Chapter 34
Iskip breakfast entirely, instead drawing from my stash of protein bars that I keep in my room. I also switch my whole training schedule around, trying to make it as unpredictable as possible… And still, Abaddon finds me.
I’m just finishing up a run on the trail along the inside of the training center’s walls when he stalks out of the shadows.
“No,” I tell him immediately, turning around and walking the other direction.
“Kae, please.”
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
There’s a slight swooshing sound, and then suddenly, he’s standing in front of me. His wings are outspread, blocking the trail’s exit. “I want to apologize. I behaved poorly yesterday.”
“Yes, you did. Now go away.”
He steps forward, his silver eyes pleading. “I have a gift for you.”
“You cannot bribe your way to forgiveness. A pony isn’t going to fix this.”
“It is not a horse. It is to protect you from Celestia.”
My eyebrows knit in confusion—and annoyance that he’s managed to keep me talking this long. “I thought only origin form armor could do that.”
“Who do you think made it for us?”
“I don’t know. God? I thought it was created whenever you guys were.”
“Close. It is part of our original corporealization here, after we pass through the Eye of God, but it was formed in Heaven by the Archangel of Defense, Armaros. He happens to be one of the Profuga here in the Abyss, and I commissioned him.” Abaddon steps closer.
“I cannot emphasize enough how much of an advantage it would give you.”
…Damn him for actually having a good argument.
“Fine!” I huff. “Where is he?”
“Just this way, if you’ll follow me.”
Reluctantly, I do.
Abaddon takes us down the downward path, beyond the training arena, in the opposite direction from the castle. We pass a few large estates, all in variable sizes, inspired by different eras of human history.
“With the exception of Semyaza, all the Profuga in the Abyss have been living here,” he explains. “I’ve repurposed it for them to have permanent residences.”
The one he brings us to is nothing short of a mansion, not too dissimilar from the castle, with a blacksmith shop on its side.
“Armaros lives here with his wife, Xantheia Anazekiel, and some of their descendants.”
“So… lower angels?”
“Yes, though they prefer to just be called angels.”
I don’t get time to ask much else, since the walk to the blacksmith shop is brief.
Near the fire, a short, stout man is hammering away on something. His wings are fascinating, made entirely of a heavy silver metal, and I find myself staring at them in awe. I’ve seen the man himself at the dining table before, but I don’t think he had his wings out at the time.
I quickly find out why. Those things are a hazard.
He turns around to fiddle with something on his table, but spooks upon seeing us. His wings, in the process, knock a few things to the ground with a loud clatter.
“My Grace!” he gasps, holding a hand over his heart. “You scared me to death. Please, come in!”
“I am here to pick up my commission,” Abaddon says as he passes the threshold in steady, formulaic strides. I trail behind him, watching as Armaros immaterializes his wings. They fold in, flashing into a fade of light, then disappear from existence.
I still want to know where the particles actually go.
“Right, right!” Armaros hobbles over to a table of clutter, reaching for a large chest in the middle of various metals and tools. Fumbling around the lock, he mumbles, “Queen Kae, it’s such an honor to meet you… such a person of legend…”
I choke on a breath of air, coughing. “I’m sorry—Queen Kae?”
“Queen of the Abyss, its savior, yes.” He turns towards me with a glimmering cape draped over his arms. “Alas! I hope it is to your liking.”
I forget every other thought I had, taking the clothing from him with awe and intrigue.
I’m immediately enraptured by its beauty. It’s lighter than silk, but feels like velvet, or a baby bunny rabbit. The base is pitch black, so dark that it seems to absorb all light—yet it’s intricately embroidered with a rainbow of galaxies, speckled with glowing stars.
Abaddon stands behind me, looking over my shoulder. “What better to wrap a fallen star in than the night sky?”
I want to tell him that I am not the star. It gave me its power and left me, leaving its ghost burning on my chest. But... “This is so stunning, Armaros. I love it.”
“Many thanks, Your Grace.” Armaros beams. “I created the fabric myself from the feathers of angels, then I imbued it with the essence of the sun and the bottomless pit.”
“Feathers?” I look up, shocked. “You plucked people?”
“No, no, Your Grace.” He wrings his hands before making more overt motions, talking in quick, jumbled syllables that I can’t fully make out.
“Ahha—no angels were harmed in the making of this cloak! The feathers wrrmrr… gathered from natural srhrhrwrr… bathe. They’re quite a commodity on the markets here, vshyssh.
