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Chapter Text

The hush that settled over the Circus of the Damned felt almost anticipatory, as if even the shadows themselves held their breath. Hadrian, leaning back comfortably in his seat among the audience, surveyed the stage with a bemused tilt of his head. Halloween’s Eve had brought out quite the crowd, each face eager, each murmur tinged with excitement and the gleeful oblivion of those who’d come seeking thrills. He adjusted his position, stretching his legs out with a casual grace, a box of popcorn held balanced on his lap with one hand, and a bottle of neon-orange soda in the other.

As the lights overhead dimmed, casting elongated shadows that reached out like clawed fingers across the sea of faces, Hadrian took a slow sip of his bright orange soda, savoring the fizz that seemed to linger in his mouth with an acidic tang. The Circus, usually pulsing with its own kind of sinister vitality, felt heightened tonight—alive in a way that almost felt like it could reach out and swallow the whole city. He glanced around at the other audience members. They were a mix of thrill-seekers and regulars, eager for a spectacle, blissfully unaware that the “show” this evening was more than an act.

Jean-Claude had certainly outdone himself with the arrangement. The so-called "battle for the city" was laid out like a show—a performance of light and dark, staged in the grand, gothic grotesque of the Circus. Hadrian had been briefed about Oliver’s plan to take over as Master of the City, but frankly, he couldn’t be bothered to take the whole charade seriously. There was something deliciously ironic, he mused, in seating himself among the revelers—just another face in the crowd, ostensibly, although no doubt one with far better understanding with what went behind the scenes.

It was all precisely as Jean-Claude had planned. There would be a physical skirmish on stage, minions against minions, tooth and claw. Meanwhile, the deciding fight among both side's leaders—the battle of will and dominance between Jean-Claude and Oliver—would unfold like a silent war in the undercurrents of vampiric power, a duel woven into every glance, every subtle gesture. For Hadrian, who always found politicking an exhausting affair, this more straightforward melee of teeth, claws, guns and knives promised to be much more entertaining.

Beside him, Richard shifted uneasily in his seat. Hadrian could practically feel the werewolf’s muscles coiled and ready to spring. Richard’s gaze was locked on the stage as if he could will this whole ordeal to end already by sheer force of tension alone. A fleeting smile flickered across Hadrian’s face as he took in the man’s discomfort.

"Richard, really," he murmured, tipping his popcorn box toward the werewolf in a friendly offer to share. "You’re going to exhaust yourself before the show even begins if you keep winding yourself tighter than a clock. It’s not even midnight."

Richard looked like a man gearing up for the apocalypse, every muscle tensed and eyes wary. When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from the as yet curtained stage to glance over, his frown deepened as he saw Hadrian’s casual slouch. Just the way he stared at the popcorn offered to him, it was as if he had never seen the snack before. “We’re about to face one of the oldest vampires alive, and you’re acting like this is just a night at the movies,” he said, voice low, weighted with a kind of stoic reproach that Hadrian found endlessly amusing.

Hadrian blinked in feigned grievance. "It’s a Halloween performance, isn’t it? I’m in character. Also, no need to be so testy, if you have something against popcorn then just say so.” He took another sip of his soda to wash down a handful of said popcorn, tapping his fingers on the armrest in rhythm with the ominous background music now filtering through the speakers, completely ignoring Richard's throbbing forehead vein. “Besides, Jean-Claude has everything planned to the finest detail. Mr. Oliver, however ancient he may be, is walking into our theater now. Or don't you trust your master?”

Richard’s jaw tensed. There were few people who could make the mild-mannered werewolf lose his cool. As a junior high school teacher, he had a lot of experience dealing with hormonal brats, but Hadrian had a knack for needling every person to cross his path, carelessly setting off landmines here and there—whether out of childish insensitivity or simply to see what reaction he would invoke. Yet, for some reason it was hard to truly dislike him.

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but a sudden burst of applause rippled through the tent, drawing their attention back to the stage. There, bathed in soft light and exuding his usual aura of inhuman elegance, was Jean-Claude. He looked every bit the master of his domain, his movements languid, his expression cool and inscrutable while wolves paced at his feet. A little ways behind his throne, Anita and Edward stood draped in shadows like a set of stone sentries, each brimming with their own barely-contained energy. Anita's gaze swept across the crowd, her eyes finally settling on Hadrian with a sharp flicker of irritation, as if she could sense his lack of concern.

