The ground began to settle beneath Ira's boots as the remainder of the Beast's entwined body was pulled from its tomb-like burrow of mulch, rotten vegetation, and soft root-filled earth. Despite the filth it had been nesting in, the snake was pure as gold. Its yellow scales glimmered a sort of fire-filled copper under the dimming evening sun. It roared a hiss loud enough to shake mountains, flashing fangs as large as vaulting poles. The snake twisted and convulsed, winding itself into knots as its gleaming black eyes searched for the source of the scent floating in-between the tree trunks. A perfume that Ira was sure smelled a whole lot like dinner to the Beast. 

The snake twitched, snapping its jaws at a creaking tree before slamming the length of its bronze belly against the soil. It seemed in a frenzy, curling and twisting to lash out at wherever it thought Ira could be. Luckily--or maybe not so luckily, it depended on how bad the bruises were going to be in the morning--their tumble had removed them from the viper's immediate area. The two had landed in a line of dense brush that the snake seemed blind to--or, maybe it was more than the brush the snake had trouble deciphering. It bared its fangs at its own tail, hissing and spitting at the writhing golden scales. 

Ira recalled another one of his troublesome late nights--when all that existed in his foggy mind was David Attenborough, the color blue leaking in through the living room window from a nearby billboard, a cup of coffee he couldn't quite taste, and a TV program about the hunting habits of desert dwellers. 

Although given his current position, all that seemed relevant was the fifteen minutes dedicated to the diamondback. Ira could still remember bits and flashes. Some made more clear by the golden viper ahead of him. Namely, that Ira could name the two nostril like slits under the Beast's gleaming black eyes. If Ira was right they were pits--heat-seeking orifices meant to aid the snake's sight in the dark wooded forest. Rattlesnakes were night-hunters. They had poor eyes, relying on the addition of their pit organs to find prey. 

Not that the viper king was a rattler. It was about a thousand sizes too big and its gleaming tail ended in an unceremonial rump. A stubby appendage that it battered against the ground, sending up puffs of crushed leaves and splintered wood. 

The only indication of species on the snake that Ira could cling to were the two winged flaps on the sides of its head. Perhaps it was wishful thinking that reminded him king cobras didn't have pits--because what cobras did have was eyesight spanning more than three-hundred feet and Ira could have really used a break.

He knew it wasn't enough to form any sort of plan off. He was relying too much on a knife in the dark. Nothing he could hold onto or declare with any sort of determination. He forced his mind to calm, grinding to a slower pace. One that could absorb before reacting. So what if the snake had poor eyesight? Ira's body still emitted heat. It still had scent--his heart beat with audible thumps, his steps cracked over kindling. He had to think--he needed more. 

Ira leaned towards Mayvalt, pitching his voice down into a soft rumble that barely crossed the space between them. But she heard it. He knew she did the second her ears twitched and her eyes fluttered towards him, head tilted in listening.

"'The King of the Field', you said. Do you know this guy?" He asked. 

She scoffed and stabbed at the mulch with the tip of her bo. Her fingers slid down the staff, slick with mud. "You're the demonologist here." 

"Says the girl who puts demon into demonology." Ira remarked dryly. Prompted by her scornful glare he quickly added, "I'm better at stabbing than studying."

"You don't know the King of the Field?" She scoffed. Ira shook his head lightly. "The Bronze Snake? The Great Brass Snake? Father of the Fiery Flying Serpents? Nehushtan? Nothing, really? What kind of choir boy are you?"  She sputtered, her tone increasingly flustered with each shake of his golden curls. 

"The kind that doesn't light candles or sing." Ira huffed. But if he make it out of there alive, he knew he'd have to learn. He couldn't pass on the chance to form a rock band called the Fiery Flying Serpents.

"I'll settle for the kind that can kill a king." She muttered, tightening her grip on her silver bo. 

Ira hoped that was what he was--he wasn't really sure. Kneeling there up to his thighs in mulch, gazing at the metallic snake with his fingers emptied he didn't think so. But what other choice did he have? Killing that viper would get him at least a step closer to finding Melchior. He inhaled a sharp breath of cold forest air and straightened his back. "Only one way to find out."

