CHAPTER 79: FINDING A BROTHER
“Please let me come with you. I swear I’ll behave!” Suryel begged.
Her voice cracked on the last word, not from weakness, but from restraint.
She was holding herself together by sheer will and stubbornness, like someone gripping a blade too tightly and pretending it didn’t cut.
Helel didn’t even hesitate. “No.”
One syllable.
Clean.
Final.
Like a verdict stamped into stone.
He didn’t look away from her either, which made it worse.
Helel stepped closer, lowering his voice just slightly, like softening the tone would make the boundary hurt less.
“If I bring you, you’ll go in unprepared.” He said, his jaw tight. “And he will not forgive either of us if he found you there.”
She surged forward anyway, like a wildfire deciding it had had enough of being contained.
She slammed into him and wrapped her arms around his torso.
Helel froze.
Not because he didn’t expect her to do something dramatic.
He always expected that.
He froze because he felt her shaking.
Because her wings were trembling against his sides.
Because the hug wasn’t manipulation anymore.
It was panic disguised as stubbornness.
For half a second, his hands hovered, unsure if he was allowed to comfort her when he was the one denying her.
Then he exhaled, and his arms came around her, firm and protective, like he was bracing her against the world.
“Plus.” Helel continued, voice quieter now as he hugged her back, “You are currently more fire and heartbreak than clarity and logic, sunbird.”
His fingers pressed gently into the feathers at her back, grounding her.
“So,” He added, with the tone of someone trying to make a joke out of a knife wound. “You are not leaving this realm to storm the Abyss. That’s final.”
From inside Belial’s cube, a low hum vibrated through the air, like laughter trying to become physical.
Belial leaned forward within the transparent prison, grinning with the bright-eyed delight of a storm given a mouth.
“Do any one of you want to take bets on whether she’ll calm down eventually or break?” Belial asked, voice light with amusement.
His eyes glittered like polished obsidian. “Either way, fun for me.”
Suryel didn’t look at Belial, she pressed her forehead harder into Helel’s chest, clinging like a drowning person clinging to driftwood.
Her wings drooped.
Heavy.
Humiliated.
Her fists clenched so hard her nails bit into her own palms, the sting barely registering compared to the pressure inside her ribs.
Her entire body screamed forward.
Toward the Abyss.
Toward Yael.
Toward the laughter she couldn’t hear but could feel in her bones, Samael’s amusement crawling under her skin like poison.
And yet… she was held.
Not by chains.
By people.
By brothers who understood the shape of her rage because they had lived inside the repercussions of the same kind of fire before.
Helel’s.
She was being checked by the Realm itself, which never stopped teaching her the same brutal lesson:
Choice was a sword, sharp and necessary.
And its always willing to cut the hand that wielded it first.
Suryel’s breath shuddered in.
Then out.
Then in again.
Sharper.
Like she was grinding her anger into something usable.
And then the realization hit her.
Cold and clear.
If she fought to get her way…
Helel would just put her back to sleep.
And then she’d wake later.
Ignorant.
Delayed.
While Yael continued suffering without her.
The worst part is she wouldn’t even know what she’d missed.
Suryel swallowed.
Her mind finally caught up with her heart.
But when it did, it didn’t soften.
It sharpened:
I’ll contain my plan.
Make preparation for now.
Silently and all on my own.
The thoughts came with frightening calm.
So that if two brothers ended up needing it…
She would already be ready to take her own action.
Suryel inhaled.
Slowly.
Sharply.
A plan began forming in her mind.
Bright.
Jagged.
Merciless.
The fire wasn’t gone.
It had only been folded.
Compressed into a blade.
Her fists unclenched.
She straightened with deliberate control, wings folding back with intention instead of emotion.
Her eyes still burned, but now it was restraint instead of desperation.
“Alright…” She whispered.
Her voice was flat with surrender that wasn’t surrender.
She lifted her head, looking up at Helel, pouting with exaggerated dismay like she was trying to act childish just to keep herself from crying.
“Fine.” She said, then added softly. “Be careful, brother.”
Helel’s mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
More like pain trying to pretend it was humor.
“You don’t get to give me orders.” He joked, his tone warmed despite himself.
And the warmth hit him harder than he expected.
That word: Brother.
It slid under his armor like sunlight.
Suryel stared into his eyes quietly, like she was memorizing him in case she had to remember him through grief.
Then she said, voice quiet but sharp.
“Come back anyway. No sacrificial repeat like in the black lake.”
