The night was a suffocating shroud around their makeshift camp, the fire reduced to embers that pulsed like dying stars. Hael lay rigid in his tent, his breathing shallow, his body taut as a drawn bowstring. Sleep, when it came, was no refuge—only a return to the nightmare that had haunted him for weeks.
The woman's hands slipped through his fingers like smoke. A child's terrified whimper echoed in the dark. He strained, muscles burning, to pull them back—but something vast and unseen wrenched them away. Then the demon emerged, its maw splitting wide, fangs glistening with venom—
Hael woke with a roar, his axe already in hand, the blade stopping a hair's breadth from Mary's throat.
"Whoa! Whoa!" Mary stumbled back, her hands raised. "You were dreaming—I just—I heard you shouting—"
Hael's chest heaved, his knuckles white around the axe haft. For a heartbeat, the nightmare clung to him, the demon's face still superimposed over Mary's wide-eyed fear. Then reality crashed back. He lowered the weapon, his voice rough as gravel.
"It was nothing. You didn't have to—"
"Nothing?" Mary's laugh was sharp, brittle. "You were thrashing like a man possessed. And you're drenched." She gestured to his sweat-soaked tunic. "That wasn't nothing."
Hael's jaw clenched. "I said I'm fine."
Mary opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. She muttered something under her breath as she turned away.
Hael's voice lashed out. "What was that?"
"Nothing!"
Hael exhaled through his nose, the nightmare's claws still hooked in his ribs. He rolled his shoulders, forcing the tension out, and grabbed his pack.
"Golgotha isn't far," he said, more to himself than to Mary. "No more delays."
Mary's back was to him, but her voice carried, thick with sarcasm. "Sure. Never mind that someone kept me up all night. But by all means, let's march into hell on no sleep."
Hael's glare could have melted steel. "What. Did. You. Say?"Mary froze, then forced a smile over her shoulder. "Nothing!" She threw up her hands, already retreating toward the horses. "I'll get them saddled."
The night was thick with fog, a suffocating veil that clung to Hael and Mary as they led their horses through the murk. Every step was a gamble, the path ahead swallowed by the shifting gray.
Then—movement.
Two figures crouched behind an overturned caravan, their silhouettes hunched in the mist. Mary's daggers flashed into her hands. "Enemies," she hissed.
Hael's gauntlet clamped around her wrist. "No. Travelers."
Mary squinted. "How can you tell?"
"I do not look with my eyes," he said. "I discern with my spirit."
Before she could protest, Hael was already striding forward. The figures resolved into an old man and a boy, both straining to free their wagon from the mud. The boy spotted Hael first and bolted toward him.
"Please, sir! Help us!"
The old man waved him off. "Asta, don't bother them—" He grunted, shoving at the wagon. "—we've almost got it!"
A lie. The caravan hadn't budged in hours.
Hael said nothing. He simply placed his hands against the wood and pushed. The wagon lurched free as if lifted by divine hands. The old man who couldn't see Hael said joyfully "See, I got it"
The boy whooped. "All night we struggled, and you thought you did that?!"
The old man realizing what had just happened shot him a look— Asta —then turned to Hael, bowing deeply. "Thank you. How can we repay you?"
"Food!" Mary blurted.
The boy beamed. "Yes! Come to our village! We'll feast you!"
Hael's gaze could have frozen fire. Mary pretended not to notice.
The fog parted like a curtain, revealing a sight that stole Mary's breath.
Not a village. A haven .
Golden light spilled from windows, laughter rang through the streets, and the air smelled of fresh bread and blooming flowers. Children darted between houses, their cheeks rosy with health.
"Welcome to Edom," the old man said.
Mary's voice was barely a whisper. "How…?"
The villagers rushed forward, surrounding them with warmth. Children clung to Hael's legs, giggling as they marveled at his size. "Your arms are so big!" one squealed.
Hael, the unbreakable Archon, the wrath of Yahweh made flesh, stood frozen as a toddler climbed onto his back.
Mary was swept into the crowd, her hands filled with gifts—woven bracelets, sprigs of lavender, a cup of honeyed wine. For the first time in years, she remembered what home felt like.
