Something cut through the air — and the Wall answered belatedly.
Two forms were hurled into the abandoned houses, like misfired projectiles, without warning,
without warning or dignity.
Stone gave way under the impact.
Tiles shattered.
Pooled water exploded into murky fans, scattering mud and fragments across the empty ground.
The rain did not stop.
One of the figures rolled through debris and shallow water, coming to rest on her side, her body rigid for a second too long.
The other slammed into an already cracked wall, slid, and dropped to her knees with difficulty, air escaping in a short, forced sound.
Only then did the world seem to recover its rhythm.
Isabela tried to move first — failed — and clenched her teeth before forcing her body to obey.
Lyra lifted her face slowly, hair plastered by rain, eyes searching for something beyond the ruins.
Isabela drew a deep breath before asking, her voice low, controlled:
"You okay?"
Lyra did not look away from the space ahead.
"Okay…" she murmured, after a brief silence. "Considering I spent days under torture, that the bones in my arms can barely hold themselves together, and that something ancient — something that should no longer be walking — decided to reappear right now to hunt us…"
She lowered her gaze.
The iron chains still wrapped her arms, heavy, cold — the same ones that had held her captive before.
Now they hung loose, useless, stained with rust and dried blood.
"Add to that the explosion earlier," she continued, "and whatever is coming… slowly enough not to be ignored."
Lyra raised her face again.
Her gaze was steady.
Not defiant.
Prepared.
"Yes," she said, without emphasis. "I'm fine."
There was no smile.
Only calculated acceptance.
The wind shifted with the rain.
And Lyra felt it before the world bothered to show it.
The pressure came before the sound.
It did not push.
It did not crush.
It simply chose a new center.
Water began to pool in the wrong directions, forming small depressions where there was no slope at all.
Loose tiles slid a full handspan, creaking softly, as if trying to decide where to fall.
Isabela felt her knees give for an instant.
Not from pain.
From hesitation.
The stones beneath her feet vibrated, almost imperceptibly — a contained, deep tremor, like the prelude to something far too large to move quickly.
Lyra inhaled carefully.
The weight in the air was familiar.
Ancient.
"Isabela," she called, without raising her voice.
She kept her eyes forward, tracking the point where space seemed denser, where the rain fell a little slower.
"During the assassins' attack…" she continued, "you showed a skill worthy of the title Valkyrie."
The empty structures groaned.
They did not collapse.
They merely complained.
A fissure opened slowly in the soaked ground, water being drawn into it as if obeying an order no one heard.
"But since this presence imposed itself…" Lyra paused briefly, feeling the fine adjustment of gravity over her own body, "you've been hesitating."
Isabela pressed her fingers into the ground.
Stone and mud vibrated beneath her hand.
The chains on Lyra's arms rasped softly as she shifted her weight, forcing herself fully upright.
"I suggest," she said at last, "that you set that feeling aside."
The air grew heavier.
Not denser — more obedient.
"Whatever it is you're feeling toward this being…" Lyra lifted her gaze, firm, aligned with the presence approaching, "that can wait."
The tremor ceased.
Not because the force was gone.
But because it had come close enough not to need announcement.
The rain kept falling.
Only now, each drop seemed to know exactly where it was meant to land.
The figure walked.
Without hurry.
Without effort.
Each step met the ground before the ground decided to give way, as if the Wall itself had to reorganize to accept him.
The pressure did not increase.
It simply became constant.
Isabela felt the air weigh on her chest as she saw him emerge among the ruins, his silhouette cut by slanting rain.
First, only the posture — too upright for someone crossing wreckage, too firm for someone who should have adapted to the terrain.
Then, the outline of the body.
Dark garments, noble, ancient in cut and weight, marked by golden embroidery that did not reflect light — only absorbed it.
Subtle chains hung near the chest, insignias worn by time, not by use.
The rain ran over him.
It did not pass through.
It did not avoid him.
It simply fell — and moved on.
When he drew close enough, the hair became visible: pink in an old hue, somewhere between burned rose and pale carmine, loosely waved, resting at the nape as something that had never concerned itself with being arranged.
The face came next.
Pale skin.
Features too refined for the field of ruins around him — aristocratic, precise, intact.
The expression was calm, dominant, as if the violence around him were merely an inconvenient condition.
His eyes opened fully when they met theirs.
Red.
Deep.
Lucid.
They did not glow.
They weighed.
Lyra felt the fine adjustment of gravity touch her shoulders like a patient hand.
