Belial stepped back into the lake, receding until the tide tugged at his chest. He lifted his palms to the sky, as if challenging the angels to stop him, and tilted his head back in laughter. But the water was the only creature to respond to his threats. It swirled and trembled and spit up violent waves of white foam. It rose to consume him, swallowing him whole, until the glimmering of his silver armor disappeared into the dark.

In disinterest of his theatrics, the Cardinal to the Sect of Saint Francis stood in counsel with the other six Cardinals. Heads bowed and whispers harsh in tone. More than once or twice, Salamis Cedar tossed hatred-filled glares at Ira before resuming his argument from a mouth beneath cheeks pink in rage. 

And Ira watched, with Melchior quiet at his side, because it seemed there was nothing else to do. His heart slammed with mallet strength against his ribs. His boots twitched to bring him down to the water--but he stayed planted at Melchior's side. 

"Is there usually this much talking involved in war?" He questioned, glancing at his companion. 

Melchior had been growing paler as the night stretched on. As if he and the moon were the same, brightening into the night. He shrugged his weary shoulders and ran his fingers down the spine of his new bow. "Yeah. I mean not that I'd know personally, but my father use to tell us about the Demon-Born wars. The strategizing never ends, even as we go into the fight they could remain there--just. . . talking. Wars stretch years, battles go on for days. It's slow paced attacks like this that give soldiers strength to go on." 

"Strange." Ira mumbled. He sunk his fingers into his yellow hair, as if shaking it loose could bring up some memories of his own body in that war they'd spoken of. "Even still, how could we just sit by and do nothing?"

I never met Francis. Stolen valor, stolen bones. 

Was that what the Prince had meant? Action seemed to be all there was left to do--and yet the soldiers remained tensed and unmoving just at the edge of the forest line. Ira didn't know exactly what he'd imagined, but this wasn't it. 

"What can we do, kitten?" Melchior asked. "Belial has no army, not yet. We could never harm him or the Prince without a Vestige. As of this moment, we can do nothing to correct the situation. All we can do is wait."

"For it to get worse?" Ira scoffed. "No, we have to do something." 

Melchior's green eyes widened, flashing with moonlight. "Like what, kitten?" 

"I don't know! Just. . . something!" 

"I think you've done plenty." The voice chuckled. Ira spun on his heels, his mouth popping open in shock. The heart that had been pounding behind his ribs flew up into his throat at the sight of the familiar man. He wore his Bishop cloak proudly, a demon-bone sword attached to his hip. His salt-and-pepper hair curled to hang over his dark blue eyes. It was how Ira most remembered him.

"Father!" Ira gasped, flinging his arms around Jethro Pine. 

The old Priest laughed, quickly returning the hug before Ira could come to his senses and brush him off in a display of typical teenage rebellion. The wounds left to fester between them in the light of his lies hadn't lessoned. There was still a pit in Ira's stomach, but now wasn't the time nor the place to pretend that he wasn't glad to see his mentor. 

"Hey, kid." He murmured, tightening his hold before releasing. "Sorry I was late, I had some things left to handle." 

"More important than this?" Ira muttered. 

Father Pine sunk his fingers into Ira's hair and ruffled it teasingly. "I knew you could handle this much on your own. I always knew my kid was someone special, that he could do whatever he put his mind to. Besides, I think it was pretty important." 

Melchior's breath hitched at Ira's side, causing his eyes to flickered towards him. He'd gone rigid, as stiff as a corpse. His wide eyes were the only movement, sweeping back and forth across the heavy lines of infantry. 

"Mel? What's wrong?" Ira asked

"I-" He choked. "My-" 

Ira reached for him, placing his palm against his arm as if he could hold him into place. Melchior looked at him, his panic softening just a little around the edges of his eyes. "It's okay. Just tell me what's wrong." 

"No, it's not wrong." He said, shaking his head. "It's my br-" 

"-Melchi!" 

Melchior's head turned to the left, following the calls cutting through the hauntingly still night. Shoving through the crowds, emerging like an apparition from the curtains of knights, was another figure Ira recognized. He'd last seen him at the Cardinal's court, before a dragging body guard had caught up to them and escorted him away. 

"Ishmael." Melchior breathed. 

The muscles beneath his worn clothes twitched, but he made no movements. He was scared, Ira realized. It was amusing how after just a little time apart Melchior seemed so much clearer to him. He could read his every movement as well as words on paper pages. 

