Ira had survived battle once before. Last summer as Legion had come pouring into New York through a hole in the bottom of Lake Seneca: that had been terror. That had been panic. That had been Hell on Earth. There was no other phrase quite as fitting. But Ira had survived. Not by any merit of his own. Not by any wit, any skill, any determination. No, Ira had survived only due to those on the beach that night that kept careful watch over him.

How many times had he almost been killed? How many times had he needed saving? If they had looked elsewhere--if they had focused on someone other than Ira, would that person have been saved instead?

The Cardinal's Court was another battle. One Ira thought he could take on himself--or did he? If he truly believed in himself, why had he agreed to the Third Prince's plan B? Because he knew he couldn't do it. Deep down, he knew couldn't do anything at all. He wasn't the only one. Father Pine and the Cardinal knew he couldn't do it either, hence the formation of their own plan B. An Ascension? Forcing Ira into heights he didn't deserve? How much was Ira Rule worth?

Not this much, he thought.

Ira clutched his palms to his ears, squeezing down to block out the shouting, shoving, yelling, and screaming filling the court. Ira was drowning, sinking into a sticky pool of glue. Why had no one come to save him yet? And then, there it was. Hardly even a second after he'd had the thought. The hand settled against his shoulder, squeezing down to claim a fistfull of his black robes.

He didn't resist the force. He allowed himself to be sternly pulled from the podium. His feet, cement block heavy, stumbled obediently forward. His gaze traced the gray swirls in the white marble floors as they walked, twisting in and out of the riled crowd. The Bishop pulling him along didn't speak, and since Ira couldn't even bring himself to lift his head, to look into his blue eyes and admit that his efforts had been worthless, he appreciated the silence within the mob.

Father Pine escorted Ira around the left side of the Cardinal's bench to a small door traced into the wall behind the dias stage. Ira had never seen it before. He'd never made it past the podium. He'd never been inside the courtroom for anything but pleading. His gaze cowered. He couldn't even dream of looking at the Cardinal's bench, not at this distance. Not with the seats still fully occupied. He was slipping behind enemy lines--into the place he was least wanted and least accepted.

"Are you pleased with yourself?" A woman snarled. Ahaziah Rust, Ira recognized. His heart galloped behind his ribs, sending painful pangs up into his constricted throat--but she wasn't speaking to him.

"You tricked us, Absalom." Another agreed. Esther McCloud, the Fifth Cardinal and the only one who had ever shown Ira a shred of seemingly genuine concern. It hurt to hear her young voice twisted up into sorrow-heavy betrayal.

"I did not." The Cardinal disagreed, his voice as cold and still as hardened concrete. "We all voted for the Ascension. Ira Rule is a Bishop of my Sect, it remains my right to assign him his pilgrimaging task."

"You had no right to grant him the Vestige." Salamis Cedar snapped.

"I was to send him defenseless?" The Cardinal parried. "How cowardly it would be of me to taunt him with overthroning me but denying him the tools to do so."

"It didn't have to happen this way, Absalom." Adira Yarrow scolded. "There will be consequences."

"If Ira Rule succeeds in your plot, you will become an Archbishop. And no one will be able to save you from the council, Absalom Edom." Zephaniah Black snarled, his tone as sharp as the Third Princes' fangs.

"Then look forward to that day, old friends." The Cardinal said. The metal scaffolding beneath the stage's plain surface creaked as he dismounted his seat. Ira's ears twitched at the sound--latching onto it and replaying it in his mind.

How odd, he thought, to find an imperfection in this grand and holy place.

The Cardinal approached the edge of the dias. Climbing down as he did his center seat to stand beside Father Pine. His footsteps came over Ira as thunder, shaking him down to his bones. His eyes, which had stayed perfectly cemented to the tops of his shoes, vanished beneath his eyelids.

"Jethro, you were late." The Cardinal said in place of a greeting.

"I had something to do first." Father Pine shrugged.

"I hope it was worth it." The Cardinal sighed.

"Very." Father Pine agreed. "Should we be off before they light the torches? I saw John Glass sharpening chair legs into spears."

"Very well." The Cardinal dismissed. He slipped ahead of Father Pine, rounded the last few feet of the stage, and shoved the little door inwards. It moved quite obediently without so much as a creak of protest. The Cardinal seemed to have that effect on the world around him--as if it belonged to him.

