Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The training grounds of Heaven sprawled across the cloud fields like a vast coliseum sculpted from moonlight and marble. Sunbeams pierced the pale gold sky in ethereal shafts, glancing off countless sets of polished angelic armor. The air smelled faintly of ozone, holy oils, and the faint, sweet scent of distant blossoms.

This was where Heaven’s might assembled — the Exorcists, Adam’s former personal legion, now under Abel’s command. They stood in perfect phalanxes, feathers gleaming black-to-grey with stark white interiors and sinister stripes, each of their LED mask faces twisted into static grins or vicious Xs. Their spears, swords, and rifles glowed with a quiet, menacing divinity.

And Abel looked painfully out of place.

He cut a striking figure in his own right — a broad young man, thick at the belly and hips in a way Heaven’s slim, almost hollowly beautiful angels never were. His lumber-colored skin glowed warm in the light, set off by the bright fulvous orange of his eyes. His hair, also lumber-hued, was cut short and tousled, unruly strands framing a soft face made softer by a chipped front tooth that peeked out whenever he tried to smile.

Abel wore a cream-colored cassock with golden embroidery, its high collar and marching band-like rows of buttons giving him a ceremonial grandeur undercut by his slightly rumpled look. Gold epaulets decorated his shoulders, and a white shako perched atop his head, crowned by a large snowy feather and a floating yellow halo — though the halo was noticeably dented, wobbling ever so slightly whenever he moved.

His pastel-orange wings twitched with uncertainty, the tips brushing the ground like shy hands. His limbs were stark black, hands and arms like polished onyx, out of place against his soft, earthy coloring.

He held a spear awkwardly, knuckles white.

Today’s drills were merciless.

The Exorcists moved as one, blades flashing, wings snapping into lethal drills that cut through the practice dummies with devastating efficiency. When Abel stepped up to spar, they were less precise and more brutal, eager to prove a point.

Steel met steel, and Abel’s entire body jolted with the impact. He tried to follow the footwork as he’d been taught, but his opponent — an Exorcist with a grin permanently stitched into their glowing mask — slammed the flat of their blade into his side, sending him sprawling onto the polished floor.

His halo bobbled dangerously, nearly slipping off. Laughter broke out along the ranks.

“He’s softer than a newborn cherub,” one Exorcist muttered, voice dripping disdain.

“Adam was right,” sneered another. “Said he was a pussy. Looks like he was being generous.”

Abel scrambled up, breathless, clutching his bruised ribs. Still, he forced a bright, shaky grin, chipped tooth catching the light. “A-ah! Good hit! Really — impressive form.”

No one returned the smile.

By the end of the session, Abel was left behind on the field, dust and sweat staining his beautiful cassock, wings drooping low. He tried to wave them off. “Excellent work today, everyone. Truly!”

They ignored him, filing out with military precision, leaving Abel to stand alone amid the distant hum of holy hymns and the quiet rustle of his own feathers.

Later, he made his way through Heaven’s grand corridors — enormous archways and delicate cloudlike balustrades that looked carved from frost. Light poured from somewhere above, casting everything in soft yellows and pale blues.

Abel paused outside the council chamber, straightening his uniform and fussing with his dented halo until it hovered somewhat straight again. Then he stepped inside.

Sera waited there, perched on a raised dais of luminous marble. The High Seraphim was every inch a vision of Heaven’s splendor — very tall and elegant, with cedar-brown skin that glowed like polished wood under lanternlight. Her silver ombre hair cascaded in gentle waves down her back, contrasting beautifully with the dark blue-gray of her sclera and luminous white irises. Her pupils, deep purple, gave her gaze a mysterious, almost mournful quality.

She wore a queenly gown of periwinkle-gray with delicate filigree, her six enormous light periwinkle and white wings arching gracefully around her like a living throne. Above her floated two halos, one circled with crown-like silver spikes and set with shimmering blue gems.

Despite her regal bearing, Sera’s expression softened as Abel approached.

“High Seraphim,” Abel greeted with a deep bow, though he winced as sore muscles protested. “Er uh, I mean Sera. I… I… I wished to discuss the coming Extermination.”

Sera inclined her head, folding her hands gently over her lap. “Speak, Abel.”

Taking a deep breath, Abel looked up. His bright eyes shimmered with quiet pleading. “I humbly suggest… postponing it. Perhaps for a year, maybe two. My Dad’s —“ he paused and cleared his throat, “I mean, Adam’s last campaign was launched six months early. Hell is still destabilized. It feels… cruel to strike again so soon. Mercy might do more to keep peace than more bloodshed.”

Sera’s eyes flickered — a storm of complicated emotion. She was kind, level-headed, even nurturing, preferring dialogue over violence wherever possible. But she was also burdened with the mantle of preserving Heaven’s order at any cost.

After a moment’s heavy silence, she let out a slow, sad breath. “I hear your heart, Abel. Truly. But this matter cannot be decided here and now. Go, rest. I will bring it to deliberation.”

Abel’s shoulders drooped, but he forced himself to nod. “Thank you, High Seraphim. For at least hearing me.”

As he turned to leave, Sera reached out, gently brushing a hand against his shoulder. “You carry so much. Do not forget to grieve. Or to allow yourself small joys.”

Her touch felt like a cool balm on a burn. Abel smiled weakly, ducking his head so she wouldn’t see the tears gathering in his eyes.

Outside the chamber, Abel leaned against a tall column, letting his wings droop around him like a protective shawl. His stomach gave a soft, troubling flutter — almost like something shifting inside. He pressed a black hand to it with a small frown.

‘Probably just nerves,’ he told himself, though unease pricked along his spine.

That night, back in his private rooms, Abel curled up on his enormous bed — wings tucked around him, the dented halo hovering crookedly above. He clutched a small, worn plush ram to his chest, its wool thin and patches threadbare from countless nights of desperate hugging.

“Good night, Dad,” he whispered into the soft toy, voice trembling. “I hope… wherever you are, you’re proud of me now… finally.”

Outside, Heaven’s lights glittered like a billion tiny watchful eyes. Deep in Abel’s belly, something faint and new stirred, quiet as a secret heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Abel awoke with a gasp, a cold sweat slicking his skin. His heart fluttered wildly against his ribs, wings tangled and twitching from some half-remembered dream of Adam’s stern eyes and an empty throne.

But there was no time to steady himself. A sharp, churning wave rolled through his gut — unnatural and urgent. Abel clapped a hand over his mouth, scrambled out of bed, and nearly tripped over the trailing edge of his cassock. He made it to the bathroom just in time, dropping to his knees and heaving violently into the delicate porcelain basin.

Tears pooled in his eyes from its force. His throat burned, and when it was finally over, he collapsed back on his heels, wings drooping low and trembling.

He wiped his mouth with the back of a black hand, breathing raggedly.

It had been like this for days now — a nausea that came and went in dizzying waves, with no clear reason. As an Archangel, sickness was not supposed to be possible. Even among Heaven’s winner souls , former humans who’d earned eternal reward, illness simply… didn’t exist here. Their spiritual forms were free of mortal frailties.

Yet Abel had spent the better part of a week hugging this gilded toilet bowl.

He pressed a hand against his belly, where the discomfort coiled strangely. ‘ Probably grief. Or stress, ’ he told himself firmly. It hadn’t been an easy several weeks. Taking over Adam’s responsibilities — leading the Exorcists who clearly despised him, trying to advise Sera, all while bearing the hollow weight of losing his father…

Once the worst of the sickness had passed, Abel cleaned himself up with careful hands. He splashed cool water over his flushed face and smoothed down his tousled hair. The halo above his shako wobbled as though dizzy itself, and he gently tapped it until it steadied into its familiar crooked orbit.

He paused to study himself in the mirror.

His skin looked a little more shallow than usual, his eyes ringed by pale golden shadows. The chip in his tooth was stark in the morning light, making his uncertain little half-smile look even more vulnerable.

Still, he tried to reassure himself. “You’ll be fine, Abel. Just need to be strong a little longer.”

He wandered out to his small kitchenette, wings brushing lightly against the delicate archways. The space was airy and lovely, draped in soft morning rays that turned everything a gentle honey hue. Little vases of trumpet lilies and tiny glass sun-catchers glittered along the windowsills — cheerful things that felt at odds with the sour taste still lingering in his mouth.

Abel made his breakfast with the same distracted ritual he’d fallen into recently. Open the cupboard. Pull down the little pale-blue tin of saltine crackers. He poured himself a crystal glass of cool water.

That was it.

He nibbled on a single cracker, letting it go mushy on his tongue. Even this tiny bite sat heavy and unwelcome in his belly. He told himself it was probably for the best. He needed to trim down anyway if he was going to stand in Adam’s place at Exorcist drills — they were all muscle and sharp lines. Maybe being a bit smaller would make them respect him more.

He chewed mechanically, eyes distant.

By the time he finished half a dozen crackers, Abel pushed the tin away with a tiny sigh. He wrapped his wings around himself as if for comfort, the pastel-orange feathers fluffing slightly.

‘You’re just grieving. That’s all, ’ he insisted. ‘ Once you adjust to everything… once the new routine sets in… it’ll get easier.’

Abel took a little longer than usual getting ready, buttoning his cassock with slow, deliberate movements. His fingers shook faintly on the golden fastenings. By the time he adjusted the white shako on his head, his halo gave another feeble wobble — almost as if it, too, felt unsteady.

He made his way out into the bright corridors of Heaven, trying to breathe evenly. The cloud-marble beneath his feet was cool and almost soft, whispering under each step. Beautiful stained glass windows filtered the high sun into sweeping patterns of gold and rose across the walkways.

Normally, it would have comforted him. Today, it only seemed to make his head swim.

At the Exorcist drill yard, Abel tried to stand tall. The ranks of angels were already assembled, spears in hand, dark wings folded sharp and disciplined behind them. Their mask-faces flickered with impatient symbols as they waited.

Lute stood near the front — missing arm wrapped in elegant dark ribbon, the backwards-curved horns of her mask giving her a perpetually wary look. Her remaining hand rested casually on the hilt of her sword.

