CHAPTER 78: MISSING BROTHER

  “How long do you think they’ll take to notice?” Samael asked gently.

  His voice was almost conversational.

  Almost friendly.

  His smile held gentleness with teeth.

  It was gentle like a knife wrapped in ribbon.

  Yael didn’t answer.

  His glare stayed fixed, even as his vision pulsed at the edges.

  Samael’s mouth curved, pleased, like Yael was the opening note of a song he’d been waiting to sing.

  “That’s admirable.” Samael said. “Truly.”

  He stood.

  Not hurried.

  Not impatient.

  He rose with the unhurried grace of someone who knew the room would wait for him.

  Hellions shifted in the shadows within the Abyss’s chamber as he moved.

  Like how an audience leans forward when the performer steps into the light.

  Some grinned wider.

  Some tapped claws lightly against stone.

  Click…

  Click…

  Click.

  Impatient.

  A few hissed to each other, trading bets.

  How long until the guardian sentinel breaks?

  How long until the audience gets fed?

  Samael approached Yael with deliberate steps.

  Every footfall timed like stage direction.

  Then he lifted a hand.

  Not to strike.

  To tilt Yael’s chin upward, forcing him to meet his gaze.

  “But you shall answer when I am speaking to you.” Samael said, still soft.

  Samael’s fingers were warm.

  That made it worse.

  Warmth belonged to mercy.

  Samael wore it like costume.

  Like velvet gloves over a predator’s hands.

  “You’re the anchor…” Samael murmured, voice lowering into something almost intimate. “Her warmth, her spine.”

  His thumb traced the corner of Yael’s mouth, wiping blood like it was a smudge on glass.

  Like Yael was not a prisoner.

  Like he was just an actor who’d missed his cue and needed help getting back on mark.

  “I was quite impressed.” Samael continued, eyes bright with interest.

  “By how you led and fought for her during the domain transfer…”

  Yael swallowed blood.

  His throat worked hard.

  The movement was visible.

  A tremor ran through his jaw.

  One involuntary tell.

  Samael noticed.

  Of course he did.

  His gaze sharpened like a critic catching a flaw in an otherwise perfect performance.

  “I had no idea…” Samael added, voice almost pleased, “… just how fascinating you are.”

  A beat.

  His smile widened. “And how useful.”

  The gentleness was obscene.

  The kind of tenderness that didn’t comfort.

  It claimed.

  “Do you want to know what I love the most about anchors?” Samael asked.

  Yael didn’t respond.

  He held his silence like a weapon.

  Samael smiled anyway.

  Somewhere in the shadows, a Hellion made a delighted sound.

  Like someone hearing their favorite line in a familiar play.

  “Anchors don’t run.” Samael whispered.

  His expression sharpened.

  Not anger.

  Focus.

  Like the moment an actor hits a spotlight.

  The moment the room goes quiet.

  And his rapier moved.

  Not stabbing.

  Not killing.

  Just sliding into a space between ribs with surgical precision.

  Like a reminder that pain was not an accident here.

  Pain was the point, the ticket and a hook that kept the audience seated.

  Yael’s body jolted.

  His breath tore out of him.

  He tried to swallow a scream.

  Tried to bury it.

  But the sound escaped anyway.

  Rough.

  Loud.

  And choked.

  It cracked through the air like a confession.

  The Hellions reacted instantly.

  A ripple.

  A pleased murmur.

  One laughed softly, delighted, like a child watching fireworks.

  Another clapped, slow and mocking.

  Samael’s eyes brightened like he’d been given a gift.

  “There it is, there you are.” Samael murmured. “This makes me glad.”

  His smile turned almost fond.

  Almost proud.

  “This is the proof I needed. You are still human-like enough to break.”

  Yael’s breath trembled.

  His fingers curled helplessly, still bound.

  His shoulders strained against the forced-vow chains.

  The restraints bit deeper, punishing him for reacting.

  As if the Abyss itself enjoyed participating.

  Samael leaned closer.

  His mouth hovered near Yael’s ear like he was about to whisper a love poem.

  But his voice sounded like a funeral bell dressed in velvet.

  “You’re going to watch.” Samael whispered. “And you’re going to listen to me.”

  He withdrew the blade slowly.

  Not mercy, pacing.

