The Grand Cathedral became a crucible.
Black flame and golden radiance no longer merely clashed—they devoured each other in hungry spirals that scorched the air itself. The vaulted ceiling—already torn—widened into a gaping wound; through it poured more angelic hosts, rank upon rank, their wings beating gales that howled through the nave like judgment.
Elias stood at the eye of the storm.
Abaddon no longer asked permission.
The black flames surged outward from his body in waves—each pulse taller, darker, hungrier. His skin cracked along the lines of the sigil; through the fissures poured eclipse-black smoke that coalesced into something larger, something towering. His silhouette stretched—shoulders broadening, limbs elongating—until the boy was half-submerged in a monstrous avatar: horned, winged in void, eyes twin voids that drank light.
Abaddon laughed through Elias's mouth—deep, resonant, shaking the pillars.
At last.
Across the nave, Lucifer answered with radiance that could have blinded suns. Lucian's small frame glowed from within; the golden wings expanded until they brushed both transepts, each feather a blade of condensed dawn. His voice layered over itself—boy and fallen angel in terrible harmony.
You think manifestation wins wars, brother? Heaven has legions. You have four.
He raised one hand.
The descending angels struck as one—swords of light sweeping downward in a crescent of blinding arcs aimed at the four vessels.
Elara met the first wave.
She thrust both arms skyward. Water erupted—not from any earthly source now, but from the very air—condensing into a colossal tidal sphere that hung above the crossing like an inverted ocean. It crashed downward in a roaring curtain, swallowing the angelic crescent mid-flight. Light hissed and sputtered as wings were torn, armor dissolved, radiant forms dragged under black waves that left only steam and fading screams.
Behemoth charged.
The stone of the cathedral answered him—floor, walls, broken columns—all flowing toward his outstretched hands. Rock surged up his body in living armor thicker than castle walls; spikes of granite erupted along his arms, his back, his club. He met the second angelic phalanx head-on.
One swing shattered a dozen swords of light. Another crushed breastplates like tin. Angels fell—not dead, but broken—wings crumpled, radiance dimmed, bodies slamming into stone with bone-shattering force.
Liora danced through the chaos.
Shadows poured from her in every direction—tendrils, blades, mouths—each one a lie made manifest. Angels swung at empty air while real claws raked their backs; they struck at comrades who were only illusions of shadow wearing their own faces. One by one they faltered, blinded, betrayed by their own sight, until shadows coiled tight around throats and wings and dragged them screaming into darkness that swallowed light.
And Elias—Abaddon—advanced.
Every step cracked marble. Every breath exhaled void-smoke that corroded golden light on contact. The black avatar towered now—nearly twenty feet of eclipse and ruin—Elias's human face still visible at its center like a trapped star, eyes flickering between his own terrified hazel and endless black.
Lucifer met him in the center of the crossing.
Golden wings clashed against void wings. Swords of dawn met claws of night. Each impact rang like the tolling of creation's final bell—shockwaves that shattered what little glass remained, that buckled pillars, that sent Prelates sprawling.
The two primordials circled—towering, terrible, locked in a dance older than stars.
Lucifer struck first—six wings sweeping in unison, each feather a guillotine of light aimed at Elias's heart.
Abaddon countered—black claws raking upward, tearing rents in radiance that bled pure white ichor.
The cathedral groaned—stone screaming as foundations cracked.
Outside, the plaza battle raged on—freed pagans and desperate faithful clashing with remaining angels and loyalist soldiers. Fire spread from overturned braziers. Smoke rose in thick columns.
Inside, the war narrowed to two.
Lucifer's voice cut through the roar.
You cannot win, Abaddon. The Entity will not allow it. This is still the game.
Abaddon's laughter rolled like breaking continents.
Then let the Entity watch me end it.
He lunged—full force—void claws aimed to tear the golden heart from Lucian's chest.
Lucifer twisted—wings folding around himself like a shield of dawn.
The impact shook the earth.
Stone dust rained from the ceiling.
For one heartbeat the two forces held—black against gold, ruin against order—perfectly balanced.
Then the balance broke.
A single crack appeared in Lucifer's golden armor—right over the place where Lucian's real heart beat.
The boy's eyes—hazel again—widened in sudden, human terror.
"Eli—" he gasped.
Abaddon paused.
Elias's own voice broke through—small, raw, desperate.
"Stop!"
The black avatar froze.
Lucifer seized the opening—wings snapping outward, radiant force slamming into Abaddon's chest. The eclipse form staggered backward, cracking pillars, crashing against the far wall.
Elias fell to his knees—human again, gasping, the sigil smoking.
Lucifer lowered his wings. The golden glow dimmed slightly. He looked down at the boy on the floor—his vessel, his prison, his tool—and something almost like regret flickered across Lucian's stolen face.
"You still care for him," Lucifer said softly. "After everything."
Elias lifted his head. Blood trickled from his nose. His voice shook.
"He's… still in there. You're killing him."
Lucifer tilted his head.
"And you would rather let the world burn than lose one child?"
Elias did not answer.
But his silence was answer enough.
Lucifer sighed—regretful, almost tender.
"Then we finish this the old way."
He raised both hands.
The rift in the ceiling widened further—more angels descending, a second wave, brighter, stronger.
Abaddon snarled inside Elias.
Enough mercy.
The black flames reignited—fiercer now.
The primordial war resumed.
And the cathedral—ancient witness to centuries of prayer—became the battlefield where creation itself decided whether to live or die.
Outside, the sky bled gold and black.
And the indifferent eye above it all watched.
Still waiting.
Still bored.
But perhaps—just perhaps—beginning to smile.
End of Chapter 21