Unaffected by his stillness, the knight finally caught up to him. He crashed into his little brother with a heavy thud, swallowing him whole into a bone-crushing embrace. Melchior's rigid form softened, folding into the space against his big brother's tunic, and he grabbed him back. He squeezed his eyes shut, but not before Ira saw the beginnings of tears blooming in his heavy lashes. 

"I thought of you everyday, Melchi." The man whispered against Melchior's trembling shoulders. "I tried so hard to find you after they brought you back, but the Cardinal placed me under guard. They barely let me attend your trial--and then you weren't there. I thought maybe they'd already ki--hurt you and the whole court was a ruse to keep down panic." 

"I'm okay, Ish." Melchior promised. "I'm okay and I missed you, too. I missed you so much." 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there when you needed me." Ishmael said. 

Melchior flinched and shook his head. "No. I'm really okay. And I wasn't alone." He buried his face against his brother's shoulder, maybe to hide his redding cheeks from Ira. 

"I know, so I should say thank you." Ishmael laughed, casting a greeting glance to Ira who nodded in return, too scared to speak up and interrupt the time they had together. "It was Ira's mentor that broke me out, actually. If Jethro Pine hadn't found us-" 

"Us?" Melchior echoed, suddenly detangling from his brother's embrace. He twisted, looking across the busy forest. Ira followed his green gaze. Some distance off, under a pine as imposing as the man himself, two knights had engaged in terse discussion with the Archbishop Ira knew to be Abraham Brisbane. 

Ira had only met the man once. Months ago in the Cardinal's court--but he'd left a lasting impression. If Ira was ever to become an Archbishop himself, he'd want to be one like Ailbe Damianos. His white hair, wrinkled face, and gnarled knuckles couldn't diminish the strength radiating from him. The sword hanging from his hip seemed perfectly in place despite his, well, ancient appearance. 

The other knight wasn't one Ira had ever met personally. A woman, close to or the same age as Abraham. She was beautiful, which made Ira blush because the features he most admired seemed very familiar. Skin the tone of oak-bark, just-barely-tamed curls so dark brown they were nearly black, high cheekbones positioned over rose-pink lips. 

"Mom?" Melchior mumbled, bewilderment clear in his voice. 

Ira flinched, his eyes returning to Melchior's paling face. He'd asked about Melchior's family before. In those discussions, mention of his parents had been sorely lacking. This felt like an open wound, but Ira didn't know if he had to words to stitch it together. He'd never known his mother--and was himself still coming to terms with the very raw feeling of having his life turned on its head.

Ishmael placed his palm on Melchior's hand, giving it an encouraging pat. "It's okay, Melchi. They came because they care about you, too. Would you like to speak with them?" 

His green eyes flickered towards Ira, seeking the final push to send him over the edge. "You should talk to them." He answered. 

Melchior squared his jaw and nodded stiffly. "I'll be right back, don't go anywhere." 

"Not without you, partner." Ira smiled. Melchior smiled faintly in return before leaving with his brother, cutting across the pine forest to meet up with his mentor and parents. Ira watched him go with a sore sense of loss in his ribs. He'd just gotten him back, it seemed to say. He shook his head to dismiss the selfish thought.

Father Pine placed his warm hand on Ira's shoulder, squeezing it with reassurance. Ira glanced up at him--did Father Pine know he jealous? Physically grounding Ira with a firm grip was something he usually reserved for Ira's short-tempered outbursts. 

"I'm fine." Ira said. 

"Sorry, habit." Father Pine murmured. "You used to be sad about things like this." 

Ira scowled up his eyebrows. "Things like what?" 

"Family." Father Pine answered. 

Ira's stomach dropped into his boots. Distantly, at the back of his mind, it still existed. The echo of a young girl's voice as she shouted across the hillside, calling in her little sister for dinner. Or the warmth by the hearth fire as his mother finished decorating the tree. The smell of fresh wood shavings from his father's workspace. Those pieces still belonged to him, even if he'd not been the person who'd collected them. For all his life, Ira had regarded them as bitter shards of glass stuck in his skin. But they didn't sting so badly anymore. 

"I'm okay." He said. "I have my own family." 

Father Pine, Peter, Melchior. The people who mattered most to him, who had formed him into someone new. Those were who he had to protect. He glanced at the Cardinal, still engrossed in his argument with the other red robed knights, and to the beach where the Third Prince of Hell seemed similarly locked into discussion with the pink haired He-Goat called Mayvalt.  

