Elara did not speak much as they traveled.
She moved like someone who had spent years learning to leave no trace—stepping only on stone when possible, brushing aside bent grass with the flat of her hand, keeping to the lee of hills where moonlight would not catch their silhouettes. Elias followed, too exhausted and too grateful to question her pace. His wounded arm throbbed in rhythm with each step, but the bleeding had slowed to a sluggish seep. Whatever Abaddon had done inside him, it kept death at arm's length.
They walked through the night and into the following day, skirting villages and avoiding the smoke plumes that marked Church patrols. By late afternoon they reached the crest of a long ridge. Below them sprawled the Golden City—Sanctum, heart of the Holy Kingdom of Eldoria.
Elias had heard stories all his life. Pilgrims spoke of it in hushed awe: white marble walls that gleamed like pearl even under cloud, spires topped with golden crosses that caught the sun and threw light for miles, streets paved in mosaic tiles depicting every miracle the Church claimed. The Grand Cathedral rose at the center like a mountain of ivory and gold, its dome so vast it seemed to hold up the sky itself.
From this distance it looked beautiful. Untouchable. Holy.
Elias felt sick.
"They're going to kill me if they catch me here," he said quietly.
Elara crouched beside him, hood still up. "They're going to kill you anywhere. But here they'll do it slowly. Publicly. With prayers and incense and crowds cheering for your soul's cleansing."
She glanced sideways at him. "You still want to go down there?"
"I don't have anywhere else." Elias touched the sigil beneath his torn shirt. It pulsed once, warm. "And… he wants me to see something."
Elara's eyes narrowed. "He?"
Elias hesitated, then nodded. "The thing inside me. He calls himself Abaddon."
She went very still. For a long moment the only sound was wind moving through dry grass.
Then she exhaled. "Leviathan."
Elias turned to her. "What?"
"That's who answered when your power woke up yesterday. I felt it—like the deep sea turning over. Leviathan knows your passenger. And he's… afraid. Or respectful. I can't tell which."
She pulled back her sleeve. On the inside of her left forearm was a mark like a coiling wave frozen in black ink. It shimmered faintly, as though light moved beneath the skin.
"He doesn't talk to me the way yours talks to you," she said. "He just… shows me things. Currents. Depths. Hunger. But when your fire burned yesterday, he went quiet. Like he was bowing."
Elias stared at the mark. "Abaddon said you carried one of his. That there are others."
Elara gave a short, humorless laugh. "Great. So we're not special. Just matching pieces in someone else's game."
They descended after dusk, slipping through the outer ring of pilgrim camps where the poorest slept under patched canvas. Elara knew the back ways—alleys behind the tanners' district, service tunnels that carried wastewater beneath the lower walls. They emerged inside the city near the grain markets, now shuttered for the night.
The streets were cleaner than anything Elias had ever seen. No mud. No refuse. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron poles shaped like praying hands, casting soft golden pools. Statues of saints stood at every corner, marble faces serene and blind.
Elias kept his head down, hood pulled low. The sigil under his shirt felt heavier here, as though the city's holiness pressed against it like a thumb on a bruise.
They found a shadowed alcove behind a chapel dedicated to Saint Valeria the Martyr. Elara pressed a small loaf and a strip of dried fish into his hands.
"Eat slow," she warned. "Your stomach's empty too long."
He tore into the bread anyway. It tasted like ash and heaven at the same time.
While he ate, Elara watched the street. "Tomorrow is the Feast of the First Light. Big procession. The High Prelate will speak from the cathedral steps. And they always bring out the saint."
"The boy," Elias said around a mouthful.
Elara nodded. "Lucian Vale. Fifteen. Silver hair. Looks like an angel drew him. They say he can heal the sick just by laying hands on them. That he speaks with God's voice when the need is great."
Elias swallowed. Abaddon had gone quiet since they entered the city, but Elias could feel the demon listening. Waiting.
"What happens if I get close to him?"
Elara shrugged. "You either die fast, or something worse happens. Your call."
Elias finished the fish. His stomach cramped in protest, but the food stayed down.
"I need to see him," he said. "I need to know if what Abaddon said is true."
Elara studied him for a long moment.
"Then we go to the procession tomorrow. Blend with the pilgrims. Stay at the back. If they sense you—" She tapped her own mark. "—we run. Fast. Into the tunnels. I know a way out under the eastern aqueduct."
Elias nodded.
They slept in shifts that night, backs against the chapel wall, one eye open for patrol lanterns. Elias dreamed of black fire and golden wings clashing in a sky without end. When he woke, sweat chilled on his skin, Abaddon's voice was there again—soft, almost amused.
You are close now, little vessel. Can you feel him? The pretender. The beautiful liar.
Elias did not answer aloud.
But yes.
He could feel something—golden, sharp, radiant—pulling at the edges of his awareness like a hook in his ribs.
Dawn came with bells.
The city woke in a tide of white robes and candles. Pilgrims streamed toward the Grand Plaza, singing hymns that echoed off marble until the air itself seemed to vibrate with devotion.
Elias and Elara moved with them, heads bowed, mouths moving in silent imitation of the prayers. The crowd carried them forward until they stood near the edge of the plaza, perhaps a hundred paces from the cathedral steps.
Trumpets sounded.
Doors the height of houses swung open.
And out walked Lucian Vale.
He was smaller than Elias expected—slender, silver hair catching every stray beam of sunlight, dressed in simple white linen that made him look almost translucent. His face was gentle, eyes downcast in humility. Two priests flanked him, but they seemed to fade beside the boy. He moved with the careful grace of someone who knew every eye was on him and accepted it without pride.
The crowd fell silent.
Lucian raised his hands.
And spoke.
His voice was soft, boyish, yet it carried to the farthest corner of the plaza without effort.
"Beloved of the Light," he said, "today we remember the moment the Lord banished shadow from creation. Let us pray that the same Light may shine in every heart, burning away doubt, fear… and corruption."
As he spoke, he lifted his gaze.
It swept the crowd.
And stopped.
On Elias.
For one heartbeat their eyes met.
Lucian's face did not change. But something behind those hazel eyes flashed—bright, molten gold.
Inside Elias, Abaddon stirred.
There you are, the demon whispered, almost fondly. Hello, little brother.
Elias felt the sigil flare hot enough to make him stagger. Elara's hand shot out, steadying him.
Lucian's lips curved—just the faintest hint of a smile.
Then he lowered his eyes again and continued the prayer as though nothing had happened.
But Elias knew.
Lucifer had seen him.
And the golden city, for all its marble and light, suddenly felt very small.
End of Chapter 4