Abel took a breath. Smile. Project confidence. They’re looking for a leader.

He stepped forward. “Good morning. I trust your warmups went—”

His voice cut off. A sudden rush of lightheadedness made spots dance before his eyes. His knees buckled. The pastel-orange of his wings twitched and dipped, nearly dragging him over.

Abel stumbled, clutching at his middle as a strange twisting pain flared low in his gut. It wasn’t the sharp lurch of nausea this time — more like a warm pressure that shouldn’t have been there.

For a horrible moment, he thought he might simply collapse right there in front of everyone.

Several Exorcists tensed, expressions on their LED masks glitching into puzzled question marks. A couple of them actually stepped backward, as if afraid whatever was wrong with him might be contagious.

Abel forced himself to straighten, though his face had gone a chalky shade beneath its usual rich color. “Forgive me,” he rasped out with a little cough. “Didn’t sleep well — entirely my fault. Please, carry on with… with the formation exercises. I’ll observe today.”

The Exorcists moved immediately, shifting into rigid drill lines.

Abel let out a small breath of relief, pressing his hand harder to his belly as if he could will the strange discomfort away. ‘ Just fatigue,’ he repeated desperately. ‘ You’ve been under too much strain. That’s all.’

He stayed at the edge of the yard, wings drooped low around his shoulders, trying to keep his breathing calm and steady. Every few moments his vision dimmed at the edges, like someone was gently pressing a cloth over his eyes.

It was humiliating. He knew how they saw him — the soft one, the gentle disappointment. Even Adam’s blood hadn’t saved him from their quiet scorn. Now he was giving them more reasons to doubt.

‘Be strong a little longer,’ he begged himself.

When the drills finally ended, Abel offered them a bright, tired smile and a nod of approval. He managed to hold it until they’d dispersed.

Then, alone in the quiet yard with nothing but the distant hymns drifting through Heaven’s airy towers, he let his face crumple.

One black hand drifted to rest protectively on his rounded middle, though he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

‘Why does my tummy hurt so much?’ he thought, bewildered and frightened. ‘ What’s wrong with me?’

But Heaven had no hospitals. No clinics, no healers. Sickness didn’t exist here — it simply wasn’t supposed to.

So Abel was left with only the gentle, impossible flutter in his belly and a growing fear that something in him was quietly breaking.

Abel wandered through Heaven’s city in a daze, one hand resting absently over his belly. The promenade was alive with gentle laughter and soft music drifting from open-air cafés. Angels in flowing gowns and tailored coats strolled along the curved cloud pathways, halos bobbing like delicate lanterns above their heads.

Under different circumstances, it might have soothed him. But today, everything seemed too bright, too sharp. Each smile he passed felt like a small betrayal of his own gnawing worry.

His wings dragged a little behind him, the pastel-orange feathers leaving faint trails in the gathered light.

He was on his way to one of Heaven’s “wellness spas,” which — in theory — doubled as hospitals, though they were more like luxurious retreats. No one needed true medicine in Heaven. These were places of gentle massages, fragrant baths, and harp music, designed to soothe the soul rather than heal the body.

It was all that existed here for someone who felt “unwell.”

Abel barely noticed he was staring down at the ground, half to watch his steps, half from sheer exhaustion. The polished cloudstone walkways were mirror-like in places, reflecting the swish of passing gowns and the drift of pearlescent petals that fell from floating flower arches overhead.

Then something out of place caught his eye.

A flash of deep red.

Abel paused, frowning faintly, and knelt to pick it up. It was a small rectangular object, startlingly heavy in his hand. Smooth, cold glass front, strange little buttons on the side. Nothing like the airy crystalline communication panels Heaven’s angels used.

His brows drew together. This… was a cellphone. A mortal device.

It hummed faintly in his palm, screen dark but warm to the touch. A little scuff on one corner suggested it had been dropped — or discarded.

“Where did you come from?” Abel whispered, turning it over in his hands. His chipped front tooth bit into his lower lip in thought.

Heaven’s rules were strict. Mortal devices simply didn’t exist here. Winner souls did not need such technology; it was unnecessary baggage from a life already left behind. The only mortals who ever touched Heaven’s streets were carefully vetted — escorted for special visits under Sera’s watchful eye, like Charlie and Vaggie had been.

This phone was a trespasser.

Or… perhaps a clue.

Abel’s stomach gave another unsettling flip, a feeling that was beginning to blur with that same faint flutter that almost felt like life. He pressed a black hand to his belly again, the other still curled protectively around the little device.

He should take it to Sera. It might be important — dangerous, even.

But instead, he found himself simply holding it, struck by a strange, guilty curiosity. There was something almost comforting in the sheer human ordinariness of it. As if, by touching it, he could anchor himself to a world that felt safer than the radiant weight of Heaven.

“Or maybe you’re just desperate for any distraction from what’s happening to you, ” he thought.

Finally, Abel looked up.

Ahead was the grand arch of one of Heaven’s spa-hospitals, all swirling filigree and soft golden lanterns. Angels drifted in and out with serene, sleepy expressions, attended by cherubic caretakers who carried trays of flower-laced water.

Abel took a small breath, tucking the phone carefully into his cassock. Whatever it was, it could wait a little longer.

Right now, he needed someone — anyone — to tell him why his tummy still hurt so much.

Inside, the spa was like stepping into a sunlit dream.

Soft white clouds billowed along the polished floors, drifting lazily around gentle arches carved from luminous stone. Delicate chimes hung from every alcove, their faint songs mingling with the low, soothing strains of harp music. Cherub attendants in pale blue togas moved gracefully from guest to guest, offering bowls of perfumed water or small plates of sugar-dusted confections.

Everywhere Abel looked, angels reclined on plush lounges or bathed in shallow pools strewn with blossoms. Their halos hovered serenely overhead, faces slack with bliss.

Abel swallowed hard. The sweetness of it all turned bitter in his mouth. He clutched the front of his cassock, wings tight around him.

A cherub with soft pearl-pink skin and tiny ivory horns approached, offering a polite bow. “Welcome, Archangel. May I prepare a eucalyptus soak for your stress today, or perhaps a melon nectar wrap? We also offer guided luminous breathing for grief.”

Abel’s chipped teeth worried at his lower lip. “N-no, I… I’m not here for that. I—” He took a shaky breath, bright fulvous eyes darting around the peaceful chamber. “I… I’ve been sick. Actually sick. Vomiting, dizziness, and terrible aches. Something is wrong with me. Please — is there anyone here who truly practices medicine? A healer? Someone who can examine me properly?”

The cherub’s pale eyes widened. Their smile faltered, delicate hands twisting together. “Archangel Abel… you know there is no illness in Heaven. Such mortal maladies don’t exist here. Perhaps you’ve simply held your grief too tightly. I can bring calming elixirs—”

“No!” Abel’s voice cracked. He clasped the cherub’s hands in his own black ones, startlingly large and desperate. “Please. You don’t understand — it’s not just grief. I feel something moving in me. It’s… It’s terrifying. Please, if there’s even a chance anyone could look at me with true medical knowledge—”

But his plea only made the cherub stiffen. They pulled back, eyes flickering nervously toward nearby guests who were now casting curious, uneasy glances.

“I… I’m sorry, Archangel. You are frightening the other patrons. Perhaps it would be best if you rested elsewhere today.”

Abel felt as though the ground had fallen out from under him. His wings drooped so low that the pastel tips brushed the clouded floor. “Please,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so scared. I just want to know what’s wrong with me.”

But the cherub only gave a tiny, strained bow, retreating several steps as if he were infectious.

A hush fell over the nearest pools. Angels who moments ago were laughing or sighing in bliss now watched Abel with wary, sidelong looks. One even covered her mouth with a delicate hand, halo trembling faintly.

Utterly humiliated, Abel gave a stiff nod and turned away, hugging himself tightly.

As he stepped back into the bright courtyard beyond, tears spilled hot and unbidden down his cheeks, dripping into the fine embroidery of his cassock. His halo wobbled so hard it nearly tumbled off.

‘Why does my tummy hurt so much?’ he thought again, a silent wail now, echoing in the hollow of his chest.
‘Why is there no one here who can help me? ’

Abel all but stumbled into his little cottage on the outskirts of Heaven’s bustling city. The moment the door closed behind him, he sank to his knees on the cloud-carpeted floor, wings drooping like wilting petals.

The aches in his belly had grown sharper — a hot, insistent pressure that made his whole torso throb with wrongness. He curled forward on instinct, arms wrapped protectively around his middle as he let out a pitiful whine.

“Ohh… why…?”

His breath caught in shallow gasps. Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, slipping down his cheeks to disappear into the embroidery of his high-collar cassock. His halo dipped low, casting a weak golden glow that only seemed to highlight how sickly he looked.

Minutes — or hours, he couldn’t tell — passed like that, with Abel rocking slightly on the floor, whispering half-formed prayers under his breath.

Then —

A strange sound cut through the quiet.

Rrrring. Rrrring.

It was a shrill, insistent chime that didn’t belong anywhere in Heaven. Abel’s head jerked up, eyes wide, wings giving a startled twitch.

It was coming from his pocket.

With trembling hands, he fumbled inside his cassock and pulled out the red cellphone — the same mortal device he’d found on the polished streets hours earlier. The screen glowed bright, and on it was a cheerful little cartoon of a yellow rubber duck.

Above it, in neat mortal script, it simply read:

Dad

Abel blinked.

Then his eyes lit with a hopeful sparkle. “Ohhh! Well, that’s lucky!” he breathed, his voice cracking from strain. “They must be calling to find their phone! They’ll know exactly who this belongs to and where I can return it!”

Without hesitation, he pressed the little green button and brought the phone to his ear, trying to straighten his posture and smooth his expression into something friendly and polite.

“Hello?”

There was a brief static pause. Then a voice answered — deep, warm, rich with amused power that seemed to roll right through him.

“Who is this?”