Was he the only one fearful of the approaching tidal wave? Was Melchior right? What could he do anyway? Without claiming a Vestige, he had no way to directly defeat the Prince's nephew. Given the lack of action from the Third Prince, it seemed he was stuck, too. With equally matched Generals, it came down to a show of force between the armies. 

Like the Beasts, which came from the Die-the Derea--Ira shook his head. What had she called it? Die-read-hah? Dear-ah? The Pit, then. Like the Beasts that came from the Pit, the Progeny could defeat them with Ossein. No matter how deep a part of Hell they spawned in, they weren't angelic. As long as they came from Avernus--they could be stopped. 

If they couldn't stop the gate, if they couldn't stop the General, if they couldn't stop the war from beginning--then they had no choice but to swiftly end it in a head-to-head between the knights of the Progeny and the demonic army from Hell. 

Luckily, their position was advantageous. Lined along the trees, they could mount archers. They could compress on the beach, forcing the other army back onto uneven footing in the water. They could bless it, like Ira had. Which wouldn't kill but could certainly slow an approaching mass. 

He glanced at the Cardinals again. Were these points they'd thought of? Discussed? Agreed upon? Had the Prince? Or was their inaction not a strategy and merely a side-effect of their anxiety?

"I'm gonna go check on something." Ira said, tossing what he hoped to be a reassuring smile at his mentor. Father Pine scrunched up his dark eyebrows in protest and confusion.

"Where are you going?" He asked. "The Brisbane boy asked you to stay."

"I'm just gonna ask what the Prince plans to do about his nephew." Ira shrugged casually, knowing that who he was could never make any mention of the Third Prince casual.

"No!" Father Pine said. "No way, kid! You barely managed to free young Brisbane from his chains, if your loyalty falls anymore into question they'll likely just resume the plan to kill him and be done with it." 

"So we should just continue to sit here doing nothing?" Ira demanded. 

"Ira!" Father Pine said, grabbing his shoulders again--but this time to keep him rooted him place. "This is serious. Ships that take on too much sink. Just don't." 

"Don't?" Ira muttered. 

"Don't." Father Pine nodded. "For your partner, at least."

Ira turned to follow the point of Father Pine's finger to the boy beneath the pine tree, wrapped up in his mother's arms. His heart panged pitifully against the cage of his ribs. 

"Just. . . let him have this moment, kid." Father Pine said. "And then, do what you have to do."

"Okay," Ira agreed stiffly. "I can wait." 

• • •

The moon rose into it's spot at the apex of the sky, shimmering down on the pine forest with a white glow cast in silver streams. Midnight, Ira realized, had come and gone. The hour that was to be Melchior's death, he'd spent talking with his parents and eldest brother beneath the cerulean blue fingers of an old tree. 

"What are you grinning about?" He asked, tilting his head in that keenly wolfish way of his.

"Nothing." Ira dismissed. "Did you have a nice talk?" 

Melchior glanced back at his family. Ailbe had relocated to the Cardinal's inner circle. Alongside Samson and Father Pine, he had his head bent into the argument. Salamis Cedar was fuming, bickering just as furiously with Esther McCloud as he had been back in the Cardinal's Court.  

The remaining Brisbane's had wandered some distance down the infantry lines, their son Ishmael quick on their heels, as they spoke in hushed whispers. Melchior's mother, Sarah he'd learned, had her hands quickly windmilling about before her as she spoke. 

Melchior blew a small breath from his nose and dipped his chin. "Yeah." He answered simply, but by the relief etched into the corner of his green eyes, Ira knew he meant it. And that was enough for him. The rest could remain as Melchior's secret.

Ira turned in his spot, tracing the positions of the other soldiers with his eyes. Wides arching lines of them filled a mile of beach access, bent slightly into a half-moon, ready to close in on the water, which occasionally spit forth white foam and made heart-pounding crackles. 

His gaze wandered further, down to the beach and the swirling lake. The Prince, the girl, and the general had disappeared from sight. If due to a change in location or the darkness of the night--Ira didn't know. He glanced at Melchior, who was watching him with a curious crease in his eyebrows. 

"You have this look on your face like you're about to cause trouble." Melchior said. 

Ira shrugged. "Me? Cause trouble?" 

"Alright," he chuckled. "What do you need me to do?" 

Ira smiled--but said nothing. As much as he was watching them, he could feel the soldiers watching him back. Melchior tilted his head in innocent confusion, pressing his lips together to keep from asking him again. Which inspired a thought, or an impulse, to take him closer and keep him quiet another way. 

