Chapter Eight: Vengeance

Chapter- Vengeance

I am utterly consumed. The thought wasn't voluntary; it was a fundamental state of being now, an inescapable gravity well pulling every particle of his ancient consciousness towards her. Benzosia. A dry, grating sound scraped its way up Levistus’s throat—a harsh mockery of a chuckle reverberating in the frozen silence of his throne room.

Centuries spent mastering the intricate torments of the Nine Hells, navigating the lethal politics of the fallen, only to find my control fractured, my focus singular, losing myself to the idea of one woman.

It hadn't always been this consuming fire. For eons, it was a distant, almost theoretical fascination – an appreciation for her sharp intellect that cut through celestial dogma, a strange pull towards the unwavering light in her spirit, so incongruous and captivating amidst the Heavens. But her recent proximity, the raw vulnerability beneath her queenly facade he’d witnessed in his own parlor, the scent of her lingering in his cold halls... it had somehow breached defenses he hadn't known were vulnerable. Now, the obsession was a wildfire raging beneath the glacial calm he projected. Every atom of his being seemed attuned to her, his non-existent pulse echoing her name, the very air he didn't need to breathe tasting of her remembered presence.

And she carries that madman’s child. The realization wasn’t a thought; it was a physical impact, a shard of ice driving through his chest. He’d felt it—the faint, fragile flutter of nascent life when his hand had covered hers, a spark utterly foreign yet intimately bound to her. An instantaneous, fiercely possessive love bloomed for that spark because it was part of Benzosia, warring violently with an equally potent hatred because it was part of him. Asmodeus. He saw it now in the subtle dimming of her aura, the haunting shadows beneath her eyes that spoke of more than just fear – a bone-deep weariness. And the sight ignited a fury within him, cold and absolute, a pressure building behind his ribs like a Stygian glacier threatening to calve. It had intensified with every passing second since she'd vanished back to Asmodeus's side. This dangerous internal tempest clawed for release, demanding action, distraction. The crumpled parchment in his fist, retrieved from Azadiel’s effects, its cryptic message stark against the cheap material, offered precisely that. Kanu. Asurian Territories. Temple of Lamassu. He didn't need to look; the words were already branded onto his mind.

Not long after, the air shimmered and tore. Levistus stepped through, the biting, pure cold of Stygia yielding to a thick, humid atmosphere that felt like breathing soup. Asurian soil – soft, loamy, unsettlingly alive – clung to his boots. Passage secured via a distasteful but swift negotiation; a flicker of avarice in the minor gate-keeping warlock's eyes as Levistus spoke of shadowed thrones sealed the bargain. A necessary, grubby affair. Now, the corrupted magical signature of his quarry pulled him forward like a physical tether.

Before him loomed the temple, shrouded in an unnatural twilight beneath a bruised-purple sky. An unstable, frantic energy pulsed outwards from it, prickling his senses, making the hairs on his arms stand on end despite the oppressive warmth. Dark stone walls, veined with raw tourmaline, seemed to absorb the ambient light, offering back only shifting, sinister glints. Jagged spires clawed towards the magically occluded stars like skeletal fingers. Weathered, intricate carvings writhed across the surface – depicting a guardian deity both regal and alien: a powerful human torso fused to a leonine body, vast feathered wings spread wide, and the stern, majestic head of a lioness. Lamassu. The name surfaced from the depths of his memory. One of countless old gods fallen into dormancy, their power faded, their sacred spaces often violated, repurposed for far darker rituals.

"Forgive the intrusion," Levistus murmured, the formality tasting like dust on his tongue. He placed a hand on the massive golden doors, intricately worked with images of the goddess granting blessings. He expected resistance, wards, something. Instead, they swung inward with a silent, unnerving smoothness, as if the desecrated space itself acknowledged his infernal power, or perhaps, had simply ceased to care who violated its sanctity. The air inside was a physical weight, thick with the sickly sweet smell of cheap incense failing to mask a sharper, metallic tang beneath – the unmistakable coppery scent of freshly spilled blood. The repulsive combination made his lip curl. Ignoring the urge to decipher the faded glyphs and arcane symbols that covered the dimly lit walls – remnants of a potent, cleaner magic that had once flowed here – he pressed deeper, his steps echoing with unnatural loudness on the cold stone floor.

He followed the thickening scent of blood and the frantic spikes of unstable magic towards the temple's violated heart. "Show yourself, Kanu," Levistus commanded, his voice slicing through the heavy air, imbued with the chilling authority of Stygia. "Your goddess sleeps. Her skirts offer no protection now."

The central sanctum swam in the sickly green, undulating light of Hexafire braziers. Upon a raised platform of cracked alabaster rested a massive idol of Lamassu, carved from a single block of golden tiger's eye, its facets catching the unnatural light. The eerie glow writhed across the stone, giving the horrifying illusion that the stern features were twisting, the stone muscles rippling, as if the goddess herself writhed in tormented slumber.

"You have no right!" a voice shrieked from a side chamber, thin with terror but laced with a bizarre indignation. "No right to hunt me! It was justice! Vengeance for what was mine!"