Abel laughed sheepishly, flustered. “Oh! My apologies!” His smile brightened, even as his fingers trembled around the device. “I found this phone on the ground, and I’m so sorry for answering it, but I was hoping you knew who it belonged to! I want to return it to the proper owner, of course! Who am I speaking to?”

There was silence on the other end. A weighty pause that made Abel’s pulse hammer.

Then —

“…Lucifer Morningstar.”

Abel’s smile froze. His breath caught painfully in his throat.

Lucifer Morningstar.

The name alone carried a gravity that could silence even Heaven’s choirs. And now that voice — smooth, commanding, impossibly familiar in ways Abel could never explain — was speaking directly to him.

To him.

His birth parent.

Chapter Text

Abel’s smile froze. His breath caught painfully in his throat.

Lucifer Morningstar.

The name alone carried a gravity that could silence even Heaven’s choirs. And now that voice — smooth, commanding, impossibly familiar in ways Abel could never explain — was speaking directly to him.

To him.

His birth parent.

Abel’s grip on the phone tightened. His black fingers shook around the slim red device, but his face remained carefully arranged in a polite neutrality.

“Oh! Lucifer Morningstar!” He let out a small, nervous laugh that sounded too thin. “Well, it’s a pleasure to speak with you, sir! I, um, I just found this phone here in the main city of Heaven, and when it started ringing, I thought — ‘Oh! This must be someone calling to find it!’ So I… ah… answered…”

Deep breath, Abel. Keep it together.

“I-I imagine you must know the owner, right? I’d be more than happy to return it to them! I don’t want them to worry about it being lost.”

Another pause. Then Lucifer’s voice came back, calm but edged with curiosity.

“Right… and you are again?”

Abel froze. His mind went blank.

Who am I?

His heart begged him to blurt it out — your son, I’m your son, please know me, please love me.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t burden Lucifer with a truth that would upend everything.

So instead, he forced out a bright little laugh. “Oh! I-um — just an angel! A nobody, really! Just someone trying to do the right thing! Hehe, that’s what we do up here, right?”

It sounded horribly forced. His voice wavered. His nails pressed into his palm, leaving tiny crescent dents.

“Hmph.”

Lucifer’s thoughtful hum was unreadable, curling in Abel’s ear like velvet smoke.

“Just an angel, huh? How wonderfully vague.”

Abel gave another soft, nervous laugh. “Ah, well, you know how it is! Not really supposed to give out names to just anyone on the phone. Security reasons and all that!”

Keep it light, keep it harmless.

“B-But! If I know who you were trying to call, I can make sure the phone gets back to them safely!”

“I was trying to call my daughter.”

Abel felt something twist violently in his chest.

Daughter. Of course.

His baby sister.

His breath quickened. His knuckles turned white. Still, he managed to squeak out: “Oh! Your daughter! That’s wonderful! That means she must be here in Heaven right now, right? Visiting?”

“Yes. Official business, apparently. She has a meeting with the high Seraphim.”

Charlie.

Abel swallowed around the lump in his throat. He shouldn’t ask. Shouldn’t even breathe her name.

But he wanted to hear it. Wanted to hear Lucifer talk about her — the way a father should.

“Oh! Well, I’d love to help get this phone back to her! What’s her name? Just so I know who to look for, of course!”

Lucifer’s sigh was laced with fond exasperation.

“She should be easy enough to spot. Blonde hair, bright smile, far too eager for her own good. Honestly, if she hasn’t already run into trouble up there, I’d be surprised.”

There was so much warmth in his voice. It ached to hear.

Abel’s throat closed. He bit back tears, blinking rapidly.

“She sounds like someone really special.”

“She is.”

Abel nearly choked on a sob. He forced it into a soft chuckle instead. “Well, I can’t wait to meet her — TO GIVE HER BACK HER PHONE, OF COURSE!”

Lucifer laughed. A rich, deep, musical sound that sent shivers all through Abel’s tired, aching body.

“Oh? Excited to meet my daughter, are you? I must admit, that’s not the usual reaction she gets from Heaven’s angels.”

Abel’s stomach twisted painfully. He knew exactly how most angels looked at Charlie — suspicion, disdain, a smudge of Lucifer’s rebellion staining her purity.

But Abel didn’t care.

“Why wouldn’t I be? She sounds… wonderful.” His voice came out soft, almost raw. Then he scrambled, adding, “A-And, you know! I like meeting new people! And returning lost items, of course! That’s the most important part, hehe!”

“Mm. Perhaps you’re not like the rest, then.”

Abel stiffened.

“Or perhaps you’re just an exception to the rule.”

Abel forced out another laugh, but his chest hurt. “I just try to be kind, that’s all. Heaven could use a little more kindness, don’t you think?”

Lucifer actually laughed again — a low, velvety sound that curled into Abel’s ribs and stayed there.

“Oh, you really are something, little angel. If more of Heaven thought like you, perhaps things would have turned out differently.”

Something about those words made Abel’s breath hitch. His eyes burned.

‘Little angel.’

Abel blinked quickly, forcing the tears back. He couldn’t keep this up. Couldn’t keep pretending.

“Well, I should, uh, get going! Need to find Charlie and return this before she notices it’s gone! Thank you for your help, sir!”

He hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.

Because once he hung up… that was it. Lucifer’s voice would be gone.

“…Very well. Goodbye.”

And then — click.

The line went dead.

Abel stood there in his cottage’s tiny sitting room, staring down at the phone, its screen dimming. His reflection peered back at him, eyes too bright, too wet.

Carefully, he lowered the phone and clutched it to his chest.

His hands were shaking. The phone screen unlocked beneath his thumb.

He shouldn’t — he really, truly shouldn’t. It was wrong. A violation.

But his fingers moved on their own.

He opened the call log. ‘ Dad’ sat right at the top. Then he pulled up the contact — saw the number, the social handle. A private account. A direct line.

‘He’s real.’

Not just a whisper of legend. Not just a shadow.

His breath trembled. He grabbed a napkin from his little tea table, snatched up a pen, and scribbled furiously. Lucifer’s number. Charlie’s info.

He tucked the napkin into his pocket, then pressed his hands together, bowing his head with a tearful whisper.

“I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for lying. For sneaking. For clinging to something he had no right to.

But even as he prayed for forgiveness… he didn’t regret it.

Because now he had something. A fragile, secret thread connecting him to a family he’d never known.

And no matter how wrong it was…

He needed it more than he would ever dare to admit.

Abel sat curled on the little tufted settee in his cottage, knees drawn up, his wings drooping around him like a pastel-orange cloak. His cassock was still wrinkled from where he’d clutched it earlier, his halo bobbing crookedly above his shako.

The napkin trembled in his hands.

He’d read and reread those scrawled names and numbers so many times that the ink had started to smudge beneath his fingertips.

Lucifer Morningstar.

Charlie Morningstar.

Abel’s eyes burned again. He pressed the napkin against his chest, as if trying to slow the rapid, painful flutter of his heart.

It was a distraction, he knew. A fragile little shield against the gnawing sickness in his belly, the ache of grief that still clawed at him every time he thought of Adam’s empty throne.

But it was a distraction he clung to all the same.

His thoughts spiraled back — as they often did in moments of raw vulnerability — to that day more than 9,000 years ago.

The day he’d first learned the truth.

Abel remembered darkness.

The chill of blood pooling beneath him, soaking into the earth. Cain’s face — twisted with horror and something like triumph — blurring as Abel’s sight failed.

Then — nothing.

He’d awoken gasping.

But not in his father’s fields. Instead, he lay in soft grass that shimmered with silver light, stretching out into endless rolling meadows. A gentle warmth cradled him, golden sunbeams bathing everything in a serene glow. Flowers with crystalline petals turned to follow him when he sat up, their tiny faces bright with curiosity.

For a heartbeat, Abel thought it must be a dream.

Then he realized he could breathe . The ache in his throat was gone. His body felt light, unburdened.

He rose slowly, brushing dew from his tunic. Each step made the grass sing — tiny chimes that tickled the air.

He’d never known such peace.

But that peace shattered the moment he wandered over a gentle hill and came face to face with them.

A cluster of towering figures stood there — beings with radiant faces, wings like carved moonlight, and luminous robes that rippled as if woven from the sky itself.

Seraphim.

Their eyes fell on Abel. And all at once, gasps rose up among them.

“A human soul? Here?”

“Impossible…”

“What breach of judgment allowed this to pass through the gates?”

Their awe was tinged with apprehension — even fear. Abel instinctively shrank back, clutching his hands together.

Then a voice, calm and clear, rippled through the field.

“Stand aside. I will see him.”

The Seraphim parted, bowing low, and through them stepped Sera — impossibly tall, with cedar-brown skin that glowed softly in the sunlight. Her silver-ombre hair cascaded around her shoulders, and six grand wings unfurled behind her in a swirl of periwinkle and white.

Two halos hovered above her brow, one crowned with delicate blue gems that caught the light like tiny stars.

Sera’s pale irises fixed on Abel, gentle yet piercing.

“You’re… not supposed to be here, are you?” Abel managed, his voice shaking. “I mean, I’m not supposed to be here. My brother—he…”

Sera studied him in silence. Then she knelt — towering even then — to brush her cool hand along Abel’s cheek.

“You are not only human, Abel.”

His heart stumbled. “What… does that mean?”

The High Seraphim exhaled slowly.

“Perhaps it is your blood that permitted entry where none should be allowed. You see, you are the son of Adam, yes… but also of Lucifer Morningstar.”

Abel flinched back as if struck. “What? No. No — that’s not — my mother was Eve! She…”

But something crumbled inside him even as he protested. The way Eve had always favored Cain. The way her arms had rarely held Abel with warmth.

He shook his head violently, tears pricking his eyes. “No, you must be mistaken. Lucifer — he’s the devil! The betrayer who tricked my parents — who—”

Sera’s wings shifted, creating a soft cocoon of light.

“I can show you the truth, Abel. If you are willing to see it.”

A flood of images poured into him — visions that crashed over his mind like a rising tide.