Father Pine, who had never relented his grip on Ira, shook him gently back to the present. Ira opened his eyes, shook his head to clear it of the unpleasant buzz filling up behind his skull, and stumbled forward. With Father Pine escorting him and covering his back, Ira had no choice but to move forward along the path they had planned for him. Even as that path dimmed and tightened.

Ira slipped into the little hall beyond the door. It was cramped, only enough to allow two men standing side-by-side, and naturally lightless. The floors and walls of the shaft had been roughly made by carving into the rock ground, forming an imperfect and dangerous terrain. Luckily, Ira wouldn't have to make this stretch in the dark.

The Cardinal was positioned further down the tunnel. His red robes appeared on fire, illuminated by the yellow oil lamp he held over his head. Ira wondered when he'd had time to nurture a spark between his entrance and Ira's--and then realized that it had likely been lit before the council had even begun their meeting.

It seemed such an unimportant matter. One small and insignificant flickering flame--but it was proof to him. He was right--no one trusted him to succeed. Not on his own, not without assurances. Father Pine released Ira's robes and turned to shut the tunnel door behind them.

"W-wait!" Ira snapped. His shout echoed inside of the chute, forcing a wince to rise to his shoulders.

"Angels, kid!" Father Pine sputtered, pressing his palms to his ears. "What's wrong?"

"I-" Ira choked, falling silent. What possible excuse could he offer? The truth seemed much too unbelievable. I'm being secretly tailed by an invisible demon Prince--no, that wouldn't work. "I'm. . . scared of the. . .dark?"

"Since when?" Father Pine demanded, one black eyebrow rising above the wide frames of his glasses.

"S-since. . . since my nightmares?" Ira muttered, then shook his head. "I mean my new nightmares! Yeah, since those."

Father Pine's hand retreated from the door, falling quickly to his side. "Why didn't you tell me, kid? I didn't know. I could have left the hall light on-"

"No!" Ira interrupted. His gut twisted unpleasantly listening to Father Pine's suddenly sullen tone. "It's not that bad--at home! I mean there's that neon billboard for Chanel right outside my bedroom window. . . so, uh."

"Still-"

"Angels!" Ira screamed. yanking his wrist away from the invisible icy cold fingers that brushed him there. Father Pine's eyes snapped impossibly wider, enough to fill the entire glass squares of his lenses. Ira sputtered, forcing his words into a recovery mission. "Angels! Angels we should get moving! Wow, look at the time--I'm over it. Yeah, I love this ambient lamp lighting. Shut the, uh, shut the door and let's get. . . let's get moving, yeah?"

"Are you sure, ki-"

"Yep!" Ira snapped. He spun around on his heels, forcing down the red flush of his embarrassed blush, and marched decidedly deeper into the shaft. He was so determined to escape his own one man show he almost slammed right into the back of the Cardinal. Ira halted, stumbled to a stop, and crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel his own heart, thudding up against the skin of his forearm.

The Cardinal stared down at Ira from behind the orange flames. His eyes, a gray as dark as the tunnel they were caught in, glittered beneath the flickering light. Ira didn't know that he'd ever noticed that about the Cardinal--that he had features. That he was a man, one like Father Pine, and not a creature from Ira's nightmares.

Father Pine sealed the tunnel behind them, locking them into a silence as heavy as the Earth's crust. It was a terrible quiet. The kind that rose like sap to choke all the life from the world around it.

The Cardinal nodded and turned to lead the way down the carved chute. Ira fell obediently into place behind him, his every step feeling impossibly far from the last. There were actions, moments, and choices in every person's life that became irreversible and permanent. To Ira, his footsteps seemed to be those. It wasn't rock he was traversing--it was ink. It was written on the bottom of his shoes. At the end of this tunnel--there would be no turning back.

"Why would you do that?" Ira asked.

The Cardinal did not turn, did not flinch. Nor did he answer. He continued forward, leading the way into the abyss. Father Pine jogged to catch back up to them, slipping into the narrow space to Ira's left.

"The council was never going to approve of your idea, kid." Father Pine said in place of actually explaining. As if that made it make sense--as if that made it okay. As if it did anything at all but intensify the ache in Ira's chest.

"You didn't know that." Ira lied. "You couldn't have possibly known that."

Please, he wanted to beg, tell me that you didn't bet the plan on my failure.