  Samael didn’t inflict pain like violence.

  He inflicted it like a craft.

  He stepped back, then swept one hand outward, presenting the chamber like a host.

  “To them…” Samael said softly. “You are the reason she stays coherent.”

  Hellions shifted again in the shadows.

  Attention sharpening.

  Hunger focusing.

  A few smiled wider, empty and eager, as if they’d been promised prizes.

  “To me…” Samael continued, voice quiet with barely contained malice. “You are simply leverage…”

  A beat.

  His eyes flicked over Yael’s face like a painter judging symmetry.

  “My leverage with a heartbeat.”

  Yael’s eyes burned.

  Not with tears.

  With fury.

  With that steady Recon fire that refused to die even when everything else did.

  A trained Sentinel still holding onto duty even with blood in his mouth.

  Samael smiled.

  Genuinely admiring.

  The look of someone watching a storm.

  “I wonder…” Samael said, tilting his head, voice almost playful.

  He let the pause stretch to let his audience feel it.

  Let Yael feel dread before he continued.

  “How much of you I can take before she realizes they’ve been holding the wrong… you.”

  “They’ll… find me.” Yael forced out between gasps. “I’m… sure. They… already know… Belial is… not me.”

  His voice came out hoarse, a scrape dragged through pain and blood.

  “Good.” Samael laughed softly.

  Not loud.

  Not even cruel-sounding.

  It was worse than cruelty.

  It was delight.

  “That is what I exactly hope would happen.” Samael said, eyes glittering.

  Then he leaned in again, mouth near Yael’s ear.

  His voice turned into something that sounded like invitation.

  That sounded like a grin.

  “I’ll make sure you remain alive, worth finding.”

  Samael sat back into his chair.

  He settled like a king returning to his throne.

  Like a ringmaster taking his seat to enjoy his show.

  “It’s not just them…” Samael said, voice almost conversational. “I’m sure she’s coming for you.”

  Yael’s breath hitched despite himself.

  Not hope.

  Never hope.

  Hope was dangerous.

  Dread tightened in his chest, sharp and aching.

  A picture of Suryel’s face flashed behind his eyes.

  Her stubbornness.

  Her fury.

  Her refusal to stay down.

  And Yael hated, in that moment just how much he knows her.

  How much he wanted her to stay away.

  How much he wanted her safe.

  How much he already knew she would not listen.

  His head dipped slightly.

  A silent prayer.

  Not to gods.

  To systems.

  To timing.

  To anything that could keep her from stepping into this part of the Abyss thinking she could win.

  Samael watched him like an audience watching tragedy.

  And somewhere beyond the circle of emberlight, deeper in the shadows where Hellions refused to look directly…

  Something moved.

  Not a Hellion.

  Not a spectator.

  A presence that made the air tighten and the embers dim, like the music had faltered for half a beat.

  A silhouette without drama.

  A threshold given form.

  A Sentinel disguised in the Abyss, one who obviously did not announce himself, because announcements were for people who needed permission to exist.

  Muriel.

  He stood unseen by most, hood up.

  But not to Samael.

  Samael’s gaze flicked, just once.

  A micro-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  As if he’d sensed a bookmark silently sliding into place.

  And Yael, despite the pain, despite the chains, despite the blood in his mouth, felt it too.

  The calm waiting attention.

  A new witness.

  A new edge of the blade.

  Muriel did not look at Samael.

  He looked at Yael.

  Not pity.

  Not panic.

  Just a steady, hard promise—

  Safety.

  Not now.

  But soon.

  And then Muriel faded again, dissolving into the Abyss’s architecture like he belonged there.

  Like he had always belonged there.

  Samael’s smile sharpened.

  He didn’t call Muriel out.

  He didn’t expose him.

  Because he didn’t need to.

  He wanted Muriel to watch.

  He wanted the Sentinels to have hope.

  Hope was a better blade than fear.

  It cut deeper.

  Hope made people rush.

  It made people sloppy.

  Samael leaned back, tapping the rapier once against the armrest.

  A gentle, rhythmic sound.

  Like a conductor marking tempo.

  “Let the curtain rise.” Samael murmured, almost fondly.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  And the Abyss answered him.

  The undercurrent rhythm deepened.

  The embers flared.

  The Hellions leaned in.

