Page 7 of Bound By Darkness

Just when I think it’s gonna be another version o’ the Great War, Dragan strip hisself down to nothin’ but his pants. He hand the cloak to Cambion, who produces those yellow fire bits ‘fore sendin’ the fabric up into the sky. Then, the cloak start to come down over the vamp and the angel, castin’ them in shade.

That be good, I guess.

Still, lookin’ up at their eyeballs that ain’t showin’ nothin’ but white, I still feel scared for what they’re seein’ together. Maybe Cambion made the stone wrong? Maybe both the angel an’ the creepy vamp be stuck like that… forever?

Shit, I hopes not ‘cause Pretty ain’t gonna be so pretty no more with her eyes all rolled up.

***

EILISH

At first, all I see is black.

Soon the blackness begins to clear.

But I can’t make sense of the scene before me.

I’m once again in the castle in the sky, but this time the scene is different. The art on the ceiling isn’t the same as I remember it. Instead of powerful images of the King of Angels, Variant, the ceiling is divided into four segments. Each segment depicts one of the four kings: Baron, Dragan, Variant, and Cambion. Two kings of dark. Two kings of light.

Bringing my attention from the ceiling to my surroundings, I take in a large room filled with all races: demons, gargoyles, angels (male and female), dwarfs, halflings. They’re dressed in bright colors and sheathed in fine jewelry and fabrics.

At the far end of the room is a wide set of stairs. At the top of the stairs, where once I’d seen Variant’s ice throne, now stand four impressive chairs.One made of stone, one made of ice, one made of wood and ivy, and one, black as night, seemingly formed from dark glass or mica.In front of each throne stands its respective king. My breath catches to see them. Each so terribly handsome in his own way and together, the power that reverberates off them is truly spectacular.

Baron, Dragan, and Cambion appear the same as I now know them, and yet, there’s a quality they possess here that makes them appear even more powerful, terrifying, and beautiful. And Variant is just as stunningly handsome as his comrades.

The four kings stand straight and proud. Their robes, of differing colors, styles, and fabrics, are tailored and regal. Their faces are locked in expressions of pride. Due to their immortality, they’ve never aged, and yet their youthfulness in this moment surprises me. Their eyes dance, the corners of their mouths tip in triumphant smiles. These men are kings, regal in a way I’ve never seen them before.

Of course, my gaze returns to Dragan. In thick gray robes, he appears more handsome than ever. His body fills out the clothing well, revealing the broadness of his shoulders, theswell of his chest and the narrow tapering of his waist that leads to long and powerful legs.

In this vision, he appears more proud, less cynical and brooding. It’s from a time before he was forced into banishment, before Variant proved his disloyalty. Thus, I suppose it makes sense that this version of Dragan would appear so hopeful and gratified.

It depresses me to know what Dragan will become, what he is today—angry and sullen. Perhaps the most damage Variant inflicted on Dragan was stripping him of hope.

Regardless, I find I can’t tear my gaze away from Dragan. And, despite this being a vision, I feel the familiar pluck in my lower abdomen that communicates my longing. I feel that same longing when I look at Cambion and when I look at Baron. Each of them is so strong in his own right, so stunning. But I feel that yearning most for Dragan.

I even feel pulled to Variant, for how terrible he is. This surprises me, as Variant is clearly our enemy and he wants me dead, I’m certain. And yet something draws me to his face, with his sculpted arching brows and high cheekbones. His golden-hued skin seems almost dewy in the light that filters in from the stained-glass windows surrounding the room.

The audience fills the room with the buzz of multiple conversations. I can’t make out individual words, but a sense of excitement fills the hall. This is a grand occasion, and the gravity of such an event isn’t lost on the parishioners.

The large double doors at the entrance to the hall thrust open, and through them streams the most heavenly light. This light gives way to men and women, beautifully adorned in ornate armor. The armor is silver and glossy, not a scratch or dent to be seen. Each warrior is an angel, proven by the soft, white feathers that protrude from the hard shells of metal on their backs—a juxtaposition heightened only by the angelicbeauty of their faces. They wear their wings openly, proudly. Their skin shines, young and vital, in varying shades of ebony, olive, porcelain, and bronze. They walk in unison, the shifting plates of their armor and chain mail echoing through the otherwise silent room.

Slowly, they split off into two lines and come to occupy the space before the kings, separating the royalty from their constituents.

Then, a woman, with ebony hair and eyes, enters the room. If the crowd had been hushed before, that quiet is nothing compared to the silence now. All attention is riveted on her.

I can’t explain why or how but this woman looks familiar to me. As far as I’m aware, I’ve never laid eyes on her before, yet I’m unable to shake the feeling that she’s known to me, all the same.

She’s tall and slender, elegantly dressed in a shimmering and diaphanous gown of midnight blue. It appears almost black, but its lustrous surface catches the light and momentarily shines with brilliant blues. The colors appear for only a brief moment as she walks and the fabric settles around her ankles. She moves slowly and purposefully, her pointed chin high and her shoulders back.

Her olive skin is pale and glows with vitality, and her eyes are a fierce black. Behind her head, her hair is wrapped tightly in a low and formal bun. Atop the sleek black hair sits a silver tiara, ornamented with emeralds, sapphires and rubies.

She doesn’t look at the crowd around her, only at the kings, who stand still like statues atop their platform. Each of them returns her direct gaze. Her footsteps echo throughout the room, the only noise beyond the occasional sniff or throat clearing.

When the stunning woman finally reaches the marble steps leading to the thrones, she turns to face the audience. For thefirst time, I notice a table before the angel warriors. Four depart from their ranks and approach the table, where four crowns rest. Each crown is different—crafted in the style of the king to whom it will soon belong. With great significance, the angel soldiers retrieve the crowns from the table and hold them aloft as they approach their kings.

“Today is a momentous occasion.” The woman’s voice rings out clear and loud.

I know it immediately.

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