The corridor was cold.
Mammon walked its length with quick, nervous steps. His hands, usually grasping, were clasped tight behind his back. The black glass walls reflected his face back at him; pale, drawn, older than he felt. He did not like what he saw.
"She is pushing the boundaries," Leviathan said. She glided beside him, her many eyes scanning the shadows. "Asmodeus has been meeting with her in private. Discussing things they do not bring to the court."
"Everyone has private meetings."
"Not with her."
Mammon stopped. He turned to face her.
"What do you want, Leviathan?"
"I want to know whose side you are on."
"I am on my own side. As always."
Leviathan's many eyes gleamed. "That is not an answer."
"It is the only answer I have."
He resumed walking. Leviathan watched him go, her emerald gaze burning.
The throne room was empty.
Mammon stood at the edge of the black glass floor and stared at the jagged seat. No one sat there now. The king was elsewhere. But the throne's presence was a weight; a reminder that even in his absence, Lucifer was watching.
"You should not be here."
Mammon turned. Asmodeus stood in the doorway, his violet robes trailing on the glass. His eyes were bright, almost feverish.
"Neither should you," Mammon said.
"I was summoned."
"By whom?"
Asmodeus smiled. It was not a warm expression.
"You know by whom."
They stood in silence. The Rift pulsed in the distance, its purple glow seeping through the cracks in the walls.
"He wants us to fight," Mammon said. "He wants us divided."
"Perhaps."
"Then why do you keep meeting with her?"
Asmodeus tilted his head. "Why do you keep hoarding resources you cannot use?"
Mammon's jaw tightened. "That is different."
"Is it?"
The doors opened. Beelzebub's wheels hummed softly as it entered. Its cold blue core pulsed with a steady, rhythmic light.
"The perimeter is secure," it said. "No breaches. No incursions."
"The Remnant?" Mammon asked.
"Undetected."
"Or ignored."
Beelzebub's core flickered. "My models indicate a ninety seven percent probability that the Remnant is no longer a strategic threat."
"And the other three percent?"
The core flickered again. "Margin of error."
Mammon laughed. It was a bitter, broken sound.
"Margin of error," he repeated. "That is what will kill us."
Belphegor did not attend meetings.
He sat in his domain, a frozen wasteland at the edge of the Rift, and watched the nothing. His frozen eyes saw everything. His frozen heart felt nothing.
A messenger arrived; a lesser demon, trembling with fear.
"The king requests your presence."
Belphegor did not move.
"The king," the messenger repeated, "requests—"
"I heard you."
The messenger waited. Belphegor continued to stare at the nothing.
"Tell him I am meditating."
"Meditating?"
"Meditating."
The messenger fled. Belphegor returned to his contemplation.
The mountains were still mountains. The nothing was still nothing. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Leviathan's library was a maze of stolen knowledge.
She had taken what she wanted from the old Cherubim archives; prophecies, histories, secrets that had been buried for eons. The walls were lined with scrolls. The air smelled of old paper and older magic.
She was reading when Asmodeus found her.
"You should knock," she said, not looking up.
"The door was open."
"The door is always open. That does not mean you are welcome."
Asmodeus moved closer. His violet eyes scanned the shelves.
"What are you looking for?"
"Answers."
"To what question?"
Leviathan finally looked up. Her many eyes gleamed.
"To the question of how to kill a god."
Asmodeus went very still.
"Those are dangerous words."
"Those are necessary words." She set down the scroll. "He is unstable. You know this. We all know this. One moment he is calm, rational, almost... kind. The next, he is staring at you like you are already dead."
"He is the king."
"He is a liability."
Asmodeus was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"What do you propose?"
Leviathan smiled. It was not a warm expression.
"I propose we find out what he is afraid of."
In the heart of Hell, in a chamber carved from obsidian and silence, Lucifer sat alone.
His eyes were closed. His hands rested on his knees. His breathing was slow, deliberate.
They are plotting, Satan said.
"I know."
They will betray you.
"I know."
And still you do nothing?
Lucifer opened his eyes. The cold light within them was steady, unwavering.
"They are not the threat."
Then what is?
Lucifer looked toward the Rift. Somewhere out there, in the ruins of the old world, his brother was waiting.
"He is."
The Rift pulsed. The night pressed on.
In the watchtower, Michael sharpened his broken sword. The blade was useless, but the motion was calming. It gave his hands something to do while his mind worked.
"We need supplies," Adara said. She stood at the window, watching the horizon.
"We need a lot of things."
"Food first. Then weapons. Then information."
Michael nodded. "Cassiel is working on it."
Cassiel, hunched over a stolen map, did not look up. "The supply routes are inconsistent. The enemy is prioritizing the Rift's border. There are gaps in the north."
"Gaps we can exploit?"
"Gaps we might be able to exploit. If we are careful."
"Then we will be careful."
Adara turned from the window. "And if we are not?"
Michael looked at her. His silver eyes were tired, but steady.
"Then we will be fast."
She almost smiled. Almost.
Ashai entered, his hands wrapped in fresh bandages. "The wounded are stable. For now."
"For now," Michael repeated.
"For now is better than nothing."
He moved to stand beside Adara. Their shoulders brushed. Neither moved away.
The Rift pulsed. The night pressed on.
Somewhere, in a frozen wasteland, Belphegor opened his eyes.
Somewhere, in a library of stolen knowledge, Leviathan turned a page.
Somewhere, in a chamber of obsidian and silence, Lucifer waited.
The Remnant endured. Hell watched.
The Long Night continued.