damage they sustain, their spiritual bodies cannot be destroyed. Those sent to the abyss for punishment are burned by the Father’s radiance again and again, only to spontaneously adapt and scar, healing in their own twisted way to be singed and charred once more.
It’s hell.
And ironic, really. The very thing that energizes Pearla and the other angels of light is devastation to their adversaries. All because of a choice they made long ago. A choice none of them has the capacity to regret.
Pearla has surfed the abyss, searching for answers, for clues. She’s watched the Fallen count their time there in licks of flame, wondering, between screams of misery, when and if the Prince will summon them from its cavernous depths.
Silence consumes the assembly now, imposed on them by the sight of an icy white figure dropping into the hall from above. His wings, spread wide, are white, save the tips, which retain a char he’s never rid of.
Black-tipped wings for the Prince of Darkness. Healthy wings. Strong wings. His skin shines like polished marble. His hair lies in curls of midnight around his face—still fresh, still bright, still retaining the beauty that seduced a third of the angels. Human eyes would have a hard time distinguishing the Prince from a Warrior like Michael. But the absence of light behind those pale blue eyes hints at the creature’s true nature. And they are pale, so pale the blue seems buried far below, glinting like coins at the bottom of a well.
He’s exquisite. Majestic.
And he’s afraid.
Celestial light has been banned from this place, but even here among the arctic shadows, fear cannot hide. Its blackness swirls in a controlled spin down his right arm, over his well-formed bicep, around his elbow, circling around his forearm, and sliding from his palm down his middle finger where it puddles beneath his throne. Tendrils branch out across the stone floor seeking, seeking.
He cups his hand, allowing the fear to pool there. His fingers close around the sticky substance and he prods it, molds it like a human child playing with a handful of clay. All the while, his eyes rip into the demon before him.
After a slow descent, the Prince’s feet touch upon the seat of his throne—the graven dragon behind him. His legs and waist are wrapped in cords of white. His torso and arms are bare. Very little separates him from the other archangels. And yet so much.
Pearla watches the Prince. The Creator gave him beauty—a beauty unrivaled—and he’s taken great pains to preserve it. His time here in Abaddon has kept him from the damage his hordes have suffered in the light of the Celestial. Pearla’s heard stories of the Prince venturing above, but his untarnished appearance alone is proof that his time to heal greatly exceeds that of his minions.
“Sit.” His celestial lips are still, unable to vocalize anything but animalistic rages—like those assembled, like the demon chained to the floor, like every angel he led astray—but they all hear. They all obey. It’s sad, really. His song, like his face, was far superior to all others. Now his mouth is good for nothing.
Wings rustle and talons scratch as countless demons crawl and flap toward rough shelves cut into the cliffs surrounding the hall. The demon chained to the floor drops to his knees.
Humility, even false humility, is appreciated here.
The Prince doesn’t sit, though. No. He stands on his throne, his legs spread wide, looking down at the demon trembling on the floor.
“It’s unfortunate, brother, to see you in chains. Again.”
His voice—sincere, seductive—vibrates through Pearla’s small being.
He’s opened his mind to the entire assembly, which makes her job much easier, but the Prince’s voice is dangerous, his lies far too easy to believe. She draws her legs more tightly into herself, ready to launch up and away should occasion call.
“Let us relieve you of that burden.” A small flick of his hand. “Please, friend, release Damien from his chains.”
From the darkness beyond the throne emerges another soul—coal black, his shoulders broad and thick, his arms and legs muscled. Scars zigzag across his body, the largest—the one gracing his chest—bears the undeniable shape of a Shield’s sword.
Pearla knows this one. This is Maka. Confidante of the Prince. His wings snap on approach, taunting his demon brother. Strange. The rumors had him suffering the pit. It seems he’s been shown mercy. A rare thing here.
Damien stands and offers his hands. Maka draws his scimitar and slices through the binds, wrists first and