Her coffee-dark eyes fluttered to him, a hollow smirk etched into her soft pink lips. "Whatever you're going to do--you better be sure of it. That angry noodle over there is kind of a big deal to us demon folk." 

"He's famous?" Ira quipped. 

"He's powerful, bone-snatcher." She corrected sharply. "He used to be a god. Or something worth worshipping." 

Ira's mouth ran dry as his palms slickened. "He's a go-" 

"Don't get all in your head about it, Bishop." Mayvalt interrupted, patting Ira's bruised back with a flat palm. "The bar is low on that. I mean, who do you revere most? Xenophobic feather dusters in gowns."

"Yeah," Ira growled, "'cause if the two were switched, it'd just be so easy to kill an angel." 

"I like the sound of that!" Mayvalt whooped quietly. "Keep that attitude when it's our time to face Mammon."

"I wasn't being serious." Ira muttered, unsure if Mayvalt knew that or not. She smirked and shook her peach-colored curls. 

"I know, brat." She whispered, her laughter a faint shadow as she stifled it. "One problem at a time here, okay? To get that chance at Mammon we have to get through this. Any ideas?" 

Ira blew a carefully controlled breath through his nose and rolled his shoulders to shake free from the fear locking him up stiff. He risked a nervous glance at the Beast. The snake had wound itself around the trunk of a tree, its fangs glimmering as its head swiveled back and forth. It spat up hisses as strong as jet engines, shaking the very earth Ira was sunken into.  

Ira sucked in a sharp wince between his clenched teeth to replace the air he had shuddered from his lungs. The world beyond the length of his lashes dimmed and faded into a dull gray. Sound had weight. It rippled across his skin, pressing him down. The snake hissed. The roar slashes across Ira's cheek with a scorching heat. His own heartbeat pressed against his ribs. He was consuming everything--and nothing. His brain worked itself into circles processing what he needed--shoving out anything it didn't. The pain across his back vanished, replaced by the cold of the mulch he knelt in. For a second, he forgot how to breathe. And that was when the plan came to him. 

"I have an idea." He admitted sourly.

Mayvalt winced, pinching her eyebrows together. "I don't like the sound of that. What's the catch?" 

"It's based on a hunch." Ira said. "A hunch I'll have no way of proving--unless we die." 

"Or it works and we kill ourselves a demon king." She shrugged playfully. At least she tried--but Ira could see the sickly pale undertone to her skin. He saw the corners of her lips tremble. She was frightened. Angels, he was frightened, too. 

He exhaled another wince and pressed his clenched knuckles to the shell of his ear, squeezing until it ached. "This is all my fault. I asked for anything and that's just what I got. This is my task, Mayvalt." 

The He-Goat scoffed, crossing her shaking arms across her wildly beating chest. "Are you cutting me out of the coolest parts?" 

Ira huffed up a laugh he didn't quite feel. "I don't have a good feeling about any of this--if things go sideways, all I can do is look out for myself. I don't have the power to protect the people around me. If you got hurt-" 

"You mean if I died?" Mayvalt corrected sharply. "Well, then I die. Forever. No do-overs. Yeah, I know. Trust me, I think about what happens to my kind often. How could I not with all I've lost?"

Ira nodded, mulling over her words in the precious little time they had. Death was unequal across all the worlds Ira had discovered. For himself, he knew he had a soul. An extension of his mortal self that death could not capture. But for Mayvalt--her death would be the end. It was a weight that tipped any scale, shackling his ability to plan their way out. Ira wasn't a leader. Angels, he was hardly even a follower. He was not a soldier, nor a strategist. He was just Ira. He was just a kid with a stressful level of determination and healthy dose of terrible luck. 

"I can't order you to risk your life for me." He said. He thought of the Cardinal's haunting words. That Ira had the potential to be like him. A man that could. 

"Say it, Ira. Say it and I will do it." She whispered, her lips formed in a grim frown. "I. . . owe you this much." 

Ira's eyes found her, held beneath his scrunched eyebrows. He knew she wasn't talking about him anymore. Not the version of him before her now. "Don't." He warned softly. 

Mayvalt twisted her neck, meeting his gaze with wide brown eyes full of guilt. "We all played a part in your first life, Ira. Mine is one I have always been ashamed of. Allow me this one chance to alleviate some of my own guilt."

