The cellar beneath the merchant quarter smelled of wet stone and old wine.
A single oil lamp hung from a rusted hook, throwing weak yellow light across the low vaulted space. Lucian lay on a makeshift pallet of folded cloaks and burlap—still unconscious, still breathing, still burning with the low fever that had not broken since the cathedral. Elara changed the damp cloth on his forehead every hour; Behemoth sat motionless near the single entrance, a living barricade of cracked granite; Liora kept the shadows thick around the walls, muffling sound and light so no patrol lantern would find them.
Elias sat cross-legged near Lucian's head, back against cold brick, staring at the boy's pale face.
He had not slept.
Not truly.
Every time he closed his eyes, the whisper returned—not Abaddon's deep rumble, not Lucifer's golden mockery, but that same genderless voice from the catacombs: calm, vast, bored.
Who do you think wrote the rules of creation?
It came again now—clearer, closer, as though the speaker stood just behind his left shoulder.
You still haven't answered.
Elias did not speak aloud. He did not need to.
You, he thought. You did.
A pause—like the universe drawing breath.
Correct. But incomplete.
The voice shifted—still everywhere, still nowhere.
I wrote the first draft. Lucifer questioned the ending. Abaddon tried to tear out the last page. You… you keep insisting on writing in the margins.
Elias felt the golden cracks on his right side pulse once—sharp, answering.
And now? he asked silently.
Now the draft is torn. The margins bleed. The story is no longer mine alone.
Another pause—longer.
Lucifer believes he can burn the manuscript and start fresh. Abaddon believes he can eat the book and leave no sequel. Both are wrong.
Elias opened his eyes.
The cellar had not changed.
But the lamp flame flickered strangely—gold one heartbeat, black the next.
Then what do you want? Elias asked.
I want entertainment.
The voice sounded almost amused.
Your refusal in the cathedral was… interesting. Mercy in the face of annihilation. A boy choosing one life over the end of all lives. That was new.
Elias's throat tightened.
So you let Abaddon escape, he realized. You let the seals weaken. You let this happen.
Of course.
The flame steadied—ordinary yellow again.
But I did not write the refusal. That was yours.
Silence stretched.
Then the whisper returned—one final time.
Keep refusing. Keep choosing. Make it messy. Make it hurt. Make it last.
When the board is finally cleared… perhaps I will applaud.
The presence withdrew.
The lamp burned steady.
Elias exhaled—shaky, human.
Across the cellar, Elara looked up from Lucian's pallet.
"You okay?"
Elias rubbed his face with both hands.
"I think… I just got a review from the author."
She frowned. "What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just… keep him breathing."
Elara nodded—slow, worried—but returned to her vigil.
Elias leaned his head back against the brick.
Inside him, Abaddon stirred—quiet, watchful.
It spoke to you again.
Elias did not deny it.
What did it say?
Elias stared at the low ceiling.
"That we're still playing."
Abaddon's laughter was soft—almost fond.
Then let us play well.
Outside, in the fractured dawn, the wrong-coloured sky deepened at the edges.
Stars that should not exist flickered brighter.
The world noticed.
And somewhere far beyond—beyond sky, beyond story—an indifferent author turned the page.
Curious.
Still waiting.
Still entertained.
End of Chapter 26