That landed—
Helel didn’t answer fast.
His gaze flicked away like the words struck somewhere tender.
Because she wasn’t joking.
And he could hear the warning hidden inside it:
If you fail… if you get captured too… I will follow you.
It wasn’t just him who sensed the meaning.
Azriel stood nearby, halberd slung, posture carved from judgment.
He watched Suryel the way death studies silence and change.
Raphael lingered at the periphery with healer’s eyes, scanning Suryel like a patient who insisted she was fine while bleeding through her ribs.
Everyone felt the pressure in the air.
Metatron’s presence hung above the Archive like an unseen quill poised mid-sentence.
Not intervening nor approving, still recording.
Suryel rose slowly, letting her rage cool just enough to become strategy.
Belial’s cube hummed nearby, restrained but mocking, as if the air itself whispered:
Not exciting yet, but it will be soon.
The brothers escorted her to her Abode.
Not like guards escorting a prisoner.
Like they were escorting a fiery storm cloud away from a dry forest.
Raphael stayed on her left, quiet but ready, like he was prepared to catch her if she broke and fought openly again.
Azriel stayed on her right, steady as law, in case she ran.
Helel walked behind her, sword sheathe but presence unsheathed.
Suryel didn’t speak.
She didn’t thank them nor look back.
She just walked.
Controlled.
Compliant.
Every step measured.
Because she understood the rules now:
If she exploded, they would stop her.
If she fought, they would contain her.
If she tried to run— Authority himself would shut the doors of reality to her face.
So instead, she became quiet.
And quiet was always more dangerous.
At the door to her Abode, Suryel finally spoke.
“I’ll behave.” She said softly, shadow hiding her expression as she opened the door only a little. “So come home quickly.”
Helel stared at her with suspicion.
Azriel’s expression didn’t change, but his head tilted slightly, thoughtful.
Raphael blinked once, eyes thinning like he could hear the lie in her heartbeat.
Then Suryel smiled.
Not sweet.
Nor kind.
Sharp enough to be a warning.
And then she shut the door.
No goodnight.
No warmth.
Only a clean, final click.
Raphael exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it like his patience had bruises.
Helel didn’t move.
He stared at the door like he could still feel her heat through it.
They folded through space and crossed the bridge
Boots echoing against soft grassy ground.
“She normally keep her door open…” Helel said at last, voice grim. “She’s definitely plotting something.”
Raphael replied without looking at him, voice dry as dust. “Obviously.”
Azriel’s voice cut in, calm and merciless.
“That is what she does when she is forced to wait.” He said. “She hasn’t changed one bit. Why does she need to take after you?”
Helel huffed, scratching at the back of his neck like he’d been accused of a crime he absolutely committed.
“Install guards to watch her. Always.” Helel’s eyes narrowed. “Since your duties will surely keep you. You’re already busy.”
Raphael gave him a look and a short, humorless laugh. “You think guards will stop her?”
Azriel answered before Helel could. “No.”
Helel’s gaze sharpened, offended. “Well yeah. I don’t.”
His voice lowered. “But what would?”
Azriel’s gaze drifted upward, toward the Archive’s invisible weight.
“We have… the Throne.” Azriel said simply. “And time.”
Helel snorted. “Time is not our ally.”
A pause.
Then Helel spoke again, voice equal, addressing the Realm itself.
“Open the path.”
Authority did not answer with words.
He answered with permission.
The air split.
Not ripped.
Parted.
A corridor formed, thin as a blade, stretching downward into impossible dark.
A pursuit path through the Abyss.
Metatron’s presence sharpened in the Archive Tower, faint pressure tightening the space as if the Realm itself leaned closer to watch.
Raphael’s fingers flexed once at his side.
A healer’s instinct, useless here, irritated by the fact he could not patch what he could not reach.
His domain didn’t extend into the Abyss without permission.
Azriel stepped forward half a pace, halberd angled like a silent blessing.
“Bring him back.” Azriel said.
Helel didn’t look at him. “I plan to.”
Raphael’s voice softened, reluctant. “And don’t die. I’m tired.”
Helel let out a single breath that almost resembled laughter.
Then he lifted his blade beside him, angled downward like a falling star.
He stepped into the corridor.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the world changed.
The air became heatless fire.
Space became pressure.
The Abyss’s distance wasn’t measured in miles.
It was measured in suffering.
In the kind of geography that made souls lose their names.
Helel’s stomach rolled.
His lungs clenched.
