The conflict on Earth was a mere pebble dropped into a vast, cosmic pond, yet the ripples were reaching the highest peaks and the lowest depths of existence.
In the blinding, crystalline halls of the Second Heaven, an angel named Sariel knelt before a throne of solidified light. Standing before the throne was Archangel Michael, the Commander of the Heavenly Host. His wings were like folded galaxies, and his presence was so holy it pained the air itself.
"Report, Sariel," Michael commanded. His voice was not a sound, but a resonance that shook the foundations of the spire.
"Lord Michael," Sariel whispered, head bowed. "A force has stirred in the mortal realm. A being that defies the natural order. It reeks of a darkness ancient and foul, yet it is shot through with a brilliance that belongs only to the Light. It is a creature caught in the threshold—neither an abomination nor a holy servant."
Michael narrowed his eyes, his gaze piercing through the clouds to the world below. "A being born of contradiction is an affront to the Creator's design. Anything that is not holy is unholy; there is no middle ground in the eyes of the Father. It is unprofessional for the cosmic balance to be tilted by such a freak of nature."
The Archangel's hand gripped the hilt of a sword made of sunfire. "Investigate this matter. Follow the trail of this 'In-Between.' If his actions tilt toward the unacceptable—if the darkness within him begins to swallow the light he stole—kill him on sight. Do not let the rot spread."
In the screaming silence of the abyss, far beneath the roots of the world, a demon named Paimon crawled toward a throne of obsidian and bone.
Lucifer, the King of Hell, sat with one leg crossed over the other, staring up at the distant, unreachable ceiling of his prison. He looked bored until Paimon spoke.
"Your Highness... a creature has risen," Paimon hissed. "His blood reeks. It smells of the Great Abomination you crafted eons ago."
"Cain's line is full of surprises," Lucifer drawled, his voice like silk over thorns. "What of it?"
"It also smells of the Light, my Lord. Pure, Archangelic light."
Lucifer's boredom vanished. He erupted into a menacing, melodic laughter that echoed through the pits of torment. "A creature not entirely ours, and not entirely theirs? Oh, I can only imagine the look on Michael's face. The 'unholy' and the 'holy' dancing in one skin."
Lucifer stood, his eyes reflecting the fires of his kingdom as he looked toward the Heavens. "What are You planning now, Father? Did You plant a seed of light in my garden of thorns, or is my monster finally learning to steal back his divinity? Either way... the game has become interesting again."
Unbeknownst to Gwaine, his violent struggle with Count Derial had acted as a beacon across the spiritual planes. The act of consuming the vampire's blood while the Angelic light was at its peak had forced a brutal evolution. The two forces, though still warring, were beginning to find a terrifying equilibrium. They were no longer just fighting; they were merging, each sharpening the other into something far more powerful than they were apart.
Gwaine's eyes flickered open. The first thing he saw was the orange dance of a campfire. He smelled the smoke of dried pine and the scent of roasting meat.
A figure sat with its back to him, tending the flames. Gwaine tried to move, but his body felt heavy—not with weakness, but with a new, dense energy he didn't yet understand.
The figure sighed, a sound of profound relief. "Good. You're awake."
Gwaine's heart—the human heart he now possessed—skipped a beat. The voice was unmistakable. It was the voice of the man who had seen his true self and struck him down in a silver hall.
"Who are you?" Gwaine rasped, his vision still swimming.
The figure slowly stood and turned. He reached up, pulling back the heavy travel hood to reveal the rugged, scarred face of the man who had been his jailer, it was Kignar!.
Gwaine recoiled, his hand instinctively reaching for the sword that lay by his side. "Kignar?! Are you here to take me back? Are the hunters waiting in the shadows to cage me again?"
Kignar looked at Gwaine, his expression unreadable. Gone was the rage from their last encounter. In its place was a weary, begrudging respect. He looked at the man who had spared his men despite being a "monster."
"No," Kignar answered, his voice low and steady. "Not this time, Gwaine. This time, I'm the one who owes a debt."