelly, just factually. "If you keep holding back."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because if I don't hold back," Elias interrupted, "there won't be anything left to lose him from."
Elara looked at him—really looked.
"You're not just fighting Lucifer anymore," she said quietly. "You're fighting him." She tapped her own chest—where Leviathan's mark lay hidden. "And him." A glance toward the doorway where Behemoth stood guard. "And her." A nod toward Liora, who sat in the corner weaving shadows into fragile wards around the room.
"You're fighting all of us. Every time you refuse."
Elias exhaled—shaky.
"I know."
She reached across the cot—placed her hand over his on Lucian's.
"Then let us help carry it," she said. "You don't have to be the only one refusing."
Elias looked down at their joined hands—then at Lucian's still face.
For the first time since the obelisk, he felt something like relief.
Not hope.
Not victory.
Just the small, fragile knowledge that he was no longer alone in the refusal.
He squeezed her hand once.
"Thank you."
Outside, the sky cracked again—not wide, not violent, but deliberate.
A thin golden line appeared above the monastery—narrow, focused, like a needle aimed at the heart of the hill.
Lucifer's voice rolled across the city once more—gentle, boyish, inescapable.
The Gate opens tonight. Come, brother. Bring your vessels. Witness the end of cages. Or stay… and watch the child burn from the inside.
The golden line pulsed.
Lucian's body arched—eyes snapping open—gold flooding in.
He gasped—once, sharp—then spoke in Lucifer's layered voice.
Time is expensive, Elias Voss.
And the bill is due.
Elias stood.
The black flames flickered along his arms—not wild, not consuming, but ready.
He looked at Elara.
"At least we choose how we pay it."
She nodded once.
Behemoth stepped forward—stone grinding.
Liora rose—shadows coiling.
They moved together—out of the monastery, down the hill, toward the golden line in the sky, toward the Gate, toward the end that had been waiting since the first seal cracked.
And inside Elias, Abaddon whispered—almost proud.
Refuse again, little vessel.
Make it interesting.
The boy who refused walked forward.
The world held its breath.
And the Entity—far above, far beyond—turned the page.
Curious.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
End of Chapter 31