"I know it's hard but don't blame them, okay? They're just scared. Last summer we fell in hundreds to a type of demon we had no way of countering. They're not too keen to go into Hell searching for more." Father Pine said in an attempt to soothe Ira's wounds. It didn't work. Which wasn't really Father Pine's fault--but Ira couldn't find it in himself to see it as anyone else's either.

Ira stared ahead, at the red figure floating in a rather ghostly manner down the corridor.

"I asked you." He said, mustering as much courage into his shaking voice as possible. "Why?"

"Kid, people are going to accuse me of raising you without manners." Father Pine sighed, pressing his fingertips to his forehead.

The Cardinal paused. The lantern swung on a small metal hinge from the momentum of his suddenly halted movements. Each twist sent a screeching pang through the halls, painting the walls with dancing orange light. The Cardinal turned, freezing Ira with his gray eyes. Ira's heart leapt into his throat, banging with clenched fists against the insides of him.

"We're here." The Cardinal announced.

"Where is. . . here?" Ira muttered in return. He dragged his squinted eyes up and down the tunnel--there was darkness behind them, and darkness in front of them, and nothing else. The Cardinal reached into the neck of his gaudy red robe. He fished a small chain from around his throat and dragged his fingers down to the assortment of keys resting there. He caught Ira's eye, smirking at his childish curiosity.

"Patience, Ira Rule. Soon you'll know the secret of these keys and all the places they have been." He said.

"Why?" Ira asked in return. His head felt impossibly full--stuffed to bursting with static, fuzz, ache, and nonsense. None of this made sense.

"Because these keys belong to the Cardinal." The Cardinal said. He slipped the necklace over his head, holding it by a small brass key which hung apart from the rest. He stepped forward, towards the jagged wall, and slid his fingertips down the cut rock. As if made by his touch, a keyhole appeared. The Cardinal twisted his key into the opening. There was a heavy click--and then nothing. Ira's shoulders almost sagged in disappointment. The Cardinal chuckled. It was an eerie sound from him--as displaced as a meow coming from a lion. "Go on, Ira Rule. Open it."

Ira stepped towards the granite wall. He glanced back at Father Pine, who offered a nod of approval. Ira sighed and placed his flattened palms against the side of the tunnel. "This isn't a prank, right?"

"Come on, kid." Father Pine laughed. "Open the door."

Ira gathered his strength up into the muscles of his shoulders, leaned forward onto his toes, and shoved his body against the rock wall. For one single second--it didn't budge. Ira almost cursed, horribly embarrassed to have failed even this. And then the second passed. With a groan as heavy as riversilt, the wall began to give way. A crack was born, running up along the granite. Dust rushed out into the tunnel, choking and blinding the opener of the door. Ira sputtered, suddenly quite aware of why he'd been picked for the job.

"Angels, why is it so heav-" whoosh! The wall flung inwards, leaving Ira with his full weight pressed into a whole lot of nothing. He squeaked in surprise. His body pitched forward to follow the direction of the door. Ira pressed his eyes shut and prayed for a soft landing--but it never came. His shoulder was yanked back, forcing a painful upright rigidness. Ira twisted on his momentum, spinning to face his aid. From the gray cloud of dust and rock shavings, Ira could just barely make out his form. It was the least visible part of him--overshadowed by the glint of his glowing golden eyes in the dark.

Thump!

Ira's heart jolted in shock. He stepped quickly away, down into the room he'd unveiled. His foot landed awkwardly on the uneven floor, sending him stumbling to his knees. Ira gasped at the sharp sting which rushed up into the skin of his legs--and just as quickly shoved the pain away. There was something much more important: the Third Prince. Ira had seen him. His illusion had worn off. If Father Pine and the Cardinal saw him too then--Ira blinked. Where had he gone? He craned his neck left, and then back right. Where was the Prince? He'd just been there--filling up the doorway. Ira had been sure of it.

"Kid!" Father Pine called, rushing in through the opened--empty--entrance. He grabbed Ira by his arms and hauled him to his feet, stooping to brush Ira's black pants off with his hands. "Angels, kid! Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Ira muttered. He shook his head, forced an awkward smile into residency across his face, and laughed to flush out the unpleasant feeling of his own nervousness. "Angels, I'm good. That was pretty embarrassing, right?"

Father Pine sighed, dragging Ira into a forced embrace. Ira wriggled, trying to knock loose Father Pine's hold--but it remained impossible. "Father, I'm going to get dust all over you."

