The sky above Sanctum had become a battlefield of its own.
The thin golden rift—once narrow and controlled—had torn wider again during the night. Not a full invasion portal this time, but a leaking wound. Angels descended in ragged streams—dozens at first, then hundreds—each one smaller and dimmer than those who had come before. Their armor was cracked; their wings flickered like dying candle flames. Heaven itself was bleeding out.
They fell toward the city—not in perfect formation, not with trumpets and judgment, but in desperation.
Elias watched from the monastery roof.
The black-gold sigil at his chest pulsed steadily—neither triumphant nor defeated. The power of Leviathan, Behemoth, and Belial still thrummed inside him—tamed, contained, but ready. The golden cracks on his right side ached in time with the angels' descent, as though some part of him still answered their call.
Elara climbed up beside him—shoulder bandaged, face grim.
"They're not fighting to win anymore," she said. "They're fighting to survive."
Below, in the streets, the remnants of Sanctum's people watched the falling stars with a mixture of terror and exhausted resignation. Some ran. Some knelt. Some simply stared—too broken to move.
Behemoth stood at the base of the monastery wall—silent, immovable—watching the sky.
Liora leaned against the parapet—shadows thin and pale around her.
"They look tired," she murmured. "Even angels get tired."
Elias did not answer.
One of the descending figures broke away—smaller than the rest, wings ragged, armor half-melted. It landed hard in the plaza below—cracking flagstones—then rose slowly.
A single angel—female, silver-haired, eyes burning white—looked up at the monastery roof.
She raised her sword—not in threat, but in plea.
"Vessel of Abaddon," she called. Her voice cracked—beautiful once, now fraying. "The Light fades. The Gate collapses. Our Father… falters."
She lowered the blade.
"We ask mercy."
Silence fell across the plaza.
Elias felt the weight of every eye—mortal and celestial—turn toward him.
Abaddon spoke inside—calm, almost curious.
They beg now. How poetic.
Elias stepped to the edge of the roof.
He looked down at the angel—then at the others still falling, still fighting gravity and exhaustion.
Then he looked at the city—broken, bleeding, but still breathing.
"I won't kill you," he said. Loud enough to carry. "Not today."
The angel's white eyes widened.
"But I won't let you keep burning what's left."
He raised one hand.
Black flames rose—not to destroy, but to contain.
They spread outward—slow, cold—forming a vast dome over the plaza. Not a cage. A shield. Angels who touched the edge recoiled—wings singed, light dimmed—but they did not die. They simply could not advance.
The falling angels slowed—then stopped—hovering, uncertain.
The silver-haired one lowered her sword completely.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Elias's hand trembled.
The black flames held—steady, unyielding—but the effort showed. Sweat beaded on his brow. The golden cracks burned hotter—Lucifer's lingering tether fighting back.
Inside him, Abaddon growled—low, impatient.
You shield them. Again.
Elias's voice was hoarse.
"I shield what's left to shield."
The angel below bowed—once, deeply—then turned.
She spread her wings—flickering, fading—and rose.
One by one, the others followed—ascending back through the shrinking rift, carrying their wounded, their doubts, their exhaustion.
The tear in the sky narrowed—golden light guttering—then closed with a sound like distant thunder rolling backward.
Silence returned.
True silence.
No angels fell.
No flames roared.
Only the wind moving through broken stone.
Elias lowered his hand.
The black dome faded—slowly, gently—until only faint sparks drifted on the breeze.
He sank to his knees—breathing hard.
Elara caught him before he fell.
"You did it," she whispered. "You stopped them."
Elias shook his head—weakly.
"I delayed them."
He looked up at the sky—now ordinary blue again, though bruised at the edges.
"They'll come back. Or he will. Or the Entity will find another way to make it interesting."
Behemoth stepped forward—placed one massive hand on Elias's shoulder.
"Stone endures," he rumbled. "So do we."
Liora crouched beside him—shadows soft around her.
"You gave them mercy," she said quietly. "Even after everything."
Elias looked toward the monastery—toward the room where Lucian still slept.
"I gave him time," he said. "That's all I can give anyone now."
The city below began to move again—slowly, carefully—people emerging from hiding, helping each other, beginning the long work of rebuilding.
No cheers.
No prayers.
Just quiet, stubborn survival.
And above it all, the indifferent eye watched—narrowed slightly, intrigued.
The angels had fallen.
But the war had not ended.
It had only changed shape.
And the boy who refused to end the world now carried the weight of keeping it breathing—for one more day.
For one more fragile, expensive day.
End of Chapter 34