  The stage was set.

  —

  Back in the Eternal Realm.

  Suryel woke like she had been dropped back into her body.

  No gentle return.

  No gradual surfacing.

  One second there was darkness, thick and merciful.

  The next she was awake, breathing sharp and ragged, ripping through her lungs as if her soul had been underwater.

  Her eyes flew open.

  The suspended floors above the Archive Tower shimmered faintly, still vibrating with the residue of containment runes and Metatron’s pressure.

  The parchments hovered nearby, quieter now, their hum not frantic but watchful.

  She was lying against something warm.

  A hand swept her hair off her forehead.

  Soothing.

  Almost calm.

  A scent like steel and sun and battle: Helel’s.

  Suryel’s body reacted before her mind did.

  She jerked upright, elbowing hard, scrambling like a cornered animal.

  Helel released her immediately, hands open, backing off half a step.

  Like he was giving her space to be dangerous without making her feel trapped.

  “Sunbird, don’t. Please.” Helel said, voice rough. “Don’t waste this freedom.”

  Suryel’s gaze snapped to him.

  Her throat burned.

  Her eyes were wet.

  Her face was still hot with humiliation.

  She was stopped, sedated by Helel.

  “You—” She choked, voice cracking with rage. “You put me to sleep.”

  Helel didn’t flinch, didn’t apologize, his jaw flexed like he’d bitten down on something bitter and decided to swallow it anyway.

  “I did.” He confessed.

  Suryel’s hands curled into claws. “I WAS FIGHTING FOR HIM!”

  “YOU WERE FIGHTING AIR!” Helel snapped back, and the edge in his voice was not anger.

  It was fear wearing anger’s face.

  His eyes flashed as he gestured sharply at the space around them, at the residue of containment still staining reality.

  “You were about to tear yourself open for a hellion who wasn’t even worth the spit on your rage!”

  Suryel stood so fast she nearly fell.

  She called for her polearm and it returned to her grip again.

  Eternal attendants at the edges of the suspended floor stiffened, their movements suddenly too careful, too quiet.

  Scribes pretended not to watch.

  They watched anyway.

  Suryel’s voice shook. “He’s gone…”

  Her eyes darted around the Archive like Yael could be found through sheer stubborn will. “He’s still—”

  “I know.” Helel said, quieter.

  That quietness was worse.

  It meant he had already accepted what she was still refusing to swallow.

  Suryel’s breath came sharp.

  Her chest hurt.

  The cube.

  Belial.

  Authority.

  Azriel.

  Helel.

  Everything returned in a violent rush.

  She sucked in a breath and the air tasted wrong like betrayal.

  She noticed her surroundings first in silence, the Archive Tower, the hovering parchments, the faint tremble in the suspended floor.

  Then her head snapped.

  “Where’s the cube?” She demanded.

  Helel’s gaze shifted to the side.

  Azriel stood at the edge of the suspended floor like a statue carved from judgment.

  The containment cube floated near him.

  Silent.

  Perfect.

  Belial was inside, smiling.

  Like a child who’d been caught stealing and found it hilarious.

  Suryel’s body surged forward again.

  Helel stepped into her path.

  Not blocking her with force.

  With presence.

  With that older-brother gravity that said I will not let you burn yourself to prove you can.

  “Don’t—” Helel started, then caught himself, and instead pulled her into his arms.

  Not to restrain.

  To anchor.

  To give her something warm to hold onto while the world tried to eat her alive.

  Suryel’s breath stuttered against his shoulder.

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the cube.

  “I want to rip him apart.” She whispered.

  Helel nodded once, eyes also on the cube. “I know.”

  Suryel’s jaw clenched. “Then let me.”

  Helel’s voice dropped.

  Deadly serious.

  “If you touch him.” Helel said, remembering too much. “You will give him what he wants.”

  Suryel froze.

  Her breath caught.

  Inside the cube, Belial’s grin widened as if he could taste her restraint like sugar.

  “Oh yes.” Belial sang softly, voice muffled but clear enough to scrape nerves raw. “Touch me. Hurt me. Show me how much you care. I love it when you ‘angels’ prove they’re just as ugly as us ‘demons’.”

  Suryel’s hands shook.

  Not fear.

  Restraint.