He saw Lucifer, not as the monstrous deceiver painted in frightened stories, but beautiful and weary, lying in a bower of soft lilac leaves. A golden light blazed within him — a miracle of creation.

Then he saw a tiny babe with wide golden eyes and lumber-colored curls, cradled tenderly to Lucifer’s chest. “My Sweet Apple…”

Abel staggered back, clutching his head. The revelation roared in his veins.

He remembered Eve’s distant eyes, her cold mouth. The way she had always seemed burdened by him, as if he were a mistake she could never quite accept.

And now he knew why.

When the visions faded, Abel stood trembling in that meadow, tears streaking down his cheeks.

Sera laid a hand upon his shoulder. “You are Heaven’s paradox, Abel — born of the First Man and the Morning Star. A bridge between mortal and divine. Perhaps that is why judgment let you slip through.”

He could barely breathe.

“My mother…” he whispered, voice raw. “My real mother… was Lucifer Morningstar?”

Sera only nodded, her silver lashes low.

Abel jolted from the memory, breath rattling.

His little cottage seemed smaller now, the air stuffy around him. His hands clutched the napkin so tightly it crumpled, his wings fluttering with unsteady emotion.

“Why…” he choked, pressing his forehead against his knees. “Why didn’t you ever… come for me?”

His sickness seemed to ease for a moment under the weight of that old ache.

But the napkin — the scrawled names, the fragile thread of connection — stayed clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

Abel curled up on his little bed, still in his crumpled cassock, hugging a pillow to his chest as if it could stop the hollow ache inside. His wings folded tightly around him like a battered cocoon, their pastel feathers ruffling each time he shivered.

He kept the napkin under his pillow. It crinkled when he shifted, a tiny, fragile reminder that he wasn’t completely alone — that maybe, impossibly, there was still something to reach for beyond the silence of his cottage.

Sleep did not come gently.

At first it was just darkness, a heavy, suffocating black. Then flickers of memory and longing began to swirl through the void.

He dreamt of laughter he’d never heard, warm hands combing through his hair, a mother’s soft voice humming a lullaby. In this cruel sweetness, he imagined himself small again, curled in Lucifer’s lap, his golden eyes reflecting a light that Abel had never truly known.

And Charlie was there too, bright and smiling, looping her arm through his and chattering about the mortal world.

A family. Whole. Radiant. Impossible.

But the dream shifted.

The warmth faded, replaced by a strange, eerie hush.

Abel stood barefoot in a field much like the one he’d first awakened in after death — but the sky was an unnatural green, swirling like oil over water. Flowers bowed away from him. Even the air seemed to retreat.

Then he saw them.

A figure cloaked in indistinct shadows approached, moving with an almost liquid grace. In their outstretched hand rested a single apple — green as polished jade, shining wetly under the sick sky.

It was so different from the red fruit he’d heard whispered about all his life, the one Eve had taken in the garden. This was colder, slicker, almost humming with an energy that made his feathers prickle.

“Taste,” the figure whispered, voice dripping into his ears like poison and honey at once. “Taste and understand.”

Abel reached out before he could stop himself. His hands shook as he took the apple. It was cool and strangely heavy, as if it held more than just flesh and seeds.

He raised it to his lips. Took a bite.

Agony exploded through him.

A searing, twisting pain shot from his stomach up into his chest, scorching every nerve. His knees buckled. He clutched at himself, dropping the half-eaten apple as his vision spiderwebbed with black.

He tried to scream, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. His body arched, convulsing, wings thrashing helplessly against nothing.

Abel jolted awake with a ragged, terrified cry.

Cold sweat drenched his skin, plastering his short, lumber-colored hair to his forehead. His halo spun wildly above him, tilted and flickering.

And then the pain was real . A horrible cramp seized his abdomen, sharper than anything he’d felt yet.

He didn’t even have time to steady himself.

Abel lurched off the bed and stumbled for the bathroom, falling to his knees at the toilet just in time to vomit.

His hands clawed at the porcelain, wings quivering violently, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

His stomach heaved again, another wave of bile burning his throat.

By the time it subsided, he was left gasping, trembling so badly his limbs barely held him upright.

He slumped against the cool bathroom wall, drawing his knees up.

His thoughts whirled in dizzy, feverish circles.

“I need help. I need a doctor. I… I need someone to tell me what’s happening to me.”

His hand slid over his belly, feeling the residual throb of that deep, unnatural pain.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. And not even grief or stress could explain this.

Abel squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching on a small, frightened sob.

Tomorrow — he would try again. Someone had to help him.

Because if they didn’t… he didn’t know how much longer he could endure whatever was growing inside him.

Chapter Text

Abel didn’t have long to linger in bed.

At dawn, a gilded courier appeared at his door, wings folded neatly behind a pale tunic, bearing a formal summons sealed with Heaven’s intricate sigil. He was to appear at the Courthouse—immediately.

Abel’s stomach twisted. Another wave of nausea rolled through him, but he forced it down. Whatever was happening inside him would have to wait. When the High Seraphim called, you obeyed.

The courthouse was vast and airy, a cathedral of pale crystal columns and sky glass vaults that flooded the hall with golden light. Rays glinted off thousands of delicate etchings along the walls—souls ascending, angels guiding mortals, and depictions of Lucifer’s Fall. Rows of benches stretched before a raised dais where Sera stood, six wings fanned behind her, serene and commanding. Emily hovered nearby, fidgeting at her gown, her halo blinking anxiously.

Abel sank into a bench, twisting his hands in his lap. When he turned, his heart leapt. St. Peter sat close by, legs crossed, golden curls bouncing, turquoise eyes sparkling with mild delight.

“Ah—hello, Abel!” Peter whispered, grinning warmly. “Can you believe it? They’ve actually brought a Sinner Soul for trial. Isn’t that something?”

Abel blinked. “A… Sinner Soul? Here?”

Peter nodded eagerly. “Sir Pentious. Quite the case. They’re debating if a redeemed soul can truly remain. Could change everything.”

The doors at the hall’s end swung open. Two angelic guards escorted in a figure draped in elegant clothing, a top hat tilted atop his head, golden eyes darting nervously. His long tail coiled tightly. Sir Pentious.

A hush swept the courtroom as the trial began.

Abel couldn’t look away. He watched Sir Pentious stammer out answers, tearfully insisting on the genuine change in his heart. Emily dabbed at her eyes, and even Sera’s composure flickered. For a brief moment, hope sparked in Abel’s chest. Maybe souls could change. Maybe Heaven wasn’t as rigid as it seemed.

Then murmurs rippled through the gallery. An angel rose, scroll in hand, voice ringing clear across the hall:

“In light of this case… precedent must be reviewed. We have confirmation of a new Sinner Soul, once believed lost entirely. Adam, the First Man—now Fallen, residing in Hell among the damned.”

Abel froze. Blood roared in his ears. Adam… is in Hell?

Peter squeaked in shock. “Oh, dear heavens…”

And that was all it took.

Abel doubled over, hands flying to his mouth, but it was too late. Vomit spilled onto the marble floor, sour and sharp. Gasps rippled through the benches. Peter yelped, wings fluttering, as Abel crumpled, mortification burning hotter than tears streaking his cheeks.

In front of Peter. Of all angels.

Heaving again, wings drooping, Abel tried to steady himself. Peter hovered near, hesitant. “A-Abel? Stars above… are you alright?”

Abel could only squeeze his eyes shut, fresh tears streaking his lumber-colored face. Somewhere on the dais, Sera’s voice echoed, commanding order, but it sounded distant, muffled beneath his pounding heart.

Adam. Fallen. In Hell. The man who had ruled over Heaven’s Exterminations, his father, his judge, his shadow. Cast down.

The sickness inside him twisted, clawing, punishing each breath. Abel tried to rise, swaying dangerously. Peter gripped his arm. “Come on, let’s get you out of here before you collapse completely.”

Guided from the hall, Abel’s mind reeled. The revelation of Adam’s damnation shattered everything he believed about Heaven, justice, and the fate of souls. Inside him, something stirred, twisting with the news.

Behind an ivory curtain, a secluded alcove offered mercy: soft couches and crystal fountains. Abel collapsed onto one, wings sagging. His skin was clammy; his eyes were wide and unfocused. He hugged himself, gripping his cassock like it might hold him together.

Peter fussed, producing a scrap of soft lace to dab at Abel’s brow and mouth. “Stars above… You look awful. Have you been unwell for days?”

Abel’s throat tightened. “I… I don’t know. I tried to tell myself it’s grief, or stress, but… It’s more than that. Something is moving inside me. Like magic. Or… power.”

Peter’s brows knitted. “Moving? Abel, that—doesn’t make sense. You’re an angel. Illness doesn’t exist here. No fevers, no parasites—”

“But it’s there!” Abel burst out, clutching his stomach, tears springing anew. “It’s real, Peter. I’m so scared. Please… I don’t know who else to go to.”

A warm emerald glow fell across the alcove.

Raphael stood at the edge, radiance so intense that even other Seraphim seemed pale. His robes shimmered with leafy patterns and tiny blossoms; a crystal-topped staff rested lightly in his hand. His eyes—deep green flecked with gold—met Abel’s, and the world stilled for a heartbeat.

Peter bowed low. “Archangel Raphael! We… we didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Peace, Peter,” Raphael said, voice calm yet piercing. “Word travels quickly. I heard of your distress… and your trial. May I?”

Abel whispered, hands limp in his lap. “P-please… I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Raphael knelt gracefully, fingertips brushing Abel’s forehead, hovering just above his belly. The air shimmered faintly, green sparks dancing. Abel gasped—tiny roots seemed to probe his flesh.

Raphael’s serene expression fractured. His evergreen eyes sharpened, horror flashing. “There is life inside you—a nascent, bright soul.”

Abel froze. “A… soul? You mean I’m—?”

“Carrying. You are with child, Abel. A new soul grows inside you.”

Peter reeled back. “He’s… pregnant? That’s—not supposed to happen in Heaven!”

Raphael’s hands gripped Abel’s shoulders. “What did you do? Did you sin? Lay with someone? Bring corruption here?”

