The tide was low, and the river whispered between the hulls of dead ships. Moonveil and Diego circled each other across the cracked concrete, their shadows merging and splitting like wolves under a dying moon. Neither spoke at first; the silence stretched thin enough to cut.
The air shimmered faintly around Diego. He was more creature than man now, the flickering light from the city catching the silver of his exposed ribs and the faint green burn in his eyes. When he smiled, the flesh didn't move right—his grin stayed still, too wide, too permanent.
"You're not talking," he said finally. His voice echoed, layered with another beneath it—a whisper that wasn't his own. "The quiet suits you, Moonveil. It makes me almost believe you understand what you are."
Moonveil didn't move. His hand rested near his side, the faint glow of the crescent symbol pulsing with each heartbeat. "And what am I?"
"A mistake," Diego said softly. "A god's apology for choosing wrong."
They continued to circle, boots scraping faintly. The wind carried the river's cold breath between them.
After a long minute, Moonveil broke the silence. "You've been waiting for this for weeks. You leave riddles like breadcrumbs. Why?"
Diego chuckled low, the sound grinding like stone. "Because words last longer than bodies. My brothers thought the gift was strength, speed, immortality. They never understood—the real boon is knowledge."
Moonveil's eyes narrowed beneath the hood. "You mean the power to see riddles in everything? Or to drive yourself mad trying to answer them?"
"Both," Diego replied. "Juarez lied about his boon. He said the stars protected him, that no weapon could kill him. But the truth is simpler. He was given pride. A mirror for his ego. It killed him."
He took a slow step forward. "Salvatore has greed. Rafael, envy. And me? I got the only boon worth having."
Moonveil's voice was sharp. "What is it?"
"The gift of knowing the end before it begins. I see the threads that connect the living and the dead. I know how stories end. Including mine."
Something in Diego's tone made the air turn colder. The faint static between them hummed like a warning.
Moonveil's jaw tightened. "Then you know this ends with me stopping you."
Diego's grin widened. "Oh, I know exactly how it ends. I've seen your face when it happens."
He moved first—fast, fluid, more shadow than body. Moonveil met him halfway, the clash sending a shockwave through the air that cracked the nearby container walls. The sound echoed across the docks like thunder caught in a bottle.
The fight turned vicious immediately.
They plunged into the ruins of the old subway entrance, their movements tearing through rusted scaffolding and broken stairs. The space below was narrow, claustrophobic. Pipes dripped from the ceiling, and the walls wept condensation. Every strike, every deflection sent echoes chasing down the tunnels like gunfire.
Diego's claws scraped sparks off Moonveil's bracers. Moonveil answered with a strike to the ribs, the force sending the demon stumbling into a wall. The concrete cratered where he hit, dust spilling like breath.
"You fight like you're trying not to kill me," Diego hissed, wiping blood that evaporated into smoke.
"I'm not interested in killing pawns," Moonveil said.
"Then you still don't understand," Diego snarled. "I'm not a pawn. I'm the message."
He lunged again, this time faster, claws flashing in the half-light. Moonveil ducked, twisting his body in the narrow space, his movements precise despite the confined tunnel. The fight was brutal and close—elbows, knees, blades of light and shadow trading cuts. The tunnel shook with every impact.
"You're predictable," Diego said between blows. "Always blocking the same way. Always aiming for the shoulder first. The soldier in you never left. You don't fight like a god. You fight like a man afraid of his own power."
Moonveil slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack the concrete. "And you talk too much."
For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then Diego smiled through broken teeth. "Do you know why I give riddles, Moonveil?"
Moonveil hesitated. "Because you're insane."
"No." Diego's grin didn't fade. "Because riddles survive longer than truth. When I die—and I will—they'll still whisper my words. The Dark Lord's name will linger inside them. Every riddle is a seed, and when they bloom, so will he."
The realization hit Moonveil too late. Every riddle, every message, every line scrawled in blood—they weren't taunts. They were spells.
He swung his fist in fury, but Diego was already fading—his form dissipating into smoke and black fire.
"Not yet," Diego's voice whispered around him, echoing from every surface. "You'll see me again when the moon dies."
The smoke collapsed into silence.
Moonveil struck the wall once, hard enough to leave a crater. The force rattled the tunnel and sent dust raining from above. "Damn it!"
He stood there breathing hard, the steam of his breath mingling with the cold fog left behind. Then, without another word, he turned and climbed out of the ruins.
---
Back in the lab, the lights hummed quietly. Marc—still half in his suit, the hood draped around his neck—moved through the room like a ghost. He brewed tea out of habit, not comfort, the scent of herbs almost mocking the metallic taste of blood still on his tongue.
Howard arrived minutes later, wiping his hands on a rag, confusion written across his face. "Marc, what the hell happened? You said you were tracking Diego, and then—"
Moonveil didn't look up. His voice was low, steady. "He vanished. Mid-fight. Like smoke. And the whole time he was talking in riddles again. About endings. About stories. About his boon."
Howard frowned. "You said he had one of those god-gifts too, right? Like the others?"
"He said his was the knowledge of endings," Marc murmured, staring into his cup. "He said he can see how every story finishes—including his own."
Howard hesitated. "Then why fight you at all?"
"That's the part I can't figure out." Marc set the cup down and rubbed his temples. "If he knows how it ends, why keep testing me? Why play games?"
Howard sat across from him. "Maybe he's trying to change the ending."
The idea hung in the air like smoke.
Marc looked up slowly, the faint lunar mark glowing faintly beneath his collarbone. "Or maybe," he said, "he's trying to write one no one survives."
Outside, thunder rolled across the city. Somewhere in the distance, the faint echo of laughter carried through the night—Diego's voice, drifting on the wind like a curse.
And on the desk between them, one of Diego's riddles sat, scrawled across a torn scrap of paper Marc had found in his coat pocket.
When gods forget their stories, who writes the next?
The letters pulsed faintly under the lab light, as if alive.
Neither man spoke. They both felt it—the storm gathering, the pattern deepening.
The riddles weren't over.
They were only beginning to speak back.
---