Pink-cheeked, Ira shook his head and shut his eyes. Unlike the Cardinals, he didn't have the luxury of so openly whispering with Melchior. It would raise suspicions. He opened his eyes, tossing scalding glares back at the wondering eyes. If they wanted to gawk so badly he could give them something to gawk at. 

"Kitten, what is it?" Melchior asked.

"Just thinking." He answered honestly. 

"About?" 

"Killing two birds with one stone." He said. 

There was a way to make them avert their eyes while childishly fulfilling his own desires. Well, so be it. Ira moved towards Melchior with swift steps that felt miles wide. He captured his elbows with his fingertips and drew him in. Melchior turned maroon but went willingly, bowing his head until Ira's yellow hair pressed against his forehead. And Ira, who suspected Melchior could hear, wished his heart would stop pounding so quickly. 

As if catching a glimpse of something indecent and embarrassing, the curious crowd surrounding them vanished as quickly as startled rabbits. Ira puffed a small laugh from his lips. Melchior followed the retreat with his glittering eyes. 

"Ah," he murmured, "you just wanted to drive them away?" 

"No." Ira said. "Well, yes, but you're naive if you think I'm not doing this for myself." 

Melchior's cheeks flushed with heat strong enough to fill the thin space between them. He laughed and squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm glad--but I know you must have more tricks up your sleeves."

"Usually. I met a He-Goat." Ira murmured into the centimeters between them. "I realized, I think for the first time, just how different we are." 

"You didn't think you were different before?" Melchior puzzled.

Ira laughed at himself. "No, I didn't, because I've always thought it required some semblance of similarity to cause a difference. So, I guess what I was really seeing was how similar we could be if just given the chance." His fingers ran down the length of Melchior's forearm, until meeting his palm. Ira twisted their fingers together into a warm embrace. "She helped me hear things that were too far away for me to hear and I think you've been doing that all along, too." 

Melchior's fingers squeezed Ira's back, as if scared of losing him. Ira tilted his face up, meeting Melchior's shimmering green gaze. "Yeah," the boy said softly. 

"Can you hear them?" Ira asked, flickering his eyes towards the Cardinals. Melchior just nodded. "Are they going to fight?"

"Not yet." He answered. "They're waiting for the opposing army. Salamis Cedar wants me dead--a few others, too. But since I'm not, since they need a Vestige to take on the general, they'll just wait." 

Ira nodded, as well as he could pressed up against Melchior, and sighed. "Yeah, I thought it might be something like that." 

"They're suspicious, too." Melchior murmured. "If the Prince could close the gate--why hasn't he? Before the army can rise, I mean. But, they have no way to go against him." His eyes flickered back towards Ira, rooting him into place. 

Ira winced. "It doesn't matter, Mel. We would have to kill Mammon to shut this gate, since we can't do that right now either, I'd rather keep you with me." 

"It's too risky, kitten." Melchior protested weakly. "We're going against too much. Don't make fate another enemy." 

"I can't afford to think about that right now." Ira muttered. 

Melchior fell silent. He breathed slowly. His skin was heavy with the rich scent of petrichor and crisp fallen leaves. Ira leaned into it, inhaling it back until he thought he might become dizzy on it. A part of him wanted to engrave it into his mind, and the other wanted to believe he'd never have to. That no matter what happened--Melchior would always be there. 

"Mel," Ira said, swallowing around the beating of his pulse filling his throat. "I need you." 

Melchior exhaled. Where his forehead touched Ira's it was warm. "You don't. Kitten, I'm not completely human. I'm not in control half the time. I can't protect you." 

"I didn't ask you to protect me." Ira pointed. "I just need you." 

"You don't-" 

"Don't tell me what I need, Mel." Ira cut in firmly. "Because you have no idea how much I-" The words stuck to the roof of his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head towards his boots. Why couldn't he just say it? Why was it always so hard? 

"You what, kitten?" Melchior pressed gently. 

"How much I," just say it, just say it, "how much I like you, Mel." 

He froze, turning into marble. His fingers tightened in Ira's grip--and then the moment broke. He came apart into ribbon, laughing and pressing Ira back into the warmth of his arms. "Angels, kitten. You're going to give me heart palpitations." 

Ira frowned against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around him in return. "You're suppose to say it back." He pouted bitterly. 

"Sorry," he murmured playfully against Ira's ear. "I thought you already knew." 

"So, I don't get to hear you say it?" Ira scoffed. 

Melchior's hug lessoned. His palms found Ira's shoulders and pushed him slightly back, until a distance was created between them. In the small space, Melchior found him. His shimmering green eyes traced Ira's face, and in return Ira looked at the curve of his growing smile. 