“I… no!” Abel stuttered. “Never! I swear it—”

Raphael’s voice rose, dread lacing every word. “Have you given yourself to someone? Answer me!”

Abel shook his head violently. Peter’s hand flew to his mouth, turquoise eyes wide in disbelief.

Without warning, chains of burning silver snapped into being, coiling around Abel’s wrists, ankles, and wings, searing cold. He let out a strangled cry as Raphael hauled him upright.

Peter lunged, horror etched across his face. “Raphael! Stop! What is this—why—”

Raphael ignored him, dragging Abel into the center of the courtroom. Angels flinched, wings recoiling, halos flickering. He flung Abel forward with a cruel jerk. Chains clattered; Abel fell to his knees, head spinning from pain and humiliation.

Sera’s voice cut the stunned silence. “Raphael! What madness is this?”

Raphael’s wings flared, staff striking marble with a crack of holy light. “Because the Son of Lucifer is pregnant!”

A collective gasp swept the chamber. Even Emily covered her mouth. Abel’s heart stuttered, breath ragged. Kneeling, chains biting into his flesh, he looked up through tears at Sera, silently begging for mercy as the weight of a thousand judgments crashed down upon him.

Chapter Text

The courtroom shattered into chaos.

It wasn’t a loud, violent sound like glass exploding inside every halo. Wings flared in startled fury as gasps, shouts, and terrified whispers cascaded through the gallery like a tidal wave of holy dread.

Seraphim clutched their heads, halos spinning. “No… no, no, no… this can’t be real!” one whispered, quivering. Archangels exchanged horrified looks, rigid with disbelief. Choir angels broke mid-note, their melodies dissolving into trembling hiccups and strangled sobs. Even the scribes dropped quills, golden ink spilling across parchment like divine blood. Scrolls curled in on themselves, their stories unread.

Emily stumbled backward from Sir Pentious, hand flying to her lips, large freckled eyes brimming with tears. “Abel…? Oh, Abel… no, no, no… how—how could this be?”

High above, Sera stood frozen, her six periwinkle-and-white wings drooping like wilted petals. One halo tilted, the other dimmed. Her queenly robes sagged under a weight they were never meant to carry. “Abel…” Her voice cracked like a harp string snapped mid-song. “How… how could you conceal something like this? How could you betray Heaven?”

The words cut like knives.

Abel’s chest twisted, his breath catching. He tried to rise, chains rattling with every trembling motion. “I—I didn’t—!” he gasped, voice hoarse and raw. “I swear! I don’t know how this happened! Please… you have to believe me!”

From the gallery, Peter leaned forward over the rail, bowtie crooked, wings fluffed like a protective shield. “He wouldn’t lie!” he said, voice trembling. “Abel… he’s telling the truth! Someone—please, just hear him!”

A ripple of fear moved faster than reason. “The son of Lucifer… in Heaven… breeding?” a voice hissed from a nearby bench.

“Corruption! Hell sent this!” another cried.

“Is it… contagious?” whispered a trembling angel behind them.

“He’s tainted… the bloodline… the body…” murmured a Seraphim, hands clutching at their chest.

Emily’s sobs grew louder, wings quivering violently. “Oh, Abel… why now? Why you?”

From the circle of Seraphim, Raphael stepped forward, his emerald robes flowing over marble. Staff in hand, glowing faintly, he spoke, voice cold and precise. “This is nothing short of a holy scandal. We cannot risk Heaven’s sanctity. This child… this miracle… until it is fully understood, it must be contained.”

A stunned silence followed. Even Sera’s gaze flickered. Then, her voice, low and fractured, spoke reluctantly: “Perhaps… that is all we can do.”

Abel doubled over, clutching his belly as though sheer desperation could rewind time. “Please… please… I don’t understand… I didn’t—never—”

Everyone was yelling. Everyone talking over each other. Their voices bouncing off the walls — a stadium full of angelic voices stating he was in the wrong.

But he hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

And then—a hush.

A wave of pure light.

A soundless chord resonated through every soul present.

Golden light poured down from the vaulted dome, a waterfall of sunfire, scattering shadows and cleansing the courtroom of fear and accusation. Every wing folded. Every voice fell silent.

From above descended a radiant figure wrapped in dawn. Tall, towering, elegant, robed in shifting gold and pearl, head of a great owl crowned with silver bells, wings massive and silent.

She needed no introduction. She was known simply as: The Speaker. The Voice of God.

The room fell to its knees. Even Raphael bowed, eyes averted. Sera trembled. Emily wept openly. Sir Pentious clutched his tail in awe.

Only one remained chained, trembling, eyes wide and wet: Abel.

The Speaker knelt, folding herself with impossible grace, cupping Abel’s tear-streaked face in one downy hand. “Why do you tremble, little one? Why let fear overshadow wonder?”

Abel hiccuped, breath caught, unable to form words.

She smiled, soft and steady. “Rise, Abel. Bearer of Life.”

He obeyed, swaying beneath the weight of emotion.

The Speaker turned to the court. “Just as the Virgin Mary once conceived through divine will, so too has Abel been chosen. He carries a soul untouched by sin… a soul of extraordinary purpose.”

Silence suffocated the room. Scribes wept openly, Seraphim bowed, and even Sera’s expression softened.

“Do not question what the Divine sets in motion. This soul grows under Heaven’s roof not by accident, but by design. A second miracle… proof that grace continues.”

Sir Pentious sniffled loudly, dabbing at his eye with a clawed finger.

But one figure did not bow: Lute. At the back, her blade glinted beneath a shredded sleeve, lips curled in a sneer. “First he takes my command… now he’s Heaven’s golden uterus?” Her jaw clenched. “This is bullshit!” She flies around, “First Adam is killed and now Lucifer’s bastard is carrying the anti-Christ?”

“… wait wouldn’t Abel be the anti-Christ if he’s Lucifer’s son?” A random angel asked.

“He is not,” the Speaker announced. “Abel was a pure human soul and he has been chosen to carry a miracle child.”

Abel broke. “I…have been chosen?”

The speaker nodded, “Yes my child. You are carrying life — a precious miracle. And you should not feel ashamed.”

Sobs wracked the pregnant man’s body, relief burning raw.

Peter shoved through the stunned crowd, wings fluttering, falling to his knees beside him. “Oh, Abel,” he whispered fiercely, holding Abel’s shackled wrists.

Abel collapsed into him, chains slack, cradled by the only hands he trusted.

Then came a harsh, rasping laugh, slicing through reverence like poisoned glass. All eyes snapped to the back.

Lute stood, ragged wings half-flared, sword tight, eyes burning like cold lanterns. “A second miracle? Chosen by the same filthy bloodline that stole everything from me?” She spat.

She drew something glowing from her breastplate. Abel’s heart seized.

Adam’s halo. His father’s halo.

“EXORCISTS!” she bellowed. “YOUR TRUE COMMANDER CALLS!”

The chamber erupted. Armored angels poured from every archway, swords and spears ignited in eerie white flame.

Emily gasped, and Sera reached forward. “Lute, don’t—”

But it was too late. The halo’s magic tore open a portal.

“WE MARCH ON HELL!” Lute shrieked. “IF HEAVEN WILL NOT PURGE THIS FILTH, WE WILL!”

The exorcists surged. Elder angels seemed unable to halt them, circling into the portal, panic spreading like wildfire.

Peter grabbed Abel, hauling him up. “We have to run—NOW!”

Emily flew to them, Sir Pentious following in panic. Only a few desperate steps later, Lute’s cold laugh rang out.

“Going somewhere, traitors?”

She raised the corrupted halo, opening another portal.

In a moment of pure instinct, Abel shoved Peter toward Emily and Sir Pentious. “Go! Now!”

“No—NO!” Peter screamed, wings flaring in panic.

Lute smiled with savage triumph. “Say hello to Adam for me… and tell him I’m coming for him!”

A vicious kick struck Abel in the stomach, wind knocked from him, and he fell backward through the portal.

“ABEL!”

Peter lunged, but Emily held him back. His wings flared, desperate, but even a guardian of Heaven could not follow. Abel plummeted through the churning, roaring maw of the portal, alone.

Abel tumbled through the portal, chains rattling against his wrists and ankles, wings pinned painfully to his back. The kick Lute had delivered still burned in his stomach, a hot, twisting pain that made him cry out mid-fall.

The sky was gone. The ground was gone. Only chaos—a dizzying spiral of colors and fire, sulfur, and smoke. Heat licked at his skin, stinging where the chains bit, and the stink of rot and ash filled his nostrils. Abel could taste it—the metallic tang of blood, the acrid scent of brimstone, the tang of sin itself.

He flailed helplessly, trying to slow his fall, but the chains dragged him faster, jerking at his shoulders with every movement. His stomach churned violently. He gagged, trying not to vomit, but fear and pain made it impossible.

A voice hissed somewhere behind him. A laugh, low and wet. Abel tried to turn, but the chains held him tight. Shapes moved in the haze—twisted, angular forms with glowing eyes and sharp teeth, darting past him in the swirling chaos.

Then, abruptly, his descent ended.

He slammed onto hard ground with a bone-jarring thud, chains snapping taut. Dust and black ash rose around him like a choking cloud. Abel coughed, gasping for air, wings folding inward in a protective curl. Pain screamed from his stomach, from his wrists, from every corner of his body.

He looked around—and froze.

The city sprawled before him, impossibly vast and twisted. Towers of jagged obsidian loomed like fangs; neon signs flickered in colors Abel couldn’t name, advertising clubs, brothels, casinos, and strange, glowing markets. Smoke and steam curled from vents, mingling with the thick, sulfurous fog that clung to the streets.

A clock tower pierced the sky in the distance, its hands ticking ominously. He remembered Peter’s words about the Exterminations… 365 days until the angels returned. Each day a countdown for destruction.

Voices echoed from the streets below—demonic laughter, shouts, the clatter of coins on metal tables. A train of shadowy figures slithered through the alleyways, whispering deals and threats, their eyes glowing like coals. Abel swallowed hard, stomach twisting anew.