"I don't care." Father Pine dismissed. Ira relented, letting his body melt into the pleasant warmth offered in that cold basement. He lifted his arms, slowly bringing them back around Father Pine in return. From over his shoulder, he watched the Cardinal slip into the room after them. He turned left, walking along the walls of the room. Every few paces he paused to ignite a torch mounted on the rough rock surface. Slowly, light seeped into the cavern. Until finally there was enough to see the cavern clearly.

The room was round, chopped off from the rock in the same rough manner as the hall that had led them to it. Ira, once released from his father's hug, took to exploring a few timid steps at a time. There wasn't much to see but granite, shadows, dust--and a handful of evenly spaced pillars. Lined against the chipped gray walls were polished white marble podiums. Each was about chest height, topped off by mounted glass display boxes.

Ira stepped towards the nearest one, his every footstep coming with difficulty. He had the sense that he didn't belong in this place anymore than he belonged in the Cardinal's Court. Something akin to letting the pig into the butcher's kitchen and offering it a tour--it was wrong, and a little beyond terrifying. But animalistic fear was easily overpowered by curiosity.

He stepped up to face the stand, forcing his blue eyes down towards the dusty glass. He knew--even if he could not see it through the decades of debris--that there was something inside. He lifted his fingers, reaching towards the podium before his sensibilities could warn him off.

"Ira!" Father Pine called.

His hand froze, hovering mere centimeters from the surface of the glass. He turned, finding Father Pine easily in the dim. His glass lenses were filled with flickering orange lamp light, too much to see the dark blue eyes beneath.

"Don't," he warned, his voice trembling, "touch that."

"Why not?" Ira challenged. "Is it dangerous?"

"Yes-"

"No." The Cardinal interrupted sternly. The echo of his voice filled the cavern. "It's harmless."

Father Pine spun around on his heels, sputtering from behind his puffed red cheeks. "Absalom, do you know what that is?"

"I do." the Cardinal agreed easily. He crossed the cavern, passing by the still stammering ex-Priest with ease. The Cardinal's presence was stone heavy, filling up the space he took at Ira's side with a cold draft. "Do you want to see it?"

Ira flinched. His gaze, which he had been so excellently training to avoid any red robed figures, flicked instantly up towards the face of the Cardinal. Their eyes met there, hovering in the space over the display case. Gray on blue--the perfect image of a storming sea.

"I do." Ira admitted softly. "But it-"

"It's harmless." The Cardinal swore. "I wouldn't lie to," he coughed and turned his face away, "I wouldn't lie to you for something so petty."

Ira liked to think of himself as something of an adult. He was twenty, he'd fought in battles, he'd gained scars that would last the rest of his rotten existence--but none of those things mattered. He still turned to Father Pine, his shoulders slumped and his neck bowed. Father Pine sighed, heavy enough to stir the dust inside the cavern, and waved his hands dismissively.

"Very well," The Cardinal nodded. He reached down to his leg and grasped a fistfull of his own red robes. Before Father Pine could scold him again, he struck. He pressed the ceremonial ruby fabric to the dirty glass and scrubbed at it until a small window appeared on the face of the case. The inches of dust collected there rolled themselves into clumps and fell to the stone floor.

"Absalom!" Father Pine said, making it somehow sound remarkably like a curse.

"Go on," the Cardinal invited, plainly ignoring Father Pine. "Look."

Ira bent down, leaning forward to peer into the box. He drew up his eyebrows into fitful curiosity. The inside of the case was lined with a material Ira would dare to call velvet--although aged with time. The rough black carpet cushioned a small pedestal within the cube. On that carved cedar stage, a dagger had been laid. The entire weapon, from hilt to the blade, was gold. Or, sort of. What was left anyway. The blade had been snapped in half, leaving the rest of the dagger up to Ira's imagination.

"What is that?" Ira asked.

"That is Lilith's Athame." The Cardinal answered.

"Oh, right, of course. . . Lilith's At-Atha-may?" Ira muttered, wondering what correct combination of words he needed to finally get all the answers.

The Cardinal, apparently taking pity on him, decided to say more. "Jethro says it's dangerous. It was--once upon a time. This blade took many lives. It had been cursed, so that any who possessed it would kill with it."

Ira took a step back from the box. "And now you have it? Why would you do that?"

The Cardinal's fingers pressed against the cleared circle of glass, as if he wished to reach in. "As I said. Once upon a time. The blade was snapped, freeing the curse."

"But not before claiming a final victim." Father Pine reminded, his voice much darker than Ira had ever heard it.