"I like you, Ira Rule." The cursed boy said.

"I like you, Melchior Brisbane." His fated executioner replied, turning as red as the coming sunrise with the heart-pounding innocence of a first crush. So, please don't leave me. Please don't let the fragile whim of the angels be the one thing that can take you from me. Maybe those words should have been spoken. Would keeping them, selfish and secret, in his mind be something he'd come to regret? Would it have changed anything? 

There'd be no way to know. No way to do it over again. Because he was a soul doomed to always move forward, chasing an unobtainable moment of stillness. And this second, looking up into Melchior's bright eyes, was just another fading into the past. 

The discussions, the waiting, the praying. In a thunderous crash, it all came to an end. The trumpets of war echoed across the Catskills.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Beneath their boots, the earth shifted in a violent pitch. The lake roared, spitting forth another spray of ocean into the cold night air. Ira twisted in Melchior's tight hold, scanning the beach with wide eyes. Above the water, the sky trembled from the fury of the heavens. 

No, Ira knew, not the heavens. From Hell. It was coming from beneath Lake Seneca. Bangs as sure as cannonfire filled the air. Melchior winced with each eardrum shattering pop, folding against Ira's frail spine as if trying to hide from it. 

The clouds split, cracking beneath the pressure from above. Rain began to fall, appearing as divine tears. Regret for what was about to come. Ira flinched as the first droplet of cold washed over him, landing on his cheek and rolling down towards his jaw. As if he was crying, too. 

"This is it!" The Cardinal shouted. His voice became a blade, driving between the thunderous booms from the gate and the soft whisper of the showers. "Drive forward! Block the beach! None shall pass us! Kill them--until we are the last ones standing!" 

Ira's heart twisted, beneath that his stomach became a knot. His fingertips wiped away the drops rolling down his pale cheeks, the rain remaining he blinked from his eyes. Cold came over him, forcing a shiver down his spine. He was losing his warmth. Melchior was taking it with him as he slipped away. 

A bow as white as bone filled his hands. A half-full quiver slung over his back. He turned to Ira, tilting his head in that all-too-charming way. "Come on, kitten. Pick up your blades." 

Ira's fingers drifted to the belt at his hips. This feeling was familiar. He could trace it in his mind, following it back to the last time he had felt this way. He'd been curled up on the living room couch, Peter in his lap, watching nature documentaries to pass through the night. 

The predator entered the savannah. The gazelle took off, churning dirt beneath their nimble hooves. Ah, it was that feeling. The ominous sense of knowing; defeat had found a tender neck to sink teeth into. That struggling would only drain the blood faster. 

The knights advanced, rushing with weapons drawn towards the sands. The rain mixed the beach into a slurry of mud, which flew up beneath the heavy press of boots. The lake groaned, as loud and animalistic as any dying Beast. 

"Wait," Ira called, he reached for him but only found more rain scattered across the back of his hand. Melchior was moving away, following the knights down to the beach. "Mel! Wait!" 

The lines were forming a wall, dividing Lake Seneca from the forest. Ira ran after them, blades grasped in his palms. He was falling behind, he was losing sight of him. His ribs stung under the stitches in his side, his breaths came in panicked gasps. As he passed the last of the forest, the rain grew heavier. It clouded his sight and drenching his cloak.  

Where is he going? Ira thought. Why is he so determined to leave me?

He twisted, searching for a stark white bow in the medley of Ossein. For the tattered T-shirt among the crowd of rain-heavy capes. Ira couldn't see him. He'd vanished into the lines. Where had he gone so quickly? Why had he left Ira behind? 

"Mel-" His scream died in his throat, overshadowed by the roar of the gate.

BOOM! 

The force of the explosion forced the lake upwards, into a great wall of white rapids. The beach, which had been washed into silt, threw Ira to the ground. He landed on his knees, inhaling a gasp as the shocks flew up into his bandaged chest. His tanto-style blade fell from his palm, landing and sinking into the mud. His then free hand rose to press into the wounds beneath his shirt, as if he was coming apart and needed to be put back together. 

From his place on the ground, he had no choice but to squint between the wall of boots to see the lake. The disturbance fell back to the surface, casting rolling waves towards the shore. And then it was still, as frozen as glass. But Ira knew--he knew it was coming. It was rising up from the pit, from the gash etched into the river silt some thirty feet below. 

The army.