Levistus moved towards the sound, his steps measured, deliberate. His hand closed around the hilt of his Stygian blade, and frost instantly bloomed, racing across the dark metal, coalescing around his knuckles. Tendrils of frigid air obeyed his silent will, swirling around the weapon in a beautiful, menacing dance – a lethal perk of his frozen domain.

"She was my wife!" Kanu screamed again, the desperation cracking his voice.

Following the frantic echoes down a narrow, shadowed corridor, Levistus entered a secluded alcove. The metallic stench of blood here was overpowering, gaggingly thick. It coated the damp walls like grotesque paint, pooled stickily on the floor. And there, illuminated by the sputtering green flame of a single wall sconce, was the tableau of desecration. A woman’s body lay sprawled, limbs askew, her fine robes darkened and stiffening. Several paces away, lolling at an unnatural angle, rested her severed head. Her eyes, wide and vacant, stared sightlessly at the dripping ceiling, her lips frozen mid-way between a gasp and a scream. He felt no pity, only cold confirmation. Azadiel’s Asurian contact.

"I… I didn't know… he served you," the warlock stammered, scrambling backwards against the far wall like a cornered rat. Kanu sat huddled within a complex circle hastily painted in glistening blood, intricate runes etched into the stone pulsing weakly with unstable, frantic energy. Above him, descending from crude iron hooks hammered into the ancient stonework, hung four immense wings. Instruments of angelic power, symbols of Azadiel's very essence, now reduced to horrific trophies. They hung limp and broken, feathers matted with gore and decay, ragged flesh clinging desperately to the elegant bone structure beneath, cascading shadows of rot and violation. The sight – a grotesque echo of the vulnerability he sensed in Benzosia – sent a fresh wave of icy fury through Levistus.

Kanu, trembling violently, his face bleached bone-white with terror, gestured frantically between the severed head and the desecrated wings. 

"Betrayed me! Her! With an angel!. Your Herald...no.. the wings... just a warning! A warning! I swear, Lordship, no disrespect... not to you! Her fault! All her fault!". A trembling finger pointed in accusation at the lifeless form of the woman. 

"You dared," Levistus began, his voice a low, lethal whisper that promised unimaginable pain, "to lay your filthy hands upon my sworn Herald, and brother to the infernal queen." The air temperature plummeted, frost feathering outwards from his boots. "You mutilated an Archangel, desecrated his very essence… over a perceived betrayal by a wife you butcher like cattle?" A cruel smile, sharp as a shard of ice, twisted Levistus's lips. It held no humor, only the chilling promise of retribution. "The arrogance is… breathtaking." 

The tempest within him focused, coalescing into a single point of cold, dark excitement. Purpose. Here. Now. He would erase this insignificant stain. He would avenge the insult to Azadiel, to Stygia, and perhaps, in doing so, alleviate some infinitesimal fraction of the suffering he saw reflected in Benzosia’s eyes. Her face flashed before him – sad, haunted. This violence, then, was also for her. And for the fading echo of Lucifer's command that bound him to protect their kin.

He moved. It was less a conscious act and more an inevitability, like an avalanche released. There was the satisfying shink of his blade clearing its sheath, a blur of motion, Kanu's terrified shriek choked off mid-syllable by a wet, tearing sound. The frantic pulsing of the blood circle sputtered and died. A final, shuddering gasp. Then, silence, broken only by the slow drip of blood and the faint hiss of his frost-rimed blade.

The warlock’s sticky lifeblood and the acrid ozone of spent magic clung to Levistus. Tearing a portal in the violated temple air, he stepped through, the Asurian realm dissolving behind him like a fever dream. Stygia's familiar, biting clarity was a grim welcome. The grim satisfaction of the kill was already evaporating, leaving only emptiness. He sought out Azadiel, finding him not in the recuperative chambers, but sprawled across a low divan in a disused receiving room, the heavy scent of potent medicinal tinctures warring with the cheap burn of hellfire whiskey. An empty bottle lay near his outstretched hand. His normally piercing eyes were glazed, unfocused, swimming with pain and intoxication. Heavy bandages, stained with dull crimson where wounds had weeped, swathed his torso and shoulder. He looked like a masterpiece defaced – ravaged fury poured into the frame of a fallen angel.

"You!" Azadiel’s head snapped up, his voice a thick, slurred snarl. He struggled to sit upright, swaying, his face pale beneath the flush of alcohol. Pain tightened his features into a grimace. "You interfered! Damn you, Levistus! That was my hunt! My kill! My vengeance!"

Levistus remained motionless just inside the doorway, his glacial gaze sweeping over the scene with clinical distaste. "Your vengeance languished, Azadiel. While you sought oblivion, your attacker drew breath. A festering wound on the dignity of my domain."

"Dignity!" Azadiel spat the word, attempting to surge to his feet but sinking back with a pained groan, clutching his bandaged ribs. "I would have peeled the skin from his bones! Shown him true torment! Fed his screaming soul to the ice worms, piece by piece!"