Ira forced up a distantly cold scoff from between his teeth and shook his head until blond hairs tumbled into his blue eyes. "Don't be so reckless on the account of a deadman. Whatever you did--it's been lost to time. No one exists anymore who can forgive you." He looked into the deep brown of her watery eyes. "No one." 

She twisted her head, looking down at her fingers clenched around the body of her bo. "Then find another reason." He knew what she was really asking him. Find something else to blame if this goes south. 

Ira shut his eyes. His heartbeat was all he could hear in his ears, drowning out even the sound of his own voice as he said. "Finding Melchior--harnessing the power of the Vestige--that's what matters. It's about saving everyone's world."

Mayvalt clenched her jaws and gave one stiff nod. "Alright, then. If that oversized worm is all that stands in the way of repowering the Vestige; it has to go." 

Ira looked up at her--lips slightly parted to say words he wished were different. "Ever been bait before?"

Mayvalt laughed, brandishing her carved staff. "There's a first time for everything." 

He told her the plan--feeling as he spoke that it wouldn't be enough. It was too simple--really too simple to work but Mayvalt nodded and clambered to her hooves. She had faith in him. The realization felt undeserved. He imagined it would only come back to bite them both. 

Ira would have liked to wish her some luck but she was gone before his tensed jaws could creak apart. She vanished into the thick trees around them. Her direction had been left-leaning. Ira didn't try to track her beyond that. He knew he would see her again. That was the point, but until then he had to focus on himself. 

Ira looked down at his limbs--at the soft brown mulch slathered up and down his pale skin. The squishy earth had eased his landing--likely the only reason he and Mayvalt hadn't broken anything. It was also serving as an exterior of dense and cool armor. If he was right. Angels--he prayed he was right. Ira punched his fists downwards, forcing the mud up to his wrists. He spread his fingers and pulled up the thick mulch. It dripped from his hands like the world's most unappealing honey. With a wince--he pressed his hands to his chest. The mud stuck to the fabric of his white T-shirt, sending shivers across his skin. Ira scooped more mud. He rubbed it into his pants. He spread it across his throat, his arms, his ankles, his wrists. His body shook from the cold seeping into him. Once coated as best as he could manage without a mirror, Ira rose to his feet. His legs shook beneath him--from fear or cold he didn't know, but he made no effort to untangle the verdict.  

The golden cobra hissed another roar, uncurling from around the tree it had been attempting to suffocate. The Beast lashed its tail, beating thundering pulses against the earth. Ira took one shaking step to his right. The snake paid him no attention--so he took another. Each step came moment after the last, once Ira was sure the Beast had no interest in him from his place at the bottom of the hill. Eventually, Ira reached the trees to his side and melded into the edge of the brush. Aided by the coverage of scraggly green bushes and thick wooden tree stalks, Ira made his way back up the slope. 

His thighs burned from the effort--his bones ached and his head spun. Ira made a mental note to self--two mountains was two too many to climb in a day. Not that the hillside was anything strenuous, but after his battering against the mulch and his descent down Mount Mojaere earlier that morning, he didn't know if he even had the climbing energy left to tackle an escalator. 

Ira slowed his progress as the earth beneath him began to level, forming the top lip of the hill. He pressed down into a nearby oak-like trunk, kneeling down to wait for his moment. He held his breath, scared that even the whisper of his lungs would give him away. From this new distance, the scent of snakeskin was thick in the air. It was musky and rotten--curling Ira's stomach. He fought the urge to press his muddy hand over his nose, using it instead to reach over his shoulder. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the sword he carried there.

The makeshift leather grip was cold. Abandoned since that rainy battle so many nights ago. Panic swelled in his gut--it begged him to release the rough material under his skin. He refused, fighting against all his instincts. The sword slid from the sheath slowly. The edges of the blade scraped against the leather, making a soft swish that had Ira tensed and watching the snake. The creature's head twitched. Ira exhaled one whispered breath--and went still. 

The snake's vibrant pink tongue slithered from its scaled lips, flickering at the thick air. Ira's eyes unwillingly glanced down at the mud along his arms. He wondered how much of his scent was sealed beneath his muck-armor. Whatever the answer, he quickly lost the opportunity to find out--which he reasoned was for the best. 

"Hey, King Worm!" 