Like a bubble bursting, it emerged. A sudden rush towards the sky. Its' head came from the water, its' mouth broke open in a gasp. With its' first breath, like a newborn, it began to wail. A horrible screeching noise, like pigs in slaughter. 

Or was it--wait, no. It was. Ira stared in horror at the pink flesh, at the curled tusks growing from a elongated snout. It was a boar. Or, something remarkably similar. If not for the silver plating over it's humanoid body, it might have been an oversized hog. 

The pig thrashed in the lake, crawling towards landfall. The Cardinal raised his sword. He was shouting--he was giving orders that Ira could not hear. The half-pig-half man rose to its' feet. The water tumbled down its' metal hide. The armor it wore seemed melted into its' skin. 

Ira's eyes fell to the creature's hoofishly clubbed hand. To the sword curled in its' grip. It was five feet long, well suited for a warrior of the pig's size, and made entirely of something that shimmered like volcanic glass. 

Ira had a thought. A sudden, achingly familiar, thought. He recalled a night, many months ago, when he'd met a cursed boy beneath the largest Cathedral in all of New York. He remembered retracing his steps through a marble hall, pausing to admire the painting on a doorway. A grim depiction of a town overrun by devils. Thousands of pigs, so many giant black boars that their herd clouded the horizon, running to throw themselves head-first off a cliff into the churning wharf below. 

The lake trembled, groaning, as they began to break through. One by one, and then quicker. The surface of the water began to become more flesh than lake. A vat of writhing gnats. Boarish men rising, screeching, brandishing black swords.

Thousands. 

For a moment, it all went white. The ringing in his ears, the stinging in his skin, the gasp of his lungs. Horror blinded him. As the hands found him, he resisted their pull on his Bishop cloak. He did not want to be dragged to his feet, he wanted to wallow on the sands. Ira pushed weakly at the figure holding him upright. 

"What happened?" The voice asked, competing to be heard through the static clogging his ears.

"Sap, boss!" She hissed back. "Can't you tell? He's hurt! He's bleeding--I can smell it all over him." 

"He's hurt?" The Third Prince echoed dizzily. "We had eyes on him the whole time. He never got hurt." 

"Then he came to us injured." She scoffed. "I wonder, does that make him stupid or brave?" 

"Be optimistic, dear. We'll say brave since our alliance hinges on him." His hands were still tangled into the front of Ira's shirt, waiting for the boy to find his footing on the uneven beach. Because he thought maybe he had, or because he just didn't like being so close, Ira began his attempt at breaking loose. His fingers closed over the Third Prince's wrists. The skin he found there was heatless and beat with no pulse. A walking corpse. Ira withdrew in a flinch. The Prince's golden eyes flickered to Ira's face, freezing him in place. 

"L-let go." Ira muttered. "I need to find him--I need to be with him before those things touch the sand." 

"Who?" The Prince asked. 

"Melchior!" Ira snapped. 

"Sap, kid! I thought you had!" Mayvalt said, stress heavy in her tone.

Ira's heart whimpered behind his bruised ribs. "I did! I don't know--I lost him! I lost him! I have to-" 

"Okay! Okay!" The Prince interrupted. "Keep your head on. We'll find him, but you need to calm down and focus. Losing your mind on the battlefield is a good way to get killed." 

"This is bad." Mayvalt whimpered, threading her fingers into her pink hair. "This is so bad." 

"Clear minds, Mayvalt." He said again. 

"Kid," Mayvalt said, shoving the Prince aside. She placed her palms on Ira's shoulders, meeting his eyes with her own. "You spoke to your Cardinal, right? So, what's the plan?" 

Ira's gaze abandoned her, flickering towards the lake. They were coming, the first few to break through the surface. The water hardly reached their knobby knees now. The boars roared from tusk filled mouths. 

"Kid!" She shouted. "The plan!" 

"Army versus army!" Ira snapped, forcing his heavy tongue to flick forward words from behind his chattering teeth. "We'll eliminate them-" 

"Sap!" She hissed. Her grip strengthened on Ira's shoulders until it began to hurt. "You don't get it!" 

The first boar reached land. It towered over the nearest knights, twelve feet tall and bulked by muscle. Its' piggish face snarled. It raised its' glass sword and screeched. An Archbishop raised her arm and threw her javelin forward with force. Ira listened as it whistled through the rain--and then landed with a wet thwack! The spear pierced through the pig's chest, slicing into its' metallic armor like butter. The Ossein tip came out the other side. A clean shot, right through the heart. 