  Azriel’s voice cut in, calm and sharp as a guillotine.

  “Helel is correct.” He said. “Belial’s purpose is provocation. He is bait.”

  Suryel’s head snapped toward Azriel.

  Her eyes were bright with heat.

  “Then why keep him here?” She hissed. “Where I can see him?!”

  Azriel’s eyes didn’t soften.

  Not even slightly.

  “Because he is evidence.” Azriel replied. “And because he is useful.”

  Suryel stared at him like she might spit.

  Azriel continued, tone unchanged. “Belial knows where Yael is being held.”

  Belial’s smile turned into a delighted, vicious beam.

  “Oh.” He said. “Now we’re negotiating? How grown-up.”

  Suryel took a step toward the cube.

  Helel didn’t stop her this time.

  But his hand closed around her wrist again.

  Grounding.

  Not restraining.

  Anchoring.

  His thumb pressed into her pulse point like a reminder: breathe. stay you.

  “Look at me.” Helel murmured.

  Suryel did.

  Helel’s eyes were fierce.

  But they were hers.

  “You can rage.” Helel said. “You can grieve. You can scream.”

  A beat.

  His voice dropped.

  “But do all that later. For Yael. Please. We want him home too.”

  Suryel’s throat tightened.

  Her lips parted like she wanted to argue.

  Then she swallowed it.

  For Yael.

  “Okay.” She whispered. “So what can I do now?”

  Helel’s jaw flexed before he smiled.

  It wasn’t playful.

  It was a blade pretending to be a grin.

  “Now you wait.” Helel said. “Azriel’s already hunting answers for you.”

  Suryel’s breathing steadied, just a fraction.

  They both turned toward Azriel.

  Azriel turned slightly toward the cube.

  His posture didn’t change.

  But the air did.

  Like the Archive itself leaned in.

  “Belial.” Azriel said.

  Belial perked up, delighted.

  “Yes, my favorite bureaucrat of doom?” He asked, clasping his hands together like he was about to recite poetry.

  Azriel’s voice remained flat. “Tell us where Samael took Yael.”

  Belial tilted his head. “Hmmm…”

  “I could answer that…” He said brightly. “Or I could watch you all twist yourselves into knots. It’s a hobby.”

  Metatron’s domain surged.

  The cube’s edges shimmered.

  Belial blinked.

  Then laughed.

  “Ohhh.” He said, delighted. “Whoops. Metatron’s listening.”

  And he wasn’t wrong.

  Somewhere above, beyond sight, Metatron’s presence pressed into the Archive like ink soaking into paper.

  Not loud.

  Not emotional.

  Just recording.

  A pause.

  A shift.

  Like a pen hovering.

  Azriel’s gaze didn’t change.

  “You will answer.” He said.

  Belial leaned closer, eyes gleaming with theatrical innocence.

  “Why?” He asked. “So you can go rescue him? So you can play hero? So you can pretend you’re not going to lose anyway?”

  Suryel stepped closer.

  Her polearm angled subtly.

  Her voice dropped low, dangerous.

  “If you don’t answer him.” She said. “I will find a way to make you regret existing.”

  Belial smiled sweetly.

  “Threats.” He sighed. “How romantic.”

  Azriel raised an eyebrow then raised a hand as if to shake the cube.

  Belial’s smile faltered, his body shifted back, suddenly less playful and more cautious.

  Like an animal remembering the hunter.

  “No, no, wait.” Belial said quickly. “Fine. Fine. I’ll tell you.”

  He leaned closer to the cube wall, voice dropping conspiratorially.

  “He’s being held in the Abyss’s audience chamber.” Belial whispered, eyes glittering. “Not a prison. A stage. Samael wants your youngest brother seen. Wants him… displayed.”

  Suryel’s stomach dropped.

  Her grip tightened on her weapon.

  Helel’s hand tightened around her wrist.

  Suryel’s voice turned razor-thin. “What is Samael… doing to him.”

  Belial’s grin widened.

  “Nothing he can’t survive.” Belial said with a wink.

  Suryel’s eyes went wide.

  Her breath caught like she’d been punched. “That’s—”

  Belial’s voice became honeyed cruelty.

  “Pain that doesn’t kill.” He purred. “In places you can’t stitch back.”

  Suryel’s vision tunneled.