Ira and the snake both turned to face her. She was perched at the top of a bolder, her silver bo held straight out before her. The staff glimmered in the dim orange evening light, reflecting shimmering beams from the movement her trembling arms made. Her pink curls seemed alight from that same sunlight, the cuff clasped around her left antler seemed the burning ember to it all. She set her jaw in rigid determination, angling her chin up to meet the black gaze of the snarling golden viper. 

Ira didn't have much time--fueled by that one terrifying thought, he shoved himself to his feet and lurched forward out of the trees. His shoes pounded against the ground, his heart galloped behind his ribs. The snake might have sensed the vibrations from his twisting organs and pummeling oxfords--it might have turned to snap him in its gleaming white fangs--if not for Mayvalt's whooping, jumping, and brave brandishing of her Fae-Iron bo. The snake's neck--or body? The lengthy bit beneath its head--swayed as its black eyes followed the movement of her swinging.

Ira pressed forward, his eyes locked on the looming shape of a large rock sprung up from the soft mulch. Ira wasn't sure if it had been there before--maybe the snake has uprooted it in its twisted and burrowing beneath the soft dirt. 

Ira fully withdrew the glass blade from the sheath Ishmael had made for him. The Vestige slid over his shoulder, positioned proudly over the center of Ira's chest. As Ira charged forward, he saw his reflection in the black mirror blade. The wide whites of his eyes, the pallor of his cheeks, the deep set frown across his lips. He looked as terrified as a toddler on Halloween night--sorely out of place, and beyond his depths. What right did he have to kill a king? Who was he? 

Ira's jaws creaked from the force of his teeth clenching together. He flung himself forward, scrambling up the bolder as quickly as he could with two hands full of sword-handle. Slightly off balance, but not letting it hinder any of his determination, he raced forward up the sloped surface of the sleek gray rock. He took purposeful steps until the ledge ran out--forcing him to leap. Ira pounced for the back of the viper's golden throat, sword held over his head. 

He was Ira Rule--and that had to count for something. 

The tip of the Vestige made contact with the golden scales. The black glass was met with glimmering copper armor. The sword screeched as it dragged down the surface of the impenetrable plates. For one agonizing second, it came as defeat. And then it caught. The tip was met with the briefest space between the scute and sunk down into flesh with a rewarding schluck!

The King Beast hissed a roar and thrashed his head. Each attempt to dislodge Ira only sunk the sword in further, widening the port of entry. Scarlet red blood oozed from the gash, running like a stream over pebbles as it traced a downward path between the rough scales. Ira's white fingers tightened impossibly more over the handle of the Vestige. He hung from the weapon, his body rolling each way the snake tossed. It was becoming a familiar feeling--and that didn't seem to be a good thing. 

"Let go!" Mayvalt screamed from the other side of the bronze viper. 

Yep, Ira thought bitterly, quite familiar. 

He very much would have liked to hold on. Letting go had been what lost Ira his last two weapons, and they were thin on demon-killing blades, but not all things could be left up to Ira's idea of a good day. In fact, it seemed whatever outcome would vex him most--the angels arranged. 

Blood slickened the Vestige, running down the sword to pool at Ira's fingers. Warm streams of ruby red blood dripped down his wrists, running down his arms. He slipped--biting back the brutal familiarity of it all. It seemed Ira was a creature of habit, or someone incapable of learning from his past mistakes. At least this time the landing wasn't as harsh. Ira was cushioned by his enemy, sliding down the body of the snake to collapsed in the muck. 

He laid on his back, hands emptied and bloodied, and listened to the sound of the very alive, very angry, Beast hiss from above him. A large part of Ira wanted to accept that he had done his best, the snake had outlasted him and the retaliation would turn him into dinner--but the rest of him demanded to know how this could possibly be his best. That smaller half was laughed out of the room. The weight of Ira's inadequacy had never felt so heavy. 

It was almost funny how many people had chosen to hang their fate on Ira Rule. Why him? Because the angels had chosen him? To what? Fulfill their tricky prophecy? None of it had been real. Melchior had been the hero all along and now Ira was left to pick up the pieces. 

The snake swiveled, finding Ira with its pitch black eyes. Its tongue flickered, picking up the scent of him. A comfort to know that not a single aspect of his plan played out as intended. The mud armor was, well, just mud.