"Well," the Cardinal shrugged, "suffice it to say this vault is not full of happy memories."

"A vault?" Ira repeated, perking up at the first true hint at anything. "The Vestige is here?"

"Among many other tragedies." The Cardinal agreed. "Come on."

He turned on his heels and moved further into the carved cave. Ira tossed one final glance at the creepy golden knife before jogging after the ruby-red figure. The three of them moved impossibly further into the main hall, until it narrowed and branched down into yet another tunnel. The Cardinal led Ira down, and down, and down. For so long he began to worry that they would run out of oxygen in the shaft. Sweat prickled against the nape of his neck, his breath fogged in the muggy air ahead of them.

"How much longer?" Ira asked, trying with great difficulty to keep the whine from his tone. He had half a mind to worry if the Prince still followed them.

"Not much-" the Cardinal clicked his tongue, "and we're here."

"Thank the angels." Father Pine muttered.

The routine was familiar. The Cardinal fished a new key from the chain around his throat and fixed it into the wall ahead of them. The lock clicked--but instead of proceeding, the Cardinal gestured with one flattened palm. Ira groaned, slipped up into position, and forced the heavy granite slab inward. This time, however, he managed to maintain a steady center of gravity.

The rock rolled backwards into the room beyond, filling Ira with the incredibly eerie sense that he was stepping into a tomb. Which was not immediately disproven by the state of the space he'd unveiled. The walls, floors, and ceiling had been smoothed down to form a seamless stone box. It was wider than it was deep, with two glass cases positioned at the leftmost and rightmost walls. The cases luckily stood upright. If they had been laid flat, the coffin visage would have been too undeniable to allow Ira to walk fearlessly into the dark.

The Cardinal entered first, flushing the chamber with flickering yellow lamp light. Ira followed, tiptoeing as gently as he could as to not disturb the dust lingering along the floor. Father Pine hesitated at the doorway for a single moment before reluctantly slipping into the alcove behind them.

The Cardinal crossed the room to the right wall. Ira's heart thumped painfully heavy behind his ribs. He knew what waited for him there, held in glass. He'd come all this way for it--and yet he couldn't bring himself to look.

"The Vestige." The Cardinal announced.

Ira's breath hitched in his throat, sticking to the walls there. He squeezed his eyes shut--praying that when they opened it would be gone.

"Does it frighten you?" The Cardinal asked, his voice the only noise louder than Ira's racing pulse.

"Y-yes." Ira whispered. "I'm scared."

"Of the sword? Of the dark?" The Cardinal asked.

Ira forced a tight-lipped laugh from his constricted airways. "Of the sword. . . and of what it means once I accept it."

"I see." The Cardinal nodded. "Well, you're right. Once you take this sword, there will be nothing stopping you from what comes next. It's entirely likely that this moment here will be the last we see of each other for quite some time."

Ira knew that what he was saying was true. Maybe it was comforting, in some sick way, to think that he'd be free from the consequences carried in on the impending sunrise. It was that thought that forced his venom-laced tongue into motion. "Do you really think you'll see me again?"

"Ira!" Father Pine snapped, he rushed forward towards the pair of them halted in front of the glass case. His palm settled against Ira's shoulder, squeezing it as tightly as he could without snapping the boy's tendons. "Don't you dare speak like that!"

The Cardinal arched one dark eyebrow over his gray eye and tilted his head in confusion. "Isn't it obvious? I wouldn't have granted you my position if I didn't foresee you taking it from me. But you shouldn't speak that way in front of your poor fragile father."

Ira scoffed, shaking his golden-haired head. "Fine, let me rephrase: do you really want to see me again? If I return it'll be as the Cardinal. You'll be just an Archbishop, the other Cardinals will go after you for this."

The Cardinal tilted his head, rubbing his chin in thoughtful contemplation. "That does seem incredibly likely."

"So why?" Ira snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration.

The Cardinal laughed--a sound that halted Father Pine's rapid scolding and froze Ira's anger to the inside of his ribs.

"What?" Ira demanded. "What's so funny?"

"You." The Cardinal answered. "Jethro always insisted to me that you could have such a wicked temper, but I had never truly believed him until now. You always seemed so weak to me--until the moment when I realized it all."

Ira drew his eyebrows down into confusion. The impulse to blow at least a couple of his fuses rose up but he quickly shoved it aside in favor of picking for answers. "Realized what?"

