The neutral realm was a pocket of stillness between worlds.
Lucifer had found it years ago, during one of his early searches for resurrection methods. A place with no time, no weather, no distractions. Just empty stone and silence. He'd used it to think. To plan. To grieve.
Now he used it to hold Francisca's fragment together.
She lay on a flat slab of dark rock, her body translucent, her pulse a whisper. The fragment of her soul that Lucifer had pulled from the Collector's orb floated above her chest—small, golden, flickering like a candle in wind.
Damaris stood by the entrance, his wounded wing wrapped in shadow-bandages. His golden eyes watched the fragment.
"It's unstable."
Lucifer didn't look away from it.
"I know."
"If we don't find the rest of her soul soon, this piece will dissipate. And she'll be gone. Truly gone."
Lucifer's jaw tightened.
"Then we find it."
He reached out and touched the fragment.
It was warm. Almost hot. And it pulled.