The old man—the chieftain—smiled as he watched. "We'll prepare a banquet tonight. It is our way."
Firelight danced as music filled the air. Mary spun with the villagers, her heart lighter than it had been in a decade. Even Hael sat among them, a child perched on each knee, their tiny hands tugging at his cloak.
The chieftain settled beside him. "You wonder how we've thrived in such dark times."
Hael's voice was low. "I do."
"It is thanks to our God and King," the old man said, his eyes gleaming. "He lifted us from the gutter and called us His own."
A chill ran down Hael's spine.
"What god?" he asked.
The air turned to ice.
The chieftain's smile didn't waver. "The god of Edom."
Hael's fingers tightened around the haft of his axe. The air itself seemed to recoil from his presence as he took a single, earth-shaking step toward the chieftain.
"Heathen."
The word fell like a hammer upon an anvil, silencing the feast.
Mary moved before she could think—placing herself between Hael and the villagers. "My lord, perhaps we should hear them out," she urged, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "They've survived in this wilderness. There may be wisdom in their words."
The chieftain blinked, bewildered. "Have I offended you?"
Hael exhaled through clenched teeth. "No." The lie tasted like ash. "Continue. Tell me more of this demon you worship."
"He is no demon!" the old man protested. "No demon could have saved us from the horrors of this land! He feeds us. Protects us. And when we die, we become one with him!"
Mary felt Hael's rage like a physical heat at her back. She pressed on, desperate to delay the storm she knew was coming. "Surely such power comes at a cost. What has he asked in return? Your souls? Your flesh?"
The chieftain laughed. "Nothing so grim! He asks only faith."
"And Zion?" Mary pressed. "Why not seek aid there?"
The man's face twisted. "Those pigs?" Spittle flew from his lips. "May their walls crumble and their God forsake them! They demand we kneel before they lift a finger to help!" The crowd erupted in agreement, women and children shaking fists toward the distant city.
Mary didn't dare look back at Hael. The air had grown thick, suffocating—charged with divine wrath barely leashed.
The chieftain raised his arms. "Rejoice! Our god comes, and he will bless us for bringing new souls to—"
A guttural snarl cut him off.
Through the crowd shambled a Blood Rend, its flayed muscles glistening in the firelight. And upon its back—
Malachite.
The warlord slumped against the creature's spine, his once-proud frame now a broken thing, his eyes glazed with pain. Yet when they landed on Hael, they sharpened with recognition.
Mary's daggers flashed into her hands. "It tracked us!"
But the villagers didn't flee. They knelt.
"Our god!" the chieftain cried. "Lord of Edom, we welcome you!"
Malachite's cracked lips parted. "Yahweh mocks me," he rasped. "To deliver you here... where I am worshiped."
Hael moved.
One moment he stood beside Mary. The next, his axe sheared through the Blood Rend's neck in a black arc. Malachite crashed to the dirt as the creature's body collapsed.
"You turned these people into heretics," Hael growled. "I will unmake you piece by piece."
Mary lunged between them as the villagers surged forward. "Stop! Can't you see? He's using you!"
The chieftain and the boy shielded Malachite, their faces a mix of betrayal and fury. "We fed you!" the boy cried.
Malachite's laughter bubbled up from the ground, thick with blood. "Oh, Hael... you think your God led you here?" He dragged himself upright. "No. He sent you to die."
Then—
"My children!" Malachite spread his arms. "The hour is come! Return to me!"
As one, the villagers drew daggers.
Mary screamed. "Don't—!"
Blades flashed. Throats opened.
The boy trembled—until the chieftain gripped his shoulder. "Be brave. This is why you were born."
The child stilled. And cut.
Blood fountained across the feast tables, a crimson flood that snaked across the dirt toward Malachite. It climbed his legs, his torso, pouring into his wounds as his flesh knit itself whole.
Power radiated from him as he rose, his laughter now a thunderclap. "You shouldn't have come here Archon."
Hael charged.
Malachite caught the blade of his axe mid-swing—bare-handed—and grinned.
"Round two."