The rain came again — heavier, relentless, drowning the burning earth. Every drop hissed against molten ground as the aftermath of Cain and Luciel's clash scarred the horizon.
Cain stood amid the ruin, shoulders heaving, blood leaking freely from his mouth. His shirt hung in shreds, and his blade—{Eidwyrm}—was cracked near the hilt, veins of molten gold pulsing through its fractures like a dying heart. He could barely hear the storm over the ringing in his ears.
Across from him, Luciel knelt on one knee. His wings had burnt away, leaving jagged bones of light flickering with unstable brilliance. Divine blood dripped from his chin and dissolved before hitting the ground. Even now, he still looked holy—ruined, but holy.
Luciel raised his gaze, voice hoarse. "You're persistent. I'll give you that."
Cain spat, his tone flat. "You're talking too much."
Luciel's lips curled faintly. "You still don't understand. You think this fight is about killing me? About proving you're stronger?"