  She inhaled once.

  Twice.

  And then something inside her clicked into place.

  Not rage.

  Not grief.

  Focus.

  The kind of focus that made angels terrifying.

  Her voice came out quiet. “So he’s alive.”

  Belial blinked.

  Helel’s gaze sharpened.

  Azriel and Raphael’s attention narrowed like a blade.

  Suryel nodded slowly to herself, as if confirming a calculation.

  “He’s alive…” She repeated. “Then he can move. If he can move, he can endure. If he can endure, he can escape.”

  Belial laughed. “You think he can escape Samael? Oh you sweet summer child.”

  Suryel’s eyes lifted.

  Bright.

  Cold.

  “I think Yael is…” She said. “Also stubborn.”

  Her face grimmed. “Stubborn like me.”

  Belial’s smile twitched.

  “Ah…” He said softly. “You really do love him.”

  Then he turned his face slightly, aiming his next words like a dart.

  “You’re not her favorite brother.” He added to Helel, mockingly.

  Suryel didn’t answer.

  She didn’t need to.

  Helel’s mouth twitched like he wanted to laugh and bite at the same time.

  He didn’t, he simply let go of her wrist.

  A deliberate release built on trust.

  Azriel watched her, measuring.

  Metatron paused writing.

  Not because he hesitated.

  Because the next line mattered.

  Even Raphael, further back near the edge of the suspended floor, had gone quiet.

  His arms were crossed, expression carved into surgical irritation, but his eyes tracked Suryel like he was assessing a patient about to sprint on a broken leg.

  Suryel stepped forward to the edge of the suspended floor.

  And she looked.

  Not with eyes.

  With soul.

  With anchor-sense.

  With that Archive-born awareness that could taste the threads of story like remembering.

  “He will move toward us…” She muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “He’ll try to.”

  Helel’s grin returned, sharp and approving. “Correct.”

  Suryel swallowed.

  Her voice wavered, then steadied. “We just need to find him when he does… and intercept Samael.”

  Azriel’s gaze flicked to her weapon.

  To her stance.

  To the way she was bracing like someone about to jump into fire.

  Metatron’s presence pressed harder, like a seal forming.

  Raphael muttered under his breath, half annoyed, half alarmed. “Intercept. Gods! Like she’s discussing catching a falling book!”

  Suryel heard him anyway.

  She didn’t look back.

  “Okay.” She said, trying to be braver than her shaking lungs. “So what’s the plan?”

  Helel’s smile thinned.

  The playful edges died.

  Something older moved behind his eyes.

  He glanced at Azriel and Raphael.

  Then at the cube.

  Before focusing his sigh on Suryel.

  When he spoke again, his voice wasn’t chaos.

  It was command disguised as care.

  “We don’t storm the Abyss.” Helel said quietly. “We don’t perform.”

  Suryel’s brows pulled tight. “What?”

  Azriel answered without looking away from the cube, as if he’d already written the outline in his head.

  “We do not enter Samael’s stage.” Azriel said. “Not on his terms.”

  Belial pressed his face closer to the cube wall, delighted. “Boooo— Cowards! I love it.”

  Authority’s pressure suddenly pulsed along with Metatron’s.

  Belial flinched and laughed at the same time, like pain was flirtation.

  Suryel’s fingers slackened on her polearm.

  She returned it to her Abode through a slit in space.

  “How do we get Yael?” She demanded.

  Helel looked proud. “Yael will try to escape.”

  “Try to escape…” She repeated. “Is your plan just waiting?!”

  Azriel’s voice was calm. “Suryel. Listen to Helel first.”

  Raphael pointed at Suryel then at Helel like a surgeon giving orders before an operation. “And this plan better not involve breaking anything that could break your own spine trying to be noble!”

  Suryel swallowed.

  Then nodded.

  Slow.

  Resolute.

  And when she spoke again, her voice wasn’t shaking anymore.

  It was steel.

  “Fine. Go on.” She said. “Tell me what we have to do.”

  Helel’s smile returned.

  Not playful.

  Predatory.

  Like a hunter choosing where the knife goes.

  Suryel’s fists clenched, jaw tight.

  Her gaze darted between Helel, Azriel, and Raphael, the Archive Tower felt too small for the tension pressing against her ribs.