But he didn’t slow.
He ran.
Not like someone fleeing.
Like a comet chasing stolen light.
Sword forward.
Eyes burning.
No longer brother.
No longer courtier.
Something older.
Something wrathful.
Something that remembered war.
His voice spoke once, low and savage, not meant for any ear.
“Hold on, Yael… I’m coming for you.”
And then he disappeared into the dark.
The Abyss greeted him like a theatre.
Not with applause.
With anticipation.
The air smelled of scorched vows and old blood.
Embers floated like stage dust.
The distant hum of Hellion laughter echoed through stone like music leaking from behind curtains.
Helel moved downward, deeper, into the reverse tower-like place that dug into the Abyss like an opening wound.
A place where wings were decorative.
Where air did not lift.
Where gravity was not physics.
It was a verdict.
Every step downward felt like stepping into heavier gravity.
The stone stairs narrowed.
The walls grew slick with shadow.
And the Abyss itself seemed to whisper:
Come closer.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The show is about to begin.
Hellions appeared in the periphery like ushers.
Not attacking yet.
Watching.
Assessing.
They tracked him like an audience tracked a famous actor entering stage.
Helel kept his gaze forward.
He did not grant them the satisfaction of eye contact.
He felt the pressure of their hunger anyway.
Then, without warning, the first barrage came.
A shriek of claws against stone.
A rain of sigils like thrown knives.
Helel twisted, blade flashing.
He didn’t fight like a soldier.
He fought like a storm.
A swing.
A step.
A pivot.
A slice of light that didn’t belong in Hell.
Hellions recoiled, hissing, laughing, delighted by the spectacle.
“Brother!” One crooned, voice slick and mimicking innocence. “Come play!”
Helel didn’t answer.
He moved.
Faster.
Lower.
Deeper.
But the Abyss had rules.
And one of them was simple:
Nothing passes without paying.
A Hellion slammed into him from the side, clawed hands reaching for his belt.
Helel jerked away.
But too late.
A small object tore free.
The tablet Azriel had given him.
His communication slate.
The thing that let him push a message upward through Realm rules into the Archive Tower.
It skittered across stone.
The Hellion snatched it with a squeal of delight.
Helel’s eyes widened.
Not fear.
Not for himself.
For what the loss meant.
No message.
No updates.
No reassurance.
Suryel would spiral without news.
Raphael would worry.
Azriel would calculate the worst.
And Metatron could not watch.
Helel lunged.
The Hellion laughed, darting back into shadow.
Helel swore under his breath and went after it.
And the Abyss laughed with them.
Meanwhile—
Still in the lower depths of the Abyss.
An audience chamber.
Yael’s body sagged against chains.
Not because he’d surrendered.
Because pain had become routine.
A rhythm.
A clock.
Two Hellion keepers held the chains taut, posturing like they were part of the performance.
Their hands gripped the restraints with vanity.
Like they enjoyed being seen as the ones controlling him.
Samael watched Yael like an artist watching paint dry.
“Your silence is impressive…” Samael said softly, voice like velvet. “But it is not loyalty.”
Yael swallowed, throat raw.
“…It’s discipline.” He rasped.
Samael smiled, delighted.
“Oh, haha.” His laugh was gentle in the way a knife could be gentle. “So noble. Aren’t you?”
He stood, stepping closer, each footfall timed like stage direction.
He lifted Yael’s chin with two fingers, forcing his gaze upward.
“Do you truly know what discipline is, Yael?” Samael asked.
Yael didn’t answer.
Samael’s voice softened into poison.
“Discipline is choosing suffering.” He murmured. “And pretending it makes you clean.”
Yael’s eyes burned.
Samael leaned in, breath warm like a lie.
“I wonder…” He asked thoughtfully, eyes glittering. “Do you also think and wonder if… she’s hunting for you right now?”
Yael’s breath hitched.
Just once.
Samael saw it.
His eyes gleamed like he’d been handed a gift.
“I’m sure she is.” Samael said, pleased. “And every step she takes, every fear she swallows, every breath she forces…”
He smiled wider. “It’s all for you.”
Yael’s jaw trembled.
Samael’s smile sharpened.
“Isn’t that beautiful?” He whispered. “That you can hurt her without even lifting a finger.”
Yael’s voice came out like broken glass. “Don’t… hurt her.”
Samael’s smile thinned into something crueler.
“Hmm…” He tilted his head, as if considering.
Then he decided. “No. I think I will.”