"The angels were right." He answered. "You'll be the one to save us."

"The angels?" Ira sputtered. "The Vestige was a trick! It's not mine! Maybe Salamis Cedar was right. Maybe I ruined it."

"The Vestige is just a sword, Ira Rule. Any soldier could sling a blade. The real gift is turning people into weapons--bending them to your bidding. Now that's the true ability." The Cardinal said.

Ira shuddered. "That sounds. . . awful."

"Maybe." The Cardinal agreed readily. "When does the price of the sacrifice outweigh the prize? How many knights were slaughtered last summer--because you led them against Legion?"

"I-I had no choice! Legion would have-"

"Destroyed us." The Cardinal finished. "So you made the call to cull the few for the sake of the many."

"I. . . " Ira stammered. He bowed his head and pressed his palms to his ears to block out the sounds of the rain, the waves, the screams, and the blade on blades--the blades on flesh. "I just wanted to save us."

"I know, Ira." The Cardinal murmured. "And that's why this blood stained robe has to be yours--because you would do what many others can not."

"Push people to their deaths?"

"Led them to it." The Cardinal corrected, though Ira couldn't see much of a difference. "You think my choice to force your Ascension is because I don't believe in you? It's the opposite, Ira Rule. I know you will come back to us someday, but I fear it won't be to a crowd ready to accept you. I can not protect you. Only you can protect yourself. Use this robe, make it your shield."

"Will the Progeny ever forgive me?" Ira whispered.

"I don't know." The Cardinal leaned forward, clicking open the glass case in front of them. "Now, take your Vestige."

Ira lifted his head, forcing his eyes to swallow the sight of the longsword. His stomach rolled, pitching forward with sick. It was exactly as he remembered it. As it had been that night, washed in rain, moonlight, and blood. His blood.

The weapon had been forged in Hell--or carved. It didn't seem like any molded metal. It had been chipped out of black volcanic glass, creating a four-foot long blade of jagged edges and pitched and uneven surfaces. The handle itself was glass, too, but wrapped in some sickening version of leather. Something that reminded Ira too much of the Beast corpses he'd been tracking in the Catskills. Etched into the gray flesh were scorch marks from the first pig to burn to ash.

His sight flickered to the tip--where Melchior had been skewered through. With trembling fingers, Ira reached for the weapon. He wrapped it under his grip. The sword came out of the case with remarkable ease. It was cold beneath his fingers, there was no hum, no light, no recognition. The weight of it was entirely physical, a painful reminder that it was nothing but glass.

"Is there really still power in this?" He asked to the empty space beside him. A pitch of air that smelled slightly of chilled ice. There was no answer. And Ira thought that it would be better that way.

"One more thing, Ira Rule." The Cardinal announced. He turned sharply, forcing the red fabric of his cloak to swing out and consume a large patch of dusty gray floor, before cutting directly across the annex to the opposite wall. Ira hesitated for a moment, staring down at the black glass sword in his hands, before following slowly behind.

Ira had to admit that he had been curious as to what was so precious they stored it in an identical glass box across from the holy Vestige. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out. If the vestibule had been stuffed with cursed murder knives--maybe they had a taxidermied angel in the basement. Still, he settled up to the foot of the second vitrine.

His heart ka-thunked against the inside of his ribs. "What is that?"

Although easily identifiable, Ira had never seen anything quite like it. Laying cushioned on a bed of black velvet, as content as a sleeping child, was a weapon. A length of perfectly polished steel, about two feet long and six inches wide. The blade was strange, warped. As if it had been melted and frozen over, and over, and over, until a crooked spine had been born. The sword reminded Ira of the body of a great writhing serpent, one posed just before the venom-laced strike. The hilt was curled, thick. Resembling one spare talon. Ira couldn't imagine that it was an easy sword to wield.

"This is a kris." The Cardinal answered--without, of course, answering.

"This is Chris?" Ira repeated. "Do. . . I say hi, or?"

The Cardinal chuckled, a sound that raised red up into Ira's cheeks. "A kris, Ira. It's the name of the blade's family, not of the blade itself. The Progeny never learned the name of this weapon."

"Wait," Ira stammered, holding his palms up in bleak surrender. "A kris? Aren't those. . . daggers? This thing is-"

"As extravagant as its master." The Cardinal chuckled. "They say weapons take after their owners."

"The owner?" Ira shivered. "Don't tell me this is another from Lilith's cutlery collection?"