  Raphael had moved closer without anyone noticing.

  Not dramatic.

  Just… there.

  Like a physician stepping into range before a patient collapsed.

  Arms crossed, posture sharp, expression carved into surgical irritation, but his eyes kept sweeping Suryel from throat to hands to stance, reading her like triage.

  Helel stepped forward first, hand resting lightly on her shoulder, not to restrain, but to ground.

  “Suryel…” He said, low, careful. “Yael is alive.”

  The words hit her like cold water.

  Her breath stuttered.

  Hope tried to rise.

  She strangled it before it could make her stupid.

  Helel didn’t let her float.

  He kept his voice steady, brutal with honesty.

  “And Samael knows we know.” He added. “Which means every breath Yael takes is… part of the performance.”

  His fingers tightened slightly against her shoulder, like he could hold her together by pressure alone.

  “I’ve spent enough time in the Abyss to recognize Samael’s pattern.” Helel said, eyes hardening. “Yael’s movements won’t be ignored. They’ll be monitored… Measured. Used.”

  Suryel’s chest tightened. “Then why don’t we rescue him already?”

  Raphael stepped in like a blade sliding between ribs.

  Not cruel.

  Precise.

  “Because you don’t rescue someone from a trap by throwing your body into it.” Raphael said, voice flat. “Samael is waiting. Predictable. Calm. He expects you to rush. He expects you to bleed first.”

  Suryel glared at him, breathing sharp.

  Raphael didn’t blink.

  He didn’t need her to like him.

  He needed her alive.

  A message shot down from Metatron.

  Azriel received it and unfolded a set of diagrams in one smooth motion, like he’d been holding the entire war inside his sleeve.

  Lines mapped what looked like a reverse tower in the Abyss, pinpoints marking patrols, traps, and surveillance.

  Azriel’s gaze stayed on the ink like it was law.

  “One of our own, the very best of Recon, Muriel, is in position in the Abyss.” He said. “Yael’s location has been visually confirmed.”

  Azriel’s fingers tapped one point.

  Then another… A thin corridor drawn like a throat.

  “Every second of movement is being tracked.” Azriel continued. “Every fluctuation in Yael’s condition. Every change in the chamber. Known to us.”

  “He’s alive…” Suryel repeated, almost to herself, voice cracking with relief. “We have eyes on him.”

  Helel’s hand slid down, his fingers finding hers, squeezing gently like an anchor pulling her back from the edge.

  “Yes.” He said. “So breathe.”

  Suryel inhaled.

  It shook.

  Helel didn’t pretend not to notice. “You’ll put both him and yourself at risk if you rush this.” He said, voice quiet and edged. “Samael isn’t just holding him. He’s baiting you.”

  Suryel’s teeth clenched. “So he is using Yael like a chess piece, a hostage, and we’re just… supposed to keep watching…”

  Azriel’s voice was even, clinical, but carried weight like stone.

  “No.” He said. “Everything we do is to keep Yael alive long enough to be retrieved.”

  Raphael’s gaze flicked to Suryel’s polearm.

  Then her hands.

  Then to her throat again.

  He spoke without softening it.

  “You charging in unprepared doesn’t make you brave.” Raphael said. “It makes you a second hostage.”

  Suryel’s fingers twitched.

  Her shoulders rose, furious breath pulling too hard.

  Helel drew a sharp breath, meeting her gaze with unflinching intensity.

  “Suryel…” He said. “You need to stay here. You must wait.”

  Suryel looked like she might explode.

  Helel didn’t let her.

  He stepped closer, voice dropping into command disguised as care.

  “Burn with purpose, yes.” Helel said. “But please trust us. Trust the plan.”

  His thumb pressed once against her knuckles, firm and grounding.

  “Your fight is not in the Abyss.” Helel finished, eyes fierce. “It’s here. With your mind. With patience.”

  Suryel’s chest heaved.

  Her hands shook.

  Helel cupped her face, forcing her to meet his gaze.

  “I will bring Yael home.” He said. “You have my word.”

  Belial’s grin flickered in the corner of the room, mocking, tempting, daring her to act.

  Metatron’s hovering presence recorded every heartbeat.

  Her sight set on Helel’s

  His eyes were cold.

  Bright with restrained fire.

  With promise.