He turned away, strolling like a king through his chamber.
Then casually, he gestured.
The chains tightened in the Hellion keepers’ hands.
Not enough to break bone.
Enough to remind Yael his body belonged to the room.
Yael gasped, teeth clenched, shoulders straining.
Samael’s voice drifted back, calm as a lullaby.
“Do you want to know what I want, Yael?”
Yael’s breathing shook.
Samael turned to look at him, smiling like a man sharing a secret.
“I want you to decide.” Samael said. “I want you to choose whether you remain here… or whether you run.”
Yael’s eyes narrowed, confusion flickering through pain.
Samael’s grin widened.
“Because if you stay…” Samael whispered, stepping closer again, “You break her.”
He leaned in.
“And if you run,” Samael said softly, voice intimate as blasphemy, “You will still lead her to me because you will just run around in circles, needing to be retrieved.”
Yael’s breath stopped.
Samael’s eyes glittered with certainty.
“Either way, I win.” Samael murmured.
And then he truly left.
The chamber fell into a different kind of silence.
Not peace.
Just the pause between acts.
The Hellion keepers looked at each other like bored guards who thought their prisoner was already dead in spirit.
One of them clicked their tongue.
“Still breathing.” It mocked, leaning closer to Yael’s face. “Sentinels are so stubborn.”
The other laughed, low and pleased.
“He’s nothing. Look at him.”
Yael let his head hang.
Let his wings droop.
Let his breathing shake.
He gave them what they wanted.
A broken thing.
A trophy.
But inside his ribs, his mind stayed clear.
Recon turned anchor.
Warmth with a spine.
He listened to their voices.
Their pride.
Their vanity.
And he made a decision.
Not about staying or running.
About surviving.
Yael lifted his head just slightly, eyes half-lidded, voice rough.
“You’re proud.” He rasped out a laugh.
The Hellion nearest him blinked. “What?”
Yael’s mouth twitched, barely.
Not a smile.
A hook.
“Holding my chains.” He continued, voice weak on purpose. “Like that makes you strong.”
The first Hellion bristled immediately, posture straightening. “Excuse you?”
The second scoffed. “He’s delirious.”
Yael’s gaze flicked to it, slow.
“No,” He whispered. “You’re just… scared.”
That one snapped forward, offended. “Scared of what?”
Yael swallowed, letting his voice shake.
“Scared that if you let go,” He said, “I can still kill you.”
The chamber went still.
The Hellions stared at him.
Then the first one laughed loud, too loud. “Kill us?”
The second leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “You can’t even stand.”
Yael’s voice dropped, almost mocking. “Hey, so then why don’t you prove it.”
That was all it took—
Vanity did the rest.
The first Hellion’s claws tightened around the chain.
“I don’t need chains to beat a dying bird.”
The second laughed.
“Let him try.”
They loosened the restraints.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But enough.
Yael felt the slack.
Felt the moment.
And his entire body snapped from broken to lethal.
One breath.
One movement.
His wrists twisted, slipping free as the chain loosened.
He drove his elbow into the first Hellion’s throat with brutal precision, crushing sound and air at once.
The creature choked, stumbling back.
Before the second could react, Yael stepped forward, grabbed its wrist, and used its own momentum against it.
A pivot.
A sweep.
A slam.
The Hellion hit the stone hard enough to crack ember-dust from the floor.
It snarled, trying to rise.
Yael didn’t give it time.
He planted a boot on its chest and drove his fist down into its jaw.
Once.
Twice.
Clean.
Efficient.
Weaponless.
Recon training.
Throne discipline.
No wasted motion.
The first Hellion staggered toward him, claws out, furious.
Yael turned, caught the wrist mid-swipe, and wrenched.
Bone snapped.
The Hellion screamed.
Yael didn’t flinch.
He yanked it forward and slammed its face into the wall, hard enough to smear shadow and blood across stone.
Then he leaned in, voice low. “Eat dust.”
And he drove his knee into its ribs.
The Hellion collapsed, wheezing.
Yael stood there breathing hard, shoulders trembling.
Not from fear.
From damage.
He was injured.
He was exhausted.
But he was free.
He didn’t waste time finishing them.
He didn’t have the luxury.
Yael stumbled out of the chamber, one hand braced against the wall as he moved into a dim corridor where emberlight barely reached.
His wings dragged slightly behind him, feathers singed, posture still upright through sheer stubbornness.
He ran.
Not fast.
Not graceful.
But relentless.