"Kid, you don't get it!" She hissed. "Six Princes, please help us--this is bad."

"What?" Ira demanded. "What don't I get?" 

The boar paused. Its' head tilted down, looking at the wooden shaft sticking from its' ribs. It laughed. Ira's blood ran cold. It laughed. It laughed at them. How could it laugh--it had been ran through the heart. 

"You can't kill them." The Prince answered, his voice more lifless than Ira had ever heard it before.

"It's from Avernus!" Ira shouted. "We have Ossein!" 

Why did he argue? He could see it--marching forward with the spear still impaled through its' unbeating heart. Ira's head suddenly cleared. As if the rain had stopped. He turned, looking at the Prince's golden eyes. 

"Them," he echoed. 

Thousands. 

"Angels," he whispered. "This is-" 

The pig raised its' sword.

"This is it." The Prince said. "This is Legion." 

"Get back!" The Cardinal screamed--too late, he was just too late. The glass weapon sliced through the air, and then through the body of the Archbishop that had thrown her only weapon. She fell into pieces and landed in a series of wet thuds against the sand. Ira stared at the blood spilling across the earth, running in rivets back to the lake. His stomach rolled, his mouth filled with sick. Just barely he managed to contain it.

"How do we-" 

"You can't." The Prince said. "As long as one remains--they all remain." 

The first boar sunk its' hooves into the beach, stepping over the corpse it had chopped in half. Knight blood drenched the sands. It ran in ruby red rivers down the jagged edge of the black glass blade. The wall was weakening on fear alone, breaking and bending to keep from the teeth of the weapon. 

"Do not let it advance!" The Cardinal roared. His plea fell on deaf ears. No soldier ran forward. None were eager to be cleaved into two. Fortunately, the boar did not continue in its' march. It stomped its' hooves in the gore, roaring--it was waiting. For its' other limbs, Ira realized. The lake was choking, spitting forth more and more pigs. They were all clambering up the shore, all armed with obsidian swords, all unkillable--all coming to a halt at the brink of the beach. 

"Angels." Ira whimpered, pressing his palms against his ears. "There has to be a way." 

"A way to wipe them all out in one go?" The Prince replied skeptically. "You'd need a weapon the size of New York--or power. A ton of power." 

"H-how much power?" Ira stammered. "Be specific." 

"You've got a plan, kid?" Mayvalt asked. 

"Just some old tricks." He answered. "If we-" 

"I don't care for details; what do you need to get it done?" The Prince interrupted. 

Ira looked at him, into his glistening golden eyes. "If I can keep them in the water--can you bless it? Like an angel?" 

"Theoretically." The Prince shrugged.

"Would it be enough?" Ira pressed. 

"Theoretically?" The Prince said again. 

"No! No way!" Mayvalt snapped. "Look, kid. Boss is an Ely the way a woodchip is a pencil, okay? He doesn't have enough power left! If he expends it all now he will die! Like, actually, really, die! In a way you could never understand." 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ira snarled. "You think I don't understand loss?" 

"A bone-snatcher could never understand." She snapped back. 

"Enough! Mayvalt, I have power--just not currently with me." The Third Prince protested, then to Ira. "The gates I made hold parts of my strength, leeching off me in a way. If I shut them I could recover the energy they hadn't burned yet. It might. . . well, maybe it could be enough." 

"Enough to bless the water?" Ira asked.

"Enough to eviscerate any creature of Avernus in it." The Prince said instead. 

Ira's heart hammered into his boots. "Mel." 

"Keep him clear of it--or he'll be missed." The Prince nodded. "Mist, too."

"How do you close the gates?" Ira asked.

"I just do." He shrugged. "I just need a moment to concentrate. Some quiet? Then I can focus my power and-" 

"Uncle!" 

The Prince swore, dragging his fingers through his midnight dark hair. He twisted, turning to face the lake. Raising from the water, climbing to the beach amongst the pigs, was Belial. He held his sword aloft, grinning with madness.

"Face me, Uncle!" 

"Okay." The Prince said, turning back to Ira and Mayvalt. "Slight hiccup. No big deal. I'll go put him in time out--Mayvalt, I trust you to escort the Bishop. Take him to the Cardinal. We have to keep Legion in the lake no matter the cost. Then I'll need someone actually in the water--I have to connect to a Heimrian to give a blessing." 

"I've got it." Ira nodded. He swooped, swallowing his wince, to reclaim his Ossein blade from the mud at his boots. 

"Oh, and Mayvalt, dear." The Prince said, painting a smile across his blunt features. "Stay shore-side, alright?" 

