The undead Blades never reached her.
They lunged in perfect unison—swords raised, eyes glowing white, mouths open in silent screams. Lucy braced, Thorn hissing on her shoulder, tiny wings flared wide. The first row was three steps away, blades flashing in the moonlight pouring through the cathedral windows.
Then they simply… dissolved.
One heartbeat they were solid flesh and steel. The next they burst into black sand and smoke, bodies collapsing into swirling clouds that drifted upward like ink spilled in reverse. The sand glittered faintly, catching the light, then faded into nothing. Hundreds of tiny, pale lights—souls, fragile as moth wings—fluttered free from the smoke, spiraling toward the vaulted ceiling before vanishing into the dark.
The nave fell silent except for the soft patter of the last grains settling on the marble floor.
Lucy stood frozen, chest heaving, blood dripping from her split knuckles. Thorn's tail curled tightly around her ear, the little devil trembling with leftover adrenaline.
A low, musical laugh echoed through the empty cathedral—cool, amused, and ancient.
Lady Death stepped forward from the shadows at the far end of the nave. Her black cloak trailed behind her like spilled night, the scythe resting casually across one shoulder. Up close she was even more impossible: skin pale as frost-kissed marble, eyes black voids that somehow managed to sparkle with humor, lips curved in a smile that was equal parts cruel and kind. White hair spilled down her back in frozen waves. She looked at the scattered sand, then at Lucy, and tilted her head.
"That's a lot of death," she said, voice soft as falling snow. "Even for me."
Lucy's throat worked. She swallowed blood and spit. "You… raised them. Then you killed them again. Why?"
Lady Death walked closer, boots silent on the marble. She stopped a respectful distance away—close enough for Lucy to smell frost and old iron, far enough that the scythe stayed out of reach.
"Because," she said, "I wanted to see what you'd do."
Lucy's laugh came out raw. "A test?"
"A prank." Death's smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "You've been so busy running from your hunger, fighting your own reflection, that you forgot something important. Death doesn't play favorites. I don't care if you're hunter or hunted, human or demon. I collect everyone eventually. But I do enjoy… interesting specimens."
Thorn hissed softly, thorns glinting. Death glanced at the little devil, amused. "And you've already made a friend. How charming."
Lucy took a slow breath. "You didn't come here to kill me."
"Not tonight." Death rested the scythe's handle on the floor with a soft clink. "I came to talk. You've stumbled into something much bigger than the Order's little holy war, Lucy Anselem. The Bloom under Calder's Row isn't just Nyx's garden. It's the seed of something older—something that's been sleeping since before the first cathedral stone was laid. Lilith wants to control it. The Order wants to burn it. The angels want to seal it. And you… you're the only thing that can actually touch it without being consumed."
Lucy's stomach twisted. "Why me?"
Death shrugged, an elegant roll of shoulders. "Because you're neither fish nor fowl. Human soul, demonic blood, and now this—" she gestured at Thorn, who preened under the attention "—delightful little companion. You're a crack in the wall between worlds. The Bloom senses that. It's calling you, whether you answer or not."
Lucy looked down at the black sand scattered across the floor. "And you? What do you want?"
Death's black eyes met hers—deep, endless, almost gentle.
"I want balance," she said simply. "The worlds are out of alignment. Too much light, too much dark, too many people playing god with souls that don't belong to them. The Bloom is a reset button. If it wakes fully, it will devour everything—cities, empires, heavens, hells. Clean slate. New game."
Lucy's voice came out hoarse. "And you're okay with that?"
Death laughed again—soft, sad, tired. "I'm Death, child. I'm okay with everything eventually. But I'd prefer it happen on my terms, not because some ambitious demon queen or self-righteous archangel decided to force the issue."
She stepped closer. The temperature dropped another degree. Frost traced delicate patterns on the marble around her feet.
"You have a choice coming," Death continued. "Nyx will offer you power. Lilith will offer you a throne. The Order will offer you a pyre. The angels will offer you chains. And the Bloom itself will offer you everything—and nothing. When that choice arrives, remember this: I don't take sides. I take the aftermath."
Lucy stared at her. "Why tell me any of this?"
Death smiled—slow, knowing, almost fond.
"Because you're interesting," she said. "And I haven't been interested in a very long time."
She turned, cloak swirling. The frost followed her, spreading across the floor like growing ivy.
"One last thing," she called over her shoulder. "When the Bloom finally wakes, it will need a gardener. Someone who can prune the thorns and let the flowers bloom. Someone who's already learned how to feed without losing herself."
She paused at the doors.
"Think about it, Lucy Anselem. The garden is growing whether you tend it or not. And gardens left untended… they tend to eat the gardener."
The doors swung shut behind her with a soft, final thud.
Silence returned.
Lucy stood alone in the nave, surrounded by black sand and dead Blades. Thorn nuzzled her neck, petals brushing her skin, tiny wings fluttering.
The hunger purred—quiet, content, waiting.
Lucy looked at the frost patterns Death had left behind—delicate, beautiful, deadly.
Then she looked at her own hands—still streaked with blood, still glowing faintly silver-blue.
And she realized, with a cold clarity sharper than any blade, that the real war wasn't between Order and demons, heaven and hell, light and dark.
The real war was coming from below.
And when it arrived, it wouldn't ask permission.
It would simply bloom.
And Lucy—hunter, monster, gardener, whatever she was becoming—would be standing right in the middle of it, with a little devil on her shoulder and the taste of her father's blood still on her tongue, wondering if she had the strength to prune the garden… or if she would let it grow wild and consume everything she had ever loved.