This… this is Hell? he thought, pain radiating in every joint. And I’m alone.

A tall, horned demon in a pinstripe suit stepped into his line of sight, cigarette smoke curling from its mouth. “Well… what do we have here?” it hissed, long claws tapping against the chains. “Fresh meat, Care to make a deal, little bird?”

Abel tried to answer, but the chains rattled in protest. His voice cracked. “I—I-I don’t… want… trouble…”

The demon chuckled, smoke swirling in eerie patterns. “Oh, you’re a little bitch, ain’t cha?” it said, eyes glittering. “Trouble… is Hell. You don’t get to avoid it here.”

The sounds of the city pressed in—the distant roar of engines, the clamor of bars and clubs, music pounding from neon-lit stages, sirens screaming somewhere in the haze. Abel’s stomach burned again. The kick from Lute, the fall, the sudden reality of Hell… he doubled over, clutching himself, tears slipping down his cheeks.

He tried to move, but the chains dragged at him, anchoring him to the blackened cobblestones. Every step was agony, every motion a reminder that he was no longer in the safety of Heaven.

A group of smaller demons—scavengers, maybe, from the black market—gathered nearby, their eyes glinting with curiosity and malice. One hissed, “Oi, what’s the shiny boy’s story? Straight off the golden streets?”

Abel swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper. “I… I… I don’t know where I am…”

The demons hissed, muttering amongst themselves. One bared its teeth. “Lost… or abandoned. Either way, tasty.”

Abel shivered, chest heaving. He looked up at the clock tower, its hands motionless but ominous, casting long shadows across the streets. Somewhere far above, the sounds of the city never stopped—music, shouts, laughter twisted by fire and smoke.

He curled inward, chains rattling against the cobblestones, stomach still aching from Lute’s kick.

Every nerve screamed: survive.

Every instinct screamed: run.

Chapter Text

The cobblestones burned beneath Abel’s knees. He coughed, the taste of sulfur and copper clinging to his tongue, chains biting into his wrists and shoulders with every tremble. The neon haze of Pentagram City pulsed around him—hellfire signs flickering, smoke curling through cracked alleys—but it was the sound that froze his breath.

Not sound. Violence.

Screams tore through the night. Metal scraped like thunder. Wings beat the air in unnatural rhythm. Abel forced his head up, blinking through smoke and tears—

And saw them.

Exorcists.

They descended in ranks, halos slicing through the dark like razors, armor gleaming silver-white against Hell’s ash-stained streets. Spears of light crackled in their hands, blades carved arcs of fire through the chaos. Sinners shrieked as their bodies dissolved into ash. Hellborns fell screaming as steel severed scale and bone. Even demons who had fled into neon-lit clubs were dragged back out, skewered in doorways that glowed red with blood and flame.

Abel’s breath caught sharp. “No… no, this can’t—”

He stumbled backward, wings pinned tight by iron, stomach lurching from the blow Lute had given him. Chains rattled like mocking laughter.

Across the street, a hulking demon raised his arms to shield a clutch of sinners. “Run!” he roared—before a spear of holy fire skewered him through the chest. He fell, scattering to ash, and the sinners screamed as a whip of light cracked down upon them.

Abel clutched his stomach. His throat tore as he whispered, “Stop… please, stop—”

But the slaughter drowned him out.

A child’s voice cut through the chaos. “Mama!” A Hellborn no taller than Abel’s knee clung to her sister, wide eyes glowing in terror. An Exorcist raised his weapon—

Abel lurched forward, chains clanging, panic clawing his ribs. “NO!”

The blade struck before he could take two steps. Ash filled the air. The younger child screamed until her voice broke before she too was silenced forever.

Abel crumpled, choking on bile. ‘This isn’t just. This is war.’

He curled inward, hands over his middle, shivering so violently the chains rattled like teeth. The Speaker’s promise echoed faint and broken in his head: “Fear not, Abel. Heaven itself will see you and your child protected.”

A lie. A joke.

The Exorcists weren’t protecting anyone. They were erasing.

Flames licked higher. Neon signs burst and rained glass onto the crowd. Sinners clawed at each other for cover. The air itself screamed. Abel wanted to shut his eyes, to vanish into stone—but he couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop hearing.

Snap. A whip cracked.

Shriek. A demon dissolved.

Crash. A casino sign fell, crushing three beneath.

And always the smell—burning hair, sulfur, the cloying sweetness of angelic fire searing flesh.

A whistle pierced the chaos. Boots pounded close. Abel jerked upright, pressing into the shadow of a crumbling wall. His chains scraped stone as he tried to make himself small.

“There!” A voice rang sharp. An Exorcist’s shadow stretched over him, glaive glinting. “That one—look at him. Some kind of Hellborn angel?”

Another leaned close, squinting. “No way… That’s Abel.”

“What? Adam’s son?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The glaive raised, catching firelight. “Tie him—”

Abel shook his head violently. “No! Don’t—please!” His voice cracked raw.

The Exorcists only laughed.

“Chains are already on him. Convenient.”

“Think he screams like a little bitch?”

Abel stumbled back, chains dragging. His shoulder slammed brick. No way out. His gaze flicked desperately down the alley—

And froze.

At the far end, blocking escape, stood a silhouette: tall, winged, a blade gleaming faintly red.

Boots scraped closer. Lute emerged into firelight, her one hand gripping her sword so tight the leather creaked. Her smile was a broken sneer.

“Pathetic,” she hissed. “Falling into Hell like spoiled fruit. You don’t even deserve to crawl.”

Abel’s throat closed. “L-Lute, wait—please—”

“Beg louder.” Her eyes blazed cold. “Maybe your bastard will hear.”

The first Exorcist lunged. Abel tried to twist away, but his chains yanked him down. Steel kissed his shoulder, slicing through feather and flesh. He cried out, clutching the wound as hot blood soaked his sleeve.

The second swept low. Abel crashed onto the stones, vision bursting in stars. His breath came in jagged gasps.

Lute’s steps crunched nearer. She raised her blade above him. “This ends now. No more whining. No more miracles. You should’ve stayed broken.”

The sword fell—

CLANG!

Sparks exploded. Steel clashed steel.

Abel flinched, blinking through the shower of fire. A figure loomed between him and the killing blow, weapon locked against Lute’s.

Tall. Masked. Horns curving from his head like a jagged crown. Black wings flared, their inner feathers glowing faint red. A robe of dark silk swirled as he moved, a golden chain swinging against his chest with a crimson “A” sigil gleaming at its heart.

The mask grinned. A jagged, toothy smile carved in porcelain.

Abel’s heart stuttered. His lips parted, voice breaking.

“…Dad?”

Chapter Text

The figure didn’t answer at first, shoving Lute back with a guttural grunt before spinning his axe-blade with practiced ease. Then he glanced over his shoulder, the mask tilting just enough for Abel to glimpse the impossible—the shadow of the man he had once known.

“…Dad?”

“Stay down, Abel.” His voice was lower, rougher, as if broken somehow, but still—undeniably Adam’s. “I’ll handle this.”

Abel’s breath hitched, tears burning his eyes. His father, fallen, twisted, demonic, but now standing between him and Lute.

The exorcist fury trembled through her one good arm as she pointed her blade at him. “Adam?! That’s not possible—you died! I saw it. I saw that little maid bitch stab you repeatedly!”

Adam’s jagged grin widened beneath the mask, though it didn’t reach his voice. “It takes a lot more than some angelic needle to the heart to kill me!”

Lute snarled, stepping forward. “Look at you! Horns, wings, corruption dripping off your skin. You’re nothing but a sinner now!”

“And yet,” Adam said, swinging his weapon into a defensive stance, “I’m still more awesome than any of you bitches ever were.”

Abel flinched, his chains rattling. “Dad… you’re—” He struggled to form the words, horror and awe mingling. “Are you… protecting me?”

Adam didn’t look back this time. His shoulders tensed, his wings spreading wide to shield Abel. “Of course I am. You’re my son.”

The words hit harder than any blade. Abel’s lips trembled, disbelief shattering through him. He had never heard Adam sound so—certain.

“Dad…”

“The only one who can ever give you shit or call you a pussy is me!” Adam proclaimed.

Of course… it was Adam after all. But still, Abel was so happy to see his Dad again.

Lute’s expression twisted, her fury boiling into something darker. “Protecting him? Protecting that?!” She spat toward Abel. “He’s filth— tainted, an insult to your name!”

“My name?” Adam barked out a bitter laugh, his grin glinting in the firelight. “Lute, my name will never die. Not as long as human souls exist.” Lute’s eyes widened with rage. She lunged, sword flashing. Adam met her blow, steel grinding against steel.

Adam’s jagged mask tilted, his wings stretched wide like a shield before Abel. Across from him, Lute’s sword hummed with radiant light, its holy edge dripping contempt into the shadows.

“Stand aside, Adam!” she spat. “This isn’t your fight anymore. You’re a traitor, a corpse dressed in sin.”

Adam’s clawed fingers tightened around the neck of his guitar-axe. “No. This is exactly my fight.”

And then—chaos erupted.

Lute lunged first, her blade a white arc of judgment. Adam twisted, deflecting the strike with a crack of strings and steel. The alley flashed with sparks. Before the second Exorcist could close in, Adam kicked off the cobblestones, wings blasting wind and ash. He swung his axe low, cleaving through the spear of one Exorcist, splintering it into light.

“First rule of war,” Adam muttered under his breath, grin fixed, “you take out the threats that think they’re clever.”

The Exorcist screamed as Adam’s follow-through sent them crashing into the wall, brick exploding outward.

Lute spun, fury burning her features. “Coward! You think cheap tricks will save you?”

Adam chuckled, low and bitter. “Not cheap. Efficient.”

She dove again, blade slicing through the air. This time Adam met her head-on, the clang of their weapons ringing like a broken hymn. For a heartbeat, they locked—her holy light clashing against his hellfire, shadows and brilliance warring in the alley.