The Abyss corridor narrowed, twisting like intestines.
Distant laughter echoed like a crowd reacting to a plot twist.
Yael’s lungs burned.
His vision blurred.
He kept going anyway.
Then he turned a corner and collided with something solid.
Not a Hellion.
Not shadow.
Not laughter.
A body.
A presence.
Yael stumbled back, fists lifting instinctively, ready to fight even if it killed him.
The figure didn’t attack.
It simply stood there.
Silent.
Still.
Like a blade that didn’t need to move to be dangerous.
Muriel.
Known in the Abyss as Abbadon.
The Eternal Realm’s Envoy.
A long term Recon in the Abyss.
Yael froze.
Muriel’s gaze flicked over him, taking in the blood, the torn wings, and the bruises.
The way Yael still held himself like discipline was armor.
Then Muriel’s mouth twitched.
Not quite approval.
Nor amusement.
Something that came cold— Respect.
“You got loose.” Muriel said, voice quiet as shadow.
Yael’s breathing shook. “…Yes.”
Muriel tilted his head slightly, as if listening to the Abyss around them, calculating pursuit patterns.
Then he looked back at Yael.
“Impressive.” Muriel said simply.
Yael swallowed. “Are you going to stop me?”
Muriel’s eyes narrowed, almost offended at the question.
“My loyalty is to Realm thresholds.” He replied. “Not to Samael’s entertainment.”
Then Muriel stepped aside, revealing a branching corridor that looked darker, quieter, safer— if anything in the Abyss could be called safe.
Muriel lifted his void-blade slightly, chain-edge whispering.
“We move, Come.” He said.
Yael didn’t argue.
He followed.
—
Back in the Eternal Realm.
Suryel stood at a high window overlooking the sea from the Archive Tower.
The ocean stretched below, winds teasing her hair, salt tangling against her lips.
She thought it would be calming.
Instead, it reminded her of depth and drowning.
Of Yael possibly being dragged downward while she is told to wait.
She placed her palm on the ledge.
Not to feel it.
To anchor.
To keep herself from cracking.
Metatron’s presence hovered faintly, watching from above like an eye behind a veil.
Raphael stood nearby pretending he wasn’t guarding her.
Azriel stood nearer to the door pretending he wasn’t blocking her.
Suryel didn’t look at them.
She just breathed.
And planned silently.
Belial’s cube rattled slightly on a guarded shelf, impatient like a caged animal.
Belial’s voice slipped out like a whisper through bars.
“I can help you break into the Abyss, you know.” He murmured. “If you’ll just stop pretending that you’re not in charge.”
Suryel smiled without warmth. “I am in charge.”
Belial’s gauntleted hands tapped against the cube.
“I hope you know what you’re doing~” He sang, voice bright with menace. “You could end up with two dead brothers instead of just one.”
Suryel’s eyes stayed on the ocean.
But her voice sharpened like a blade being drawn.
“If I didn’t.” She answered softly. “… You’d have no fun at all.”
Raphael’s head snapped toward her, brows knitting.
Azriel’s gaze flicked, measuring.
Metatron’s pressure tightened slightly, like the Realm itself leaned closer.
Belial blinked.
Then laughed, delighted.
“Oh…” He breathed. “She understood me.”
Suryel turned from the window.
Her wings lifted slightly, then settled again.
Controlled.
Not flared.
Not emotional.
Just… ready.
She looked at Raphael.
Then Azriel.
Then upward, where she could feel Metatron’s attention like a weight.
“I am not leaving,” She said icily. “Calm down.”
Raphael narrowed his eyes. “Good.”
But I will prepare, Suryel thought.
Azriel was quiet, like he already knew.
Suryel’s smile turned razor-thin.
Helel ran deeper.
The pursuit ended in a burst of violence and shadow.
Hellions swarmed him in a corridor too narrow for wings, too heavy for breath.
He cut through them with furious precision.
But the tablet was gone.
Stolen.
Swallowed by the Abyss.
Helel stopped for half a second, chest heaving.
Then he did something dangerous.
He spoke into the Abyss anyway.
Not through a tablet.
Not through a sigil.
But through sheer will.
Through siblinghood.
Through vow.
“Suryel…” He whispered, voice raw.
He didn’t know if she’d hear.
He didn’t know if the Realm would allow it.
But he said it anyway. “Stay put. We will come home to you.”
Above, in the Eternal Realm, Suryel’s head snapped up.
“Helel?” Her eyes widened and she stood up.