"Ira!" Mayvalt screamed. She swung out with her bo, hammering with no effect at the tail of the bronze king. 

Ira's fingers curled, clasping at the mud. It all felt so unfair. So exhaustingly obnoxious. His heart twisted behind his ribs, his head rushed to fill with blood and whitenoise. It all made him so incredibly angry. The viper lurched forward, fangs bared--and Ira rolled. The snake's face smashed into the mulch, pushing up a small impact crater that shook the ground. Positioned on his hands and knees, Ira quickly shoved himself to his feet. Just in time for the snake to find him again with wide black eyes.

Ira took slow steps back, his hands held out before his chest as if that could deter the python. The Beast rolled forward across the soft earth, hissing from beyond its jagged fangs. Ira's retreat was impeded by a length of the twisted snake. It caught behind his knees and sent him tumbling back. His fingers scrabbled at bronze scaling in a futile attempt to preserve his dignity and center of gravity. Neither of which remained intact as blood slicked fingers slipped across the snake, forming scarlet trails across golden scales. 

His back made contact with the mulch. Ira kicked at the snake, freeing his limbs from their entanglement. He anchored his elbows in the mud, ignoring how his arms sank into cold muck, and shoved himself back. If he could just--but his blissful thoughts of escape came to a screeching halt as his back pressed into the immovable trunk of a barren oakish tree. On both sides of him, extensions of the bronze snake rose up like a swirling sea. The head of the viper followed, floating towards Ira with hollow black eyes. He froze--holding his breath in his thundering chest. The snake paused, flipping its tongue one last time. 

It found the scent it had been tracking--Ira could tell by the way its fangs peeled back. The snake reared its head, winding up for the fatal blow. Ira threw his hands over his face, hardly even feeling as the cold mud shed, falling across his lap and into his hair. Mayvalt screamed. The viper struck. Foot long fangs sunk into flesh. A snap echoed across the forest as bones cracked under the unforgiving jaws. After that, a heavy silence. Broken only by the sound of blood whooshing in Ira's ears. 

His every ragged breath fanned across the wrists held over his trembling lips. Under his legs, the earth shook and twisted. But the pain--and the death he expected--seemed delayed. Ira lowered his arms and opened his eyes. 

The snake's fangs had indeed sunken into flesh. Blood welled up from the injury, more and more as the snake wriggled deeper, biting harder. Bones cracked and shattered under the iron jaws. Ira almost laughed--almost, except it wasn't very funny. 

"Ira!" Mayvalt shouted. She was suddenly at his side, hands pulling at the front of his shirt to pull him to his feet. "Sap! What did you do? Why is it-" 

Crack! Crack!

The king's own scales popped and shattered under the strength of its teeth. The snake was devouring itself. Blood spilled in waves, adorned by glittering shards of ruined plates. The more the wound bled, the harder the snake sunk in. Its bronze body writhed, twisting in on itself to form a winding vice. The length of the Beast became a towering knot. 

"The. . . angels, the blood." He whispered, eyes falling to his muddy arms. 

Mayvalt turned to look at him, eyes wide and questioning. 

Ira tensed out a breath and said, "I thought the mud didn't work when the snake went after me. That I wasn't cold enough--didn't cover my scent enough. But it wasn't after me at all. When I stabbed it, it's own blood coated my arms. When I tripped the blood got on the snake-" 

"Painting a target on its own back." Mayvalt snorted. "Very clever, kid." 

Ira wished he had thought of it. "But it's its own blood--why is it-" 

"Kings don't bleed, Ira." Mayvalt whispered darkly. "I doubt its even smelled its own blood before." 

The Beast twisted again, its length unfurling just enough for Ira's eyes to catch on the shimmering black sword still submerged into a space between the golden scales. He grit his teeth and walked forward, gripping the handle with his trembling fingers. Ira twisted the sword, angeling it up towards the base of the snake's skull and shoved with all his might. The Beast slumped down, going still and limp. Ira pressed his eyes shut and sucked in a sharp breath from between his teeth. There wasn't much sport in stabbing someone in the back--even if that someone was a mythical demon king. 

"Come on," he choked, "help me find my knives." 

Mayvalt eyed the corpse, her arms crossed over her chest. "Now that really is an impossible task."