Then Adam’s mask tilted, his voice dark silk. “Tell me, Lute. How many times have you won without me telling you where to swing?”

Her snarl was answer enough. She shoved him back, wings snapping open as she surged forward again.

Adam let her. At the last instant, he vanished in a coil of black smoke—reappearing above her, descending like a storm. His axe came down, wreathed in hellfire, striking her shoulder. She screamed as sparks and ash sprayed outward, the edge biting through armor.

The second Exorcist barreled in, swinging down with another conjured spear. Adam didn’t flinch. He conjured thick clouds with a flick of his hand, the alley choking with sudden fog. The Exorcist faltered, blinded—too late. Adam burst from the haze, his grin glowing, and his fist—strong enough to shatter stone—smashed the halo clean off the soldier’s head.

The Exorcist collapsed, twitching, wings fading to smoke.

“Two down,” Adam muttered, spinning his axe like it weighed nothing. His mask angled toward Lute. “Guess that leaves Dangetits.”

“Shut up!” Lute screamed, charging, her blade raised. She struck again and again, holy steel sparking off Adam’s guard. Her fury made her relentless—her strikes wild but heavy, driving Adam back with sheer force.

Abel could only watch, his chest heaving, chains dragging. His father fought like a storm incarnate—every strike calculated, every step purposeful. It was nothing like the Exorcists’ rigid movements. Adam fought like someone who had invented the rules of war and then learned how to break them.

“Why do you protect him?!” Lute’s voice cracked as her blade clashed with Adam’s, locking them in place. “He’s a mistake! A failure! You’ve even said that before!”

Adam’s laugh came sharp and venomous, the sound scraping against Abel’s heart. “Because he’s my kid. And no one will fuck with my kid while I’m still around.”

And then, with an explosion of strength, he shoved her back, his wings whipping up a cyclone of ash. He raised his hand—hellfire erupted, surging into a burning spear of light warped into flame.

“Let me show you what a failure can do.”

The blast roared down the alley, hellfire meeting holy light as Lute barely managed to block. The explosion threw her against the wall, cracks spiderwebbing out from the impact. Smoke and fire filled the air, the alley shaking as if Hell itself had shuddered.

Lute staggered, coughing, her armor cracked. Her halo flickered. Still, she raised her sword, her voice ragged but unyielding. “Adam… you betray everything we believe in!”

Adam stood firm, his silhouette carved in fire and shadow, his grin still shining through the mask. He raised his axe to his shoulder, voice steady.

“Let me stop you right there

With your halos and lies

If what you’re suggesting

Is Heaven’s so “wise”

With their ladders,

With their banners, with their gilded light—
Sorry, sugar,

But I’ve seen their paradise bite.

‘Cause Hell is forever

And I’ll wear that crown of flame.

Heaven’s rules were made to sever,

But down here, I’ve shed the shame.

They say it’s black and white—

I’ve bled enough to know that’s shite.

So burn me, break me, call me sin—

I’ll rise, and I’ll rise, again!”

Abel’s breath caught.

The words echoed louder than the battle. His father wasn’t just fighting.

He was choosing.

Lute screamed and launched herself forward again.

“You dare to fight for broken spawn?

You dare to spit on God’s own dawn?

Then burn with him, choke in flame—

I’ll strike you down in Heaven’s name!

Hell is forever—

And you’ve earned your rot!

Heaven gave you grace,

And look at what you’ve wrought!”

Abel looks up with pleading eyes, finding enough strength to jump up and to get between the two.

“Stop this fighting, everyone! (everyone)

Look at what you have done! (ah ah)

We’re all of us trapped in this vicious torment!

Please don’t let our pain be the payment!”

Abel screamed as two Order Exorcists grabbed him by the arms, their halos glowing like piercing moons in the darkness. Chains dragged across the cobblestones, biting into his wrists as he kicked and twisted, trying to escape.

“Let me go!” he shouted, his voice cracking. “Dad!”

Adam’s wings flared, hellfire sparking at his shoulders, as he tore through the alley toward Abel. His axe swung low and wide, ready to strike the attackers, but before he could reach him, shadows converged.

It wasn’t just Lute’s forces anymore. Dozens of former subordinates he had trained, angels he had treated like daughters, now surrounded him. He recognized them instantly: Clitoressa, Laybia, Tittany, Analiese, and Cunnilina. Their eyes glinted with vengeance, blades raised.

Adam’s chest tightened. “No… not you.”

But they didn’t hesitate. Their strikes were precise, disciplined, and merciless. Adam deflected what he could, hellfire sparking against holy steel, but each strike pushed him further from Abel.

Lute saw her opportunity. She lunged forward, slicing through the air with white-hot fury, the rhythm of the song still echoing in her voice:

“You think you can save him—

Think your hellfire will win?

I’ve seen the sinner fall,

I’ve seen the darkness within!

Every strike, every swing,

Is the justice you’ve earned!

Now taste the blade of truth,

Feel your pride get —?!”

A brutal, invisible fist slammed into her cheek, hurling her body into a brick wall. Cracks spiderwebbed along the stone as she groaned, stunned, her armor dented, her halo flickering.

From the haze, a figure stepped forward—a presence so overwhelming the flames seemed to bow around him. Lucifer, King of Hell, manifested in splendor.

He was impossible to look away from:

A pair of red horns jutted from his forehead, an orb of fire hovering between them. Above his head floated a snake and an apple, twisting like a cruel halo. His eyes glowed with red sclera and yellow pupils, burning through shadow. His black taillashed behind him, spiked, ending in a triangular tip with a red heart at its center. His hands glowed black, fingertips glowing red like molten claws. Eyes appeared along the inside of his coattails, one also set in his bowtie, scanning every threat. His body radiated a white ethereal glow, yet every movement dripped lethal power.

Lucifer’s presence was enough to silence the alley.

“What the hell is going on?” The King demanded, using his “demonic voice” to get answers.

Abel looked over and stared at the fallen angel with awe. He was smaller than expected, but still powerful. He’d heard stories about Lucifer from Sera, when she even spoke about him.

“Stay out of this,” Lute spat, struggling to her feet, glaring through the bloodied grime on her face.

Lucifer’s lips twisted in annoyance, his gaze sweeping over the battlefield.

Adam’s mask tilted, glowing embers reflecting off the jagged teeth. “Lucifer! Abel’s in danger!”

“Abel?” Lucifer questioned and looked around and saw the larger angel on his knees and looking worse for wear. Abel’s eyes seemed to sparkle with innocence to the devil.

And that was all it took. Lucifer’s annoyance snapped into fury. “Abel…” His voice roared like volcanic fire. “…my firstborn. My child… hurt?!”

In a blur, he slammed into the two Exorcists holding Abel. Blinding speed and fury turned every strike into molten judgment.

But Heaven had been cruel. The Exorcists, relentless and perfectly trained, twisted and cut, and in the struggle, Abel’s wings—already battered—were cleaved, hacked off at the base of his back. Golden blood spattered across the cobblestones as he collapsed, choking from the pain, vision dimming.

Adam’s scream split the night as he tried to reach Abel, but Lucifer intercepted, holding back the tidal wave of attacks for his son.

Lucifer’s eyes flared, scanning every exorcist, every blade. His tail whipped, striking like a spiked whip. Hands ignited in molten red and black, claws tearing through armor and steel. No one survived his wrath.

Lute, pinned by the force of his glare, screamed, trying to resist. “Lucifer! You can’t—stop!”

Lucifer’s eyes bored into her, cold and merciless. “I will not. You hurt my child, you all burn!”

The Exorcists fell, one by one. Clitoressa’s blade shattered under Lucifer’s clawed hand. Laybia was hurled into a wall, Tittany struck down, Analiese’s scream swallowed by white-hot fire, and Cunnilina dissolved into ash beneath a flash of hellish light.

Adam, knees scorched by searing flames, still raised his axe, shielding Abel’s body as Lucifer’s wrath tore through the alley. Pain seared every nerve where his wings had been cleaved, but the burning resolve in his chest refused to break.

Golden blood pooled around Abel as he coughed weakly, but Lucifer’s aura encased him, radiating protection as the king of Hell unleashed total vengeance on the invaders.

Lucifer’s gaze softened for just a second as he crouched near Abel, voice quiet but still radiating power. “Are you okay?” He spoke surprisingly gently.

Abel looked around and truthfully shook his head no. He was quivering. His arms around his abdomen, bending forward with tears falling from his face.

Lucifer noticed the hack job on his back, his wing bones now sharp and sticking out of his back between his shoulder blades.

Lucifer’s breath caught, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as his molten claws hovered over Abel’s broken frame. He had seen battlefields soaked in divine ichor, had walked over corpses of demons, but never—never—had his fury burned so purely as it did now.

“They butchered you,” he hissed, voice a vow of vengeance.

The air warped around him, the fire at his horns raging higher. Abel’s bones jutted white and jagged through torn flesh, every tremor in his son’s body echoing in Lucifer’s own marrow. Abel clutched his abdomen, shielding it with desperate instinct. That tiny, protective gesture told Lucifer everything.

His gaze sharpened, eyes burning like twin suns. “They dared to hurt what is mine,” he whispered, and Hell itself seemed to lean in to listen. His black tail lashed, gouging molten furrows into the cobblestones.

Adam, voice hoarse, crawled closer, still shielding Abel as best he could. “We need to move him! If he bleeds out—”

“Silence,” Lucifer commanded, though his voice trembled not with anger but with dread. He pressed a clawed hand gently to Abel’s chest, and the glow of his aura flared brighter, slowing the flood of golden blood.

Abel whimpered, tears streaking his face, his body folding forward against the King’s touch. “I… I can’t… it hurts—”

Lucifer leaned in, his words molten steel wrapped in velvet. “Breathe, my son. No blade will touch you again.” His hand hovered over Abel’s mangled back, and the flames of Hell licked along the open wounds, searing them shut with brutal efficiency. Abel screamed, voice breaking into sobs, but the bleeding slowed.

