The wind above the cliffs of Kur'thaal carried the scent of ash and something else.
Something green.
Something alive.
Nathaniel stood at the edge of the fortress walls, arms crossed, his wings folded behind him like blades sheathed in patience. From this height, he could see the warped terrain stretch for miles—a new Kur'thaal growing like vines over decay, forests blooming where fire once reigned.
It made him uneasy.
Behind him, the fortress loomed—black stone laced with stardust, crafted over two years with Rafael's unruly power and the hands of a hundred soldiers. Its towers clawed into the sky, a defiant mark of Asphodel's presence in the Abyss.
And still, they had not struck.
"You're thinking again."
Nathaniel didn't turn.
The voice was unmistakable.
Rafael.
The child-like angel hovered behind him, legs crossed midair, his turquoise-edged wings flickering like candlelight. His robes were half-worn, half-stained, his bare feet coated in silver dust. And yet, his smile was perfect.
Infuriatingly so.
Nathaniel sighed. "Someone has to."
Rafael floated down beside him and leaned far over the battlement wall, eyes wide with dramatic awe. "Do you think they water those glowing trees? Or do they just grow like that? I could make one grow in your room. Make it whisper, too. Tell you secrets while you sleep."
Nathaniel finally looked at him. "Why are you here?"
Rafael grinned. "Because I'm bored."
He spun, his wings flaring out. "You've kept us up here for two years, watching. Waiting. All this magic—" he gestured to the fortress—"and we're just… sitting on it. Let me throw something. Burn something. Scare them."
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "You know why we haven't moved."
"Ah, yes. Fahy's vision," Rafael said, mockingly reverent, bowing low as if addressing a ghost. "The doom. The terror. The 'great destruction that will fall upon Asphodel if we strike first.'" He straightened. "Maybe it's a metaphor."
"It wasn't."
"She didn't speak. She thought. That could be a metaphor. Or maybe it was indigestion."
Nathaniel's eyes sharpened. "You weren't there when she collapsed. You didn't hear the sound her aura made. It wasn't indigestion."
Rafael groaned and flopped onto the ledge like a ragdoll. "So what's the plan, then? We keep watching? Let the demon and the fallen angel build their little garden down there? They're planting more trees every day."
"It's not a garden," Nathaniel muttered.
"No. It's a weapon."
That silenced them both.
Rafael sat up again, suddenly still.
Nathaniel followed his gaze. Far below, between the thick emerald canopy and the twisted black spires of rock, a figure moved.
Lioren.
Clothed in the Abyss. Glowing with amplified power. His hands were raised, but not to attack. He was creating something—another circle of trees spiraling outward like veins, roots laced with glowing glyphs.
It was beautiful. And terrifying.
Rafael said nothing for a long time.
Then—"We should have killed him when he fell."
Nathaniel didn't disagree. But something colder pulled at his gut.
He thought of Fahy again—her trembling hands pressed to her head, her thoughts echoing through every mind in the fortress:
If we strike first… we fall.
He had never seen her scared.
And Nathaniel believed in fear.
That was why he hadn't ordered an attack. Not when Lioren rose. Not when Vael burned half the mountains looking for him. Not when they saw the first unnatural tree take root.
Rafael stood, stretching. "Well. If you don't move soon, the Queen will send someone else. And if I don't throw something soon—" he raised his hands, blue energy swirling—"I'm going to start throwing rocks at birds."
Nathaniel turned away. "Do it and I'll chain you to your chamber."
Rafael smiled, full of teeth. "You'd miss me."
Nathaniel didn't answer.
But he watched Lioren until the figure vanished back into the forest.
And he wondered—how long did they have before silence turned into surrender?