.. Though mrnrhrrtr… none can re-enable their protective properties. None but I!”
I’m starting to think Armaros might be missing a few marbles.
“That’s, um, very resourceful of you.” I can’t quite put together everything he was trying to say there, so I go for the small bit that I did manage to pick up. “You said it has protective properties, right? Like what?”
“It can channel your strength, of course! Please, try it on!”
“Uh, sure, okay…”
I slip it over me, immediately noticing how long it is, sweeping all the way down to my feet.
True to its wizardly nature, it’s complete with draping sleeves, an oversized hood, and lots of pockets.
The only thing somewhat surprising is the skintight sleeves inside the draping sleeves.
For the life of me, I can’t figure out why there are two sets of fucking sleeves, and I don’t want to offend Armaros by asking.
“It’s wonderful. Thank you.”
“It will also adapt to maintain your body temperature as needed.” He nods a few times, clearly enthusiastic about his work.
“So it doesn’t get too hot or cold. It’s also waterproof!
Well, not just water, but everything in the natural order, really.
The perfect cloak of protection—as long as you don’t get into a fight with an elemental spec, ahha. ”
“Have you made progress on my other orders?” Abaddon asks the smith.
“Yes, we completed the fittings, Your Grace,” Armaros blubbers. “However, we received only half of the necessary metals yesterday…”
My eyes wander around the shop until they land upon a reflective shield, large enough that I can see my full body in it.
I tune out of their conversation, walking across the shop to get a good look at myself. However strange this coat may be, I think I quite like it. I do look like I’m cloaked in the night sky. The stars even match the uncanny brilliance of my new eyes. I lean in, and—
Oh?
My attention is stolen by a little dagger, tucked away at the back of a junk-filled table. The onyx black of it seems to catch every dazzling flicker of the various candles and firelight in the forge, and I can’t stop myself from picking it up to look closer.
At my touch, little nebulae reveal themselves in the center of the blade.
Or maybe I’m imagining it? Perhaps it’s just reflecting my cloak.
Regardless, it’s gorgeous… God, and it’s perfectly balanced, too.
Lightweight, with a grip that practically sticks to my hand.
I wonder if Armaros would be willing to part with it—
“Your Highness,” the smith clears his throat behind me.
I think about it for a split second. If the dagger Dusk had made for me was considered to be exceptionally high quality, then this one must be truly special. There can’t be any harm in just asking about it.
Holding the dagger delicately in my hand, I turn around.
The frown Armaros has on his face comes close to making me lose my nerve, but I look down at the dagger’s beauty again, and I decide to push through the discomfort.
“I don’t suppose this is for sale?”
Somehow, he looks even more concerned by that idea. “Tumultuari is not a blade that I’d wish upon anybody.”
“Why? Is it bad luck or something?” Surely angels don’t believe in anything so ridiculous.
Abaddon joins me at my side, peering down at the weapon. To my surprise, he scowls at it, too. “Azael’s dagger seems to be calling to her.”
I immediately throw the cursed thing back onto the table, my eyes flaring wide.
“Nevermind.” As much as I’d like not to, I do occasionally believe in bad luck.
It’s something I picked up from spending too much time in the hospital, where saying ‘it’s slow tonight’ will notoriously result in the worst influx of emergencies imaginable.
No, I can’t risk it. I don’t want anything to do with the personal effects of a serial rapist and mass murderer—that’s just asking for trouble. “You can keep it. Forget I asked.”
“Ah, but it seems the dishonorable dagger has already chosen you as its new owner, Your Highness.” Armaros looks at me with sorrow, his wild spirit momentarily crestfallen.
“It is a unique honor to be selected by a discarded weapon forged in Heaven. A rare occurrence, indeed. Though Azael has tarnished its reputation, Tumultuari seems to find faith in your resurrection of its power. Please, do not abandon the Holy calling of such a beautiful weapon. Let it be reborn in your ownership.”
Well, when he says it like that, it’s almost poetic justice.
I sigh, looking back down at the gleaming metal.
Moments ago, I thought it was the perfect weapon for me, didn’t I?
Nothing’s changed. It’s still the same weapon.
So what if Azael originally owned it? It’s not like he has any use for it now.
Even if he weren’t busy rotting in Hell, he still has his origin weapon.
All archangels do! It’s, like, part of their soul or something. They can’t just misplace them.