The snake and apple above Lucifer’s head coiled tighter, their glow intensifying. His gaze swept to Lute, who still writhed against the weight of his power. She had seen wars, had executed thousands, but under his stare, she was reduced to nothing more than prey.

“You butchered my son’s wings from his back,” Lucifer said, each word low, deliberate, and dripping with venom. “For that… there will be no mercy.”

His hand raised, fire coalescing into a sphere of molten white.

Adam’s chest heaved as he rose to his full height, still clad in his jagged black mask, axe gripped tightly. His hands shook, not from fear, but from a furious, bitter resolve. Every Exorcist who had fallen, every blade that had been raised against Abel, every drop of golden blood spilled—he felt it all. And Lute… Lute had been his lieutenant once. His responsibility. His failure now screamed in his ears.

“Lucifer stop!” he barked, voice raw.

The two angelic beings turned to Adam, who was approaching with his axe in his hand. “This ends now!”

Lute’s eyes flicked toward him, a mixture of shock and hatred twisting her features. “Adam… you— you’re sparring me?” She laughed hysterically, “you self righteous fuckers! Do you think this is mercy?! No. I’ll regroup with my sisters! And we will never stop until everyone in Hell is dead for good!”

Adam smirked, “Oh Lute… good news for you. Because you no longer need to wonder where your God is,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“Because he’s right here!” Adam spoke, leaning down and whispers, “and he’s fresh out of mercy.”

There was a look of betrayal, “you’re… blasphemous.”

“And you’re a cunt.”

With a surge of strength born of fury and regret, he swung his axe. The weapon’s edge, enchanted and unrelenting, cut through the haze of smoke and molten heat like a promise.

With one swing he ended it.

At first. Lute hadn’t realized what had happened. She blinked and began to feel around herself, only for her head to suddenly roll off her head, her body collapsing with it.

Abel had watched with horror, vomiting at the sight. This wasn’t what he wanted. He never wanted this.

The very few other exterminators who had seen what happened all gasped in horror.

Adam straightens his posture, turning to the girls he’d once loved and respected. With a twisted grin, he asked, “Who’s next?”

Chapter Text

The alley reeked of blood and sulfur, silence stretching in the wake of Lute’s fall. Her severed halo flickered, sputtered, and then winked like a dying star. The smoke curled around her body as if Hell itself claimed her remains.

Abel gagged again, bile stinging his throat as he clutched his stomach. “Stop—please, no more…” His voice cracked, trembling with pain and horror.

Lucifer crouched by him instantly, one hand steadying Abel’s shoulder. His molten eyes softened, though his body still glowed with a fury barely contained. “Shh, son. You’re safe now. No blade will touch you again.”

Safe. The word tasted hollow. Abel’s wings—gone. His body trembled uncontrollably, golden blood dripping down his back, soaking into the cobblestones. He wanted to believe his father’s words, but the phantom agony of absence screamed otherwise.

Adam’s shadow loomed, axe still dripping with divine ichor. His mask tilted toward the remaining Exorcists. “What’s wrong?” His voice was a growl beneath the mask. “None of you has the stomach to finish the job?”

The Exorcists exchanged panicked glances. They had trained beside Adam, marched behind him. To see him standing against them, to see him execute Lute without hesitation—it shattered them.

“You’ve… lost your way,” one whispered, voice trembling.

Adam barked a harsh laugh, bitter and broken. “No. You lost yours when you raised your weapons against the innocent. Against him.” He jabbed a finger toward Abel. “That was the last line. And you crossed it.”

The Exorcists faltered. Some backed away, wings trembling, halos dimming. But one—brave or foolish—lifted her blade and hissed, “Then you’ll die with him.”

Adam smirked under the jagged mask, taking what little joy was possibly from this situation.

Abel’s heart pounded as he tried to rise, only to collapse again, shackles dragging him down. “Dad… stop! Don’t do this! Please—don’t—”

But his plea was drowned in fire and steel as the alley erupted once more, Adam turning his fury outward, carving their legacies into the night.

Abel pressed himself against the wall, chains biting into his wrists, every clang of steel rattling through his body. “Please…” he whispered, voice barely audible. His throat burned with bile. “Please, stop…”

But no one heard him.

Adam tore through Exorcists like parchment, his axe a blackened crescent that shattered halos with every swing. Blood and ash slicked the stones, mixing into a grotesque mire.

Abel’s stomach knotted violently. He clutched his abdomen, curling inward protectively as tears streaked his cheeks. The baby energy sparked within him, as if reminding him was this was all for, and he nearly broke. ‘I have to live… I have to keep you safe…’ But how could he, when gods tore the world apart only feet away?

Abel’s vision blurred, the light of fire cutting sharply against the haze of his tears. He couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop seeing Adam, masked and monstrous, his axe dripping with ichor that once belonged to them.

Abel’s throat tore with a sob. He couldn’t let this go on. He wouldn’t.

With strength he didn’t know he had, Abel staggered forward, shackles dragging sparks across stone. Tears streamed as he hurled himself against Adam’s back, arms wrapping tight around him.

“No more!” His voice broke like shattered glass. “Dad—stop…” he croaked, raw and shaking. He pressed his forehead into the ragged fabric of Adam’s cloak. “Please. It’s enough. It’s enough! It’s over!”

The battlefield stilled—not from silence, but from the impossible sight: Abel clinging to the monster, begging his father not to kill again.

Adam froze. The rage that had driven him—raw, relentless, righteous—wavered the moment Abel’s arms locked around him. Small, trembling, desperate.

His chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, heat rolling off him like a furnace. He could still hear the ring of broken halos, still taste ash in his throat. But Abel’s touch cut deeper than any blade.

“...Kid,” Adam muttered, voice low and ragged beneath the mask. His axe hand twitched, then slowly fell to his side. “You—damn it…”

He never knew how Abel did it. No one else could have reached him—no angel, no demon, not even God Himself. And yet this boy, this stubborn, crying son, always seemed to find the thread tangled in his chest and tug. Hard. Too hard. He’d never admit it aloud, not even under Heaven’s judgment. But he felt it. He felt it now.

While Adam stood locked in place, Lucifer’s fire raged outward. His presence filled the alley with molten white, a storm given flesh. Every Exorcist who dared to lift a blade again recoiled beneath his glare, their halos dimming until they were little more than smoldering rings. He drove them back with fire, with the weight of his voice, until the survivors stumbled through the glowing portal, dragging the broken with them. And then the rift closed, sealing Heaven’s soldiers away with a hiss.

Only silence remained.

Lucifer turned, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Adam with Abel clinging tight around his frame. For a flicker, there was almost softness in the archangel’s face—something like recognition, or pity. He stepped closer, embers still dripping from his hand.

“Release him,” Lucifer said quietly.

Adam exhaled hard, adjusting his grip on the axe before letting it vanish in a blaze of shadow. “Trying,” he muttered, tugging at Abel’s arms. But his son held on with iron desperation.

“Kid,” Adam grumbled, twisting a little. “You can let go now. It’s done. They’re gone.”

No response.

Adam frowned, tilting his head just enough to glimpse Abel’s face—and his blood ran cold. His boy’s eyes were open, glassy, unfocused. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. No light, no strength. Nothing.

“Abel?” Adam’s voice cracked, panic biting through the gruffness. He gave him a rough shake. “Hey—hey! Look at me!”

Lucifer stepped in, gaze sharp and assessing. He could see it immediately—the way Abel’s chest hitched shallow, the distant glaze of exhaustion and shock, the way his body slumped even while locked in his father’s grip.

“He’s unconscious,” Lucifer said flatly, but his own heart clenched as he reached to steady him. “He pushed too far.”

Adam’s mask hid his face, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “No. No, he’s fine. He—he just needs—” His hand hovered, unsure, like he was afraid to even touch his son. “He’s fine.”

But Abel didn’t stir. His arms stayed wrapped, stiff even in sleep, his eyes staring past them both like glass.

Lucifer’s jaw tightened. He laid a hand on Adam’s shoulder—not to comfort, but to anchor.

Adam grew quiet as Lucifer moved, his hands surprisingly steady as he worked Abel’s fingers free from Adam’s body. The grip was stubborn, iron-hard even in unconsciousness, but the King’s touch was careful, patient—like coaxing a frightened child rather than breaking chains. Slowly, finger by finger, he loosened Abel’s hold until at last his arms slipped away.

Adam caught him halfway, bracing the boy’s slump with his shoulder. But it was Lucifer who stepped forward and, without hesitation, gathered Abel into his own arms.

The weight should have been impossible. Abel was a mountain of a man—towering over seven feet, broad-shouldered, carved by Heaven’s own hand. By contrast, Lucifer was barely five feet seven, his frame slender, his bones birdlike, his entire body weighing scarcely more than one of Adam’s weapons. And yet… as Lucifer drew Abel close, it was effortless.

Not because of strength. Because when he looked at Abel, he didn’t see the size. He didn’t see the armor of muscle, the scars of battle, the bloodied ruin where wings had once spread.

He saw a baby. His baby. The same baby he’d once cradled against his chest, swaddled in linen, a tiny head pressing under his chin.

Lucifer’s knees nearly buckled with the force of the memory. His arms tightened around Abel’s body, cradling him like something impossibly precious. The boy’s head lolled against his shoulder, his breath shallow but there. Alive.

Lucifer pressed his forehead against Abel’s, and at last, the dam broke. His eyes burned, and tears spilled freely, hot as fire, streaking down his cheeks. He wept openly, soundlessly at first, then with quiet sobs that shook his chest.

Ten thousand years.

Ten thousand years since he’d last held his son like this.

Happiness swelled, sharp and aching—he could hold him again, touch him, breathe him in. But sadness drowned it almost instantly. Because this moment wasn’t born of peace or love. It was born of blood, chains, torment… and the butchery of Heaven’s hand.

Lucifer whispered against Abel’s temple, voice trembling, raw with love and grief:
“My sweet boy… my Abel. I’m here. I’ve got you now.”

Adam, for once, said nothing. He only stood close, mask tilted low, axe dragging against the stones, watching a mother rediscover his son in the wreckage of war.