Raphael stiffened. “What?”
Suryel’s lips parted, breath catching. “I thought I heard him…”
She could feel it.
A thread, a vibration through the Archive’s bones.
Not words, a pulse, presence— Helel.
Alive, moving faraway and yet close.
Metatron’s pressure shifted.
Not approval.
Not denial.
Just observation.
Azriel’s gaze sharpened. “You heard Helel?”
Suryel’s voice came out almost inaudible. “Yes…”
Raphael’s jaw tightened. “… And?”
Suryel’s smile returned.
Not pretty.
Not gentle.
But true.
“And I’m still behaving.” She said.
Then she turned toward the Archive Tower’s door.
Already silently calculating her next ten steps.
Raphael moved first.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just a healer stepping into the path of a patient who had decided pain was optional.
“Suryel?” His voice was quiet but weighted. “Whatever you are planning in that head of yours. Don’t.”
She didn’t stop walking.
Her wings didn’t flare.
Her polearm didn’t appear.
That was the terrifying part— She was calm.
And Raphael knew calm was what happened right before someone detonated.
Suryel looked him in the eye and replied softly, almost polite. “I said that I am not leaving.”
Azriel’s eyes narrowed, halberd still at rest but attention fully drawn.
“Then why are you moving like you are?”
Suryel’s fingers brushed the Archive stair’s railing as she passed, like she was memorizing the texture of the world.
“Because.” She said. “I am thinking about it. But I am actively choosing not to be a liability.”
That made Raphael flinch.
His mouth tightened, like her words hit somewhere that wasn’t armor.
“No.” Raphael said too quickly, reaching out and patting her head like he could fix her brain with affection. “You are not a liability.”
Suryel paused.
Half a breath.
Not enough to give them comfort.
Just enough to make the moment heavy.
She looked back over her shoulder from Raphael to Azriel, eyes bright and cold.
“I was.” She said. “I still am.”
Azriel didn’t argue.
He didn’t soften her realization.
He only nodded once, acknowledging a verdict.
“Then embrace the opportunity to learn.” He said. “And learn without letting yourself get caged by your thoughts.”
Suryel’s lips twitched.
A near-smile.
A dangerous one.
“I won’t get caged.” She promised vaguely.
Above them, Metatron’s presence sharpened, not as voice but as weight.
As if the Archive was tightening its grip on reality’s collar, reminding them all: permission was conditional.
Suryel felt it.
She stopped again, gaze drifting upward as if she could stare directly at the invisible watcher.
Then she bowed her head.
Not submission.
Not reverence.
A student acknowledging a teacher, a mentor.
“Metatron…” She said quietly. “I understand.”
The air didn’t respond.
But the silence shifted.
Like a quill hovering closer to paper.
Raphael exhaled through his nose. “That is not comforting.”
Suryel’s gaze flicked to him and she grinned. “It’s not meant to be.”
She reached for the door.
Raphael’s hand lifted, not grabbing her, not daring, just hovering.
Helpless in that way healers hated most.
His eyes darkened. “... What do you intend to do?”
Suryel opened the door.
Only a sliver.
Just enough for shadow to spill across her face like a veil.
“I plan…” She said, mid-thought. “… to become the kind of person the Abyss can’t lie to.”
Then she stepped back into the Lapis Lazuli corridor.
The door clicked shut.
Clean.
Final.
Raphael stared at it like it had slammed on his ribs.
“She’s going to do something reckless…” He muttered.
Azriel didn’t look away from the door. “Yes.”
Raphael blinked. “That’s all you have to say?”
Azriel finally turned his head slightly, expression unreadable.
“She is… Suryel.” He said simply. “Reckless is in her nature.”
Raphael felt an impending chase like a chill.
He looked up instinctively, as if he could catch Metatron’s eyes.
“Are you also going to let her?” He accused the air. “Please stop her. Metatron.”
The air did not answer.
But Azriel did.
“The Throne do not stop storms… or students.” He said. “It measures where they land.”
Raphael’s jaw clenched. “And if she lands wrong—”
Azriel’s gaze cut toward him, sharp and unyielding. “Then we catch her.”
A beat.
Then he added, quieter, almost confession. “And if we fail…”
Raphael’s voice turned grim, finishing the thought. “Then we lose all three.”
Azriel didn’t deny it.
He stepped away from the door and looked through the tower’s window toward the direction beyond the bridge where the Abyss-path had opened.
“So we won’t.” He muttered. “We can’t.”