"Different demon." The Cardinal shrugged. "Do you know why this Sect, the one charged with controlling the Third Prince, has taken the patron Saint Francis?"

Ira thought of something the Third Prince had said once: I never met Francis.

"No." He admitted.

"When demons first came to our world, followed closely by their Princes, it was angels who offered us a way out. They rallied us, created the Vestiges, taught us how to hunt demons. They created the Progeny. And in turn, we created the Sects. The Princes had split up, spreading far and wide across the land. In an attempt to stop them all in one--the Progeny's army was split accordingly. It was the General Francis who led his battalion in search of the Third Prince." The Cardinal clicked open the lock on the glass case, his fingers hovering there a few moments longer as he spoke. "He never found him."

Ira's jaw flinched, his eyes widened. "Wh-what?"

The Cardinal turned to him, nodding at his confusion. "The Prince had long left the war. He'd found. . . something else. A reason to abandon humans and our silly squabbles."

Ira's heart hammered up against his ribs. He'd found me, Ira realized. He was suddenly terrified that the Cardinal would say more--that he would unknowingly betray Ira's very identity to the concealed Prince lurking in the vault with them.

"Wa-wait!" Ira choked.

"And we found this." The Cardinal interrupted. "The Prince had left it behind, parting with his last weapon as a symbol of his surrender."

Ira's relief was quickly washed away by his renewed shock. "This sword belongs to-"

"Beelzebub." The Cardinal finished.

Ira had the sudden, very clear notion, that he had messed up in an entirely irreversible manner. He wanted to drop the Vestige and press his palms to his ears to drown out the buzzing in his skull. He'd brought the Prince into this secret place--accidentally revealing to him the location of his confiscated kris. What would stop him now from decking all three of them and stealing it? The plan? The deal? They had none--Ira hadn't been able to get the Cardinal's agreement. He had no guarantee of safety for the He-Goats. He had no way to remind the Prince of his loyalty without revealing himself, an action that could have even greater untold consequences.

"Why would you show this to me?" Ira whispered.

The Cardinal shrugged, lifting up his red robe from his effort. "To satisfy my own curiosity, I suppose."

"About?" Ira croaked.

The Cardinal smiled. He let his eyes drift slowly shut and tilted his head back towards the dusty gray roof of the alcove. "I'm just wondering when you're going to take it, Beelzebub."

Ira's heart shuddered to an alarmed halt in his chest. "H-how do you--I mean what are you-"

"Brothers," the Prince interrupted. He melded out from the shadows to the left of the display case, slowly stitching back into a creature of skin and cloth. His golden eyes reflected the lantern's light, playing out the full dance of their flicker into his black pupils. "You're good."

"Angels!" Father Pine yelped. He stepped forward, wrapping his hand around Ira's shoulder defensively. "How long has he been there?"

"The whole time, Jethro." The Cardinal laughed. He shook his head and exhaled, a strong enough breeze to disrupt the thin layer of dust coating the vitrine.

"What gave me away?" The Prince asked, forcing his lips up into a playful pout.

The Cardinal looked at Ira and gripped his other shoulder, squeezing it softly. "This one. Ira Rule isn't someone who gives up, even when facing the end of the world. I knew he would do anything to get the Vestige."

"You seem to believe in him." The Prince shrugged. He stepped forward, standing over the vitrine case and the curved blade inside. His fingers danced along the glass surface, painting into the dust the scene of terrible longing. "Don't be too disappointed when we all end up dead."

"And what about you, Third Prince? What do you get out of it--if not faith?" The Cardinal asked.

"I'm going on a little trip." He shrugged. "While I'm away, no one hurts my He-Goats. If you can promise me this, Absalom Edom, then I will take Ira Rule to Hell. I will help him find the Vestige wielder, and I will personally hold down my brother as they cut his throat."

Ira's pulse rocketed up into his throat, hammering there with fitful uncertainty. He couldn't shake the idea that the Prince he was looking at now was discolored. Different. As if seen by different lenses. He turned, glancing at Absalom with a cocky smirk painted across his white fangs. And then it clicked, all sliding into place in sudden crystal clarity. This wasn't Ira's Prince--this was the Cardinal's. He had picked a new target to mold himself to, fitting as well as putty into the Cardinal's vision of him.

The Cardinal nodded. "Done."

"Perfect." The Prince purred. "And I'll be taking my sword."