Levistus approached then, his movements fluid and silent as drifting snow, an unnerving contrast to Azadiel’s wounded disarray. "And doubtless you would have, eventually. But time is a luxury we don't possess. And allowing such an affront to stand unanswered invites further disrespect." He reached deliberately into the folds of his cloak, withdrawing a delicate silver bracelet he’d collected as an afterthought. Intricate floral patterns were marred by a thick, dark smear of dried blood. "This belonged to Kanu’s wife. Your contact."

Azadiel’s unfocused gaze snagged on the object. A flicker of horrified remembrance, of painful clarity, momentarily pierced the alcoholic fog. He reached out with a hand that trembled slightly, taking the bracelet. His fingers, usually so steady on a blade, fumbled slightly as they traced the macabre stain. "She… what did that bastard…?"

"Decapitated," Levistus stated, his voice utterly flat, devoid of emotion. "He left her head near the ritual circle where he displayed your wings. His arrogance was matched only by his stupidity."

A wave of raw grief washed over Azadiel’s face, so potent it momentarily sobered him, before being consumed by a fresh inferno of rage. He clenched his fist, the silver digging into his palm, then snapped the bracelet onto his own wrist, the metal gleaming starkly against his flushed skin. "He deserved worse! Far worse! For her! For what he did to me!"

"Indeed," Levistus allowed, his own voice hardening, taking on the sharp, brittle edge of fracturing glaciers. "And his account is settled. But you forget your oath, Azadiel. Your purpose transcends personal retribution. You are the Herald of Levistus, Prince of Stygia. You are brother to Benzosia, Queen Consort of Hell. Every breath that warlock took after striking you down was an intolerable insult aimed directly at her. At me. At the very authority we wield."

Azadiel’s breath caught, the implications cutting through the haze. "An insult… to Benny?" His voice was suddenly small.

"A flagrant one," Levistus confirmed, his voice dropping, laced now with a steel that could shatter mountains. "An insult I, as your sworn keeper and Prince, would not permit to fester. I claimed the vengeance that was rightfully yours, yes. But more fundamentally, I claimed the vengeance that was rightfully ours. Do you comprehend the distinction?"

Azadiel stared up at him, his face a battlefield of warring emotions. The dull fog of alcohol and painkillers wrestled with the sharp sting of Levistus’s pronouncement. Grief for the slain woman battled the raw, violated pride of an archangel denied his righteous fury. Underneath it all lay the crushing weight of Levistus’s absolute authority. He clenched his fist again, the silver bracelet biting into his skin.

"You… you should have waited… Let me face him…" he finally ground out, the words thick with impotent resentment.

"I acted as I deemed necessary to preserve the honour of this domain," Levistus cut him off, his voice unwavering, leaving no room for argument. "And I will not hesitate to do so again, should the need arise." The faint scent of Asurian blood and spent magic persisted around him like a warning. He turned, a silent, final dismissal, leaving Azadiel engulfed in his pain, his suffocated rage, and the chilling, inescapable truth of their bond. Herald and master. Unbreakable, inescapable. Only death offered release.

The heavy, uneven sound of Azadiel's boots eventually faded down the echoing ice-clad corridor. Levistus stood alone in the sudden silence, the grim satisfaction of the kill already evaporated, leaving behind a familiar, gnawing emptiness. He let out a slow breath, watching it plume white in the frigid air. Inevitably, inexorably, his thoughts drifted, circled, settled back on Benzosia. He saw her face – not the haunted mask she wore now, but an image from a forgotten eon: her laughing, debating fiercely with Michael under the light of a Heaven he barely remembered, her spirit incandescent. A sharp, unfamiliar pang – guilt – pierced the layers of his ancient coldness. Vengeance was a fleeting, hollow distraction. He was failing her. Failing to shield her, failing to offer more than veiled threats and cold comfort. Failing her now, just as he had failed Lucifer in the face of the Host's judgment, just as he had failed Michael by choosing the long, cold exile of Hell over reconciliation. The echoes of past failures mocked him in the present.

As if the intensity of his self-reproach had torn a hole in reality itself, a violent ripple distorted the air across the room. The ornate, silver-framed mirror hanging between two ice-carved sconces shuddered violently, its reflective surface twisting like disturbed water. Then, with the sharp, explosive crack of shattering glaciers, it imploded inward. Shards of silvered glass rained across the floor as a dark shape, small and fragile, tumbled through the collapsing rift, landing in a crumpled heap on the unforgiving stone.

Levistus moved, crossing the vast room in two silent, predatory strides before the last shard had finished skittering across the ice. His cold, disciplined heart hammered against his ribs with a sudden, frantic urgency he hadn't felt in millennia. Benzosia. She lay impossibly still, deathly pale against the dark, polished floor, the vibrant life he remembered leached away, leaving her skin translucent. Her eyes were wide, fixed on some unseen horror, devoid of recognition. Blooming with horrifying speed across the pristine white fabric of her simple gown, was a dark, glistening crimson stain. Nearby, frozen mid-air, its grotesque little face a mask of pure, abject terror frozen in a silent scream, hovered a familiar palace imp.

“Queen needs help. You help!”