Not a warning.
A recognition.
The figure stopped a few meters away.
Not because he had arrived.
But because he did not need to go further.
The silence that formed was not the absence of sound.
It was order.
He did not speak.
And yet everything around seemed to be waiting for permission.
Isabela knew it was not the presence that made her hesitate.
It was the memory still breathing inside her.
And that…
that was what terrified her most.
The red eyes swept over Lyra without lingering.
Recognition without interest.
Then they settled on Isabela.
And stayed there.
The world seemed to adjust its axis once more.
"How long…" the voice came low, clear, effortless, "do you intend to keep chasing what does not return?"
Each word seemed to choose where to land, the way the rain now did.
"Steps taken backward do not rebuild what was lost," he continued, his gaze unmoving. "They only prolong the exhaustion."
Isabela felt the weight increase on her shoulders, her chest, her memory.
He took one more step.
Not closer.
Deeper.
"If you came here seeking regret," he said, "then you arrived late."
The red gaze did not harden.
It didn't need to.
"When you had the chance," he finished, with an almost didactic calm, "you should have killed me then."
The silence that followed was not imposed.
It was accepted.
Isabela straightened.
Her body still protested, muscles taut beneath a weight that did not come only from the air — but she planted her feet, lifted her face, and held the red gaze before her.
"I know," she said, her voice low but firm, "that he's still in there."
The figure did not move.
Rain slid through the pink hair without altering his posture.
"That day…" Isabela continued, "I saw it. I heard it. I felt it."
The world seemed to listen with her.
"That's what made me let you go." Her fingers clenched. "Even when I watched you feed on the bodies of my brothers. Of my mother."
A heavy silence stretched, as if the air itself awaited correction.
"This time…" she lifted her chin, "I will stop you, Azazel."
For an instant — only one — something like interest crossed the red eyes.
Then, a brief smile.
Not cruel.
Didactic.
Space gave way.
Azazel did not advance.
He decided to be there.
The distance between them ceased to exist in a silent collapse, and Isabela felt the world invert when his hand settled on her abdomen — not with force, but with enough authority to make the ground forget where it was.
The air sank.
Her ear caught the voice before her body could follow.
"It seems…" Azazel murmured, too close, the tone almost gentle, "that humanity has forgotten."
Gravity adjusted again.
Sharper.
"So I will allow them to remember." His fingers pressed just enough for every bone to understand. "That my name… is not something to be spoken lightly."
The world fell.
Not downward.
Away.
Isabela was hurled as if the axis itself had been torn loose, her body ripping through the air as houses, stone, and water bent along her trajectory, unable to keep up with the decision that cast her.
The impact came later.
Much later.
Azazel remained where he was.
Motionless.
The rain resumed its normal course — not for lack of power, but because he allowed it.
The smile was already gone.
"Still," he said to the wind, without raising his voice, "I'm curious to see how far you insist on calling this a choice."
And gravity, patient, waited for the world's next answer.
Azazel did not turn.
Even so, his eyes moved — just enough.
The deep red slid from Isabela to Lyra, stopping on her like one who recognizes a variable.
She was only centimeters behind him.
And he knew it.
"You," he said, without changing his tone, "are still breathing because I have not decided otherwise."
The rain seemed to hesitate.
"If you choose to leave now," he continued, "I may allow that interval to extend a little longer."
There was no disdain.
No hurry.
Only statement.
"But if you decide to continue interfering in my ascension…" his eyes narrowed the barest amount, "I will kill you."
Azazel inclined his head slightly.
Not as one who offers a choice.
As one who defines terms.
The weight in the air increased.
Not crushing.
Waiting.
Gravity did not move.
It waited for the answer.
Author's Note
Hi, everyone! 👋
Here in Brazil it's already 11 p.m., so good evening, good morning, or good afternoon — depending on when you're reading this.
I just stopped by real quick to let you know something that some of you may have already noticed: from now on, I'll be updating the story on Mondays and Tuesdays, which are my days off.
Since I haven't been able to post bonus chapters very often, I decided to do things a bit differently — I'll be releasing two chapters on Monday and two chapters on Tuesday.
As for today's chapter, I truly hope you enjoyed it 💙
I'm genuinely happy with every read, every favorite, and every comment.
So, if you don't want to miss the next chapters, make sure to favorite the story.
And if you feel like it, tell me what you've been thinking of the story so far — your feedback really means a lot to me.
Thank you for being here, and see you in the next chapter! 🌙✨