She nodded, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a mock salute. The Prince adjusted the loose sleeves of his rain-drenched shirt and strolled towards the lake, slipping effortlessly through the parting crowd of awestruck knights. 

A stalemate had formed on both sides of the lake. The many boars of Legion had taken to glaring ahead, billowing steam from their twisted snouts. Some paced from hoof to hoof, casting glances at Belial and screeching from tusk-filled mouths. 

It was the general, Ira realized, he was the only thing holding them back. They could not act against him. And he wanted a show--he wanted to beat his uncle in front of an audience. 

"Sap, I guess he really is part Ely. He has the ego, anyway." Mayvalt scoffed beneath her breath. 

"Nephew." The Third Prince greeted languidly, dipping himself in a mock bow. "How have you been? How is my older brother? I assume you ran home to daddy as soon as you faced difficulty here on Heimr." 

Belial snarled, flashing a glimpse of his pointed teeth. "Let's see how long you can look down at me." He lifted his diamond-bright sword, pointing it at the heavens with fervent defiance. The blade was as glossy as Ossein, an iron of fine pearl-white silver. At Ira's side, Mayvalt sucked in a gasp. 

"Th-that's-" she stammered, her voice a weakened whisper. 

"Where did you get that?" The Third Prince asked. He was not a creature capable of confusion. His blank features made that clear. So, what did it matter? Ira didn't quite understand the importance of the weapon, but Mayvalt trembled. Her skin drained of it's oakish color. 

"Surprised, uncle?" Belial chuckled. "I had hoped to never bring this sword against you--but you've left me no choice."

"How did the son of an exiled Prince come across a weapon of Elysium?" The Prince pondered. 

"Perhaps you should not have been so quick to turn your family away, uncle." Belial taunted. "For you, it ends here." 

As unbothered as a house cat napping beneath a sunbeam, the Prince shrugged his shoulders. "We shall see, nephew. I must admit, it isn't a pretty picture. I, with no weapon, and you with such a fine one. I would hardly call any victory you could make from that fair." The Prince batted his long black eyelashes over his lazy golden eyes, the perfect impression of innocence. "Wouldn't it be more honorable to fight me with only your fists?"

Belial glanced at his white-iron sword--and then laughed. He tilted back his jagged jaws and scoffed into the rain. "Honorable? An honorable fight--with our fists? I could imagine nothing more disgraceful than that."

"I'd disagree, nephew." The Prince mumbled. 

"I suppose it does not matter," Belial laughed. His eyes swept the sands, taking in the soldiers lining the beach. He looked greedily upon their Ossein blades, a smirk across his pale lips. "Then I know just the weapon you deserve. For the traitor Prince who chose Heimr over his family."

Belial flicked his fingers dismissively, shouting something in a language Ira couldn't even begin to piece together. But Legion understood. The hundreds of pig soldiers tilted back their snouts and brayed into the rain.

The boar nearest Belial snorted a cloud of steam before wrapping its' thick fingers over one of its' yellow tusks. With a jerk and a loud snap the bone broke at the base, spurting an arch of black gooey slime. The pig squealed angrily before throwing the horn at the Third Prince. It tumbled through the air, landing into the shallows with a splash.

Mayvalt winced. Unconsciously, her hands drifted to her antlers. "Sap, he's going to make boss fight with that tusk." 

"What's wrong with that?" Ira asked before he could think any better of it. The shard was a foot long. When the Prince plucked it from the waters and held it in his hands, it really seemed a piece of fine Ossein. "Oh, angels, I mean-" 

"No, bone-snatching aside, the Prince can only harm Belial with an object of Elysium, which that horn isn't." Mayvalt answered. "And that sword is. I don't know how--but Belial got his hands on a weapon of the Heavens. Divine-Iron." 

"Is that thing a Vestige?" He asked. 

"No." Mayvalt answered. "There's no magic in it." 

"But it-" 

"It could kill a Prince." She nodded. 

Ira's heart thumped behind his ribs. "We need that. If we have that--we'll never need a Vestige!"

"Kid, boss could die!" She snapped.

"Let's go!" Ira said, taking off across the beach. 

Each of his steps sent painful jabs up into his stitches--but he never slowed. He had to speak to the Cardinal. There was a way out of this. There was a way to wipe out Legion, to claim a sword capable of closing the gate, a way to keep Melchior alive. There was a way to do it all. It was a fragile hope, one too weak to stand on its own. It all rested on the shoulders of the Third Prince.