"Is she glaring at me?" Hadrian asked Richard, keeping his voice hushed in polite theater decorum. He tipped his bottle of obnoxious neon orange soda toward her in an amused salute. "Blimey, I didn’t realize I’d already offended her without even trying."

Richard’s mouth twitched, nearly blurting out, you can offend everyone without even trying . "She’s not exactly thrilled that you’re treating this as a… performance."

Hadrian laughed lowly. "But it is a performance. You guys are just too serious. Still, no need to worry—I wouldn’t dream of slacking off tonight, if only for the sake of the excitement I haven't had for so long." He looked back at the stage, swirling the soda in its bottle like one would a glass of wine.

As the background music sharply cut off, Jean-Claude stood in one boneless movement, signaling the start of the performance. He swept his hat off and gave a low, sweeping bow. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an evening of unparalleled entertainment." He began to move slowly down the steps of the throne dais, the spotlight moving along with him. He kept the hat off, using it for emphasis in his hand as his voice, smooth as velvet and filled with a sinister allure, continued to drift over the crowd. “Tonight, you will witness something few have ever seen—a contest of wills, a battle for control that will decide the fate of this city."

A ripple of surprise passed through the audience. Some of the more attuned patrons shifted in their seats, sensing the gravity hidden beneath Jean-Claude’s words. Hadrian merely lifted his soda in silent toast for his vampire's flair.

Jean-Claude stopped halfway down the stairs, and the light spread wider to include two blond vampires that suddenly seemed to appear flanking him. The two women were dressed as 1920s flappers, one in blue, the other in red. The women flashed fangs, and there were gasps from the audience. "Tonight you will see vampires, werewolves, gods, devils." Every word spoken was enunciated with a dash of supernatural power. When he said "vampires," there was a ruffling at your neck. "Werewolves" slashed from the dark. "Gods" breathed along the skin. "Devils" was a hot wind that scalded your face.

The effect was immediate, gasps and stifled screams erupted from the audience.

"Some of what you see tonight will be real, some illusion; which is which will be for you to decide." "Illusion" echoed in the mind like a vision through glass, repeating over and over. The last sound died away with a whisper that sounded like a different word altogether. "Real," the voice whispered.  

"The monsters of this city fight for control of it this Halloween. If we win, then all goes peaceful as before. If our enemies win..." A second spotlight picked out the top of a second dais, upon which there was no throne, only Oliver standing with the lamia in full serpent glory. Oliver was dressed in a baggy white jumpsuit with large polka dots on it. His face was also painted white with a sad smile and a drop of sparkling tear under one eye. A tiny pointed hat with a bright blue pom-pom topped his head.

"If our enemies win, then tomorrow night will see a bloodbath such as no city in the world has ever seen. They will feed upon the flesh and blood of this city until it is drained dry and lifeless." Jean-Claude had stopped about halfway down. Now he began to come back up the stairs. 

"We fight for your lives, your very souls. Pray that we win, dear humans; pray very, very hard."  The Master of the City sat back on the throne, one hand stroking the head of a wolf sitting at his feet.

"And now," Jean-Claude finished, his voice thick with a dark promise, "please welcome the challenger, Mr. Oliver."

The ancient vampire took the center stage with a quiet, almost understated menace. His presence was a stark contrast to Jean-Claude’s charisma; he exuded raw, unyielding power despite his stature and clownish costume, like the weight of ancient stone. His movements were sparse, economical, and with every step, it was as though the shadows themselves recoiled in submission. The audience was silent, the weight of his gaze enough to smother any lingering whispers.

“Not as charming as Jean-Claude,” Hadrian remarked, his voice carrying an almost pleasant detachment. "But I see why you’re all so on edge."

Richard shot him a warning look. “This isn’t a joke, Hadrian. If we lose here—”

Hadrian raised a hand, cutting him off gently. “Richard, please. Relax,” he continued with a sardonic tilt of his head, “if anyone should be worried, it’s Mr. Oliver. Jean-Claude isn’t so easily unseated, and tonight…” He leaned back, a glimmer of anticipation flaring in his eyes. “Well, tonight promises a spectacle, doesn’t it?”

On the stage, Oliver began his monologue. 

"Death comes to all humans," Oliver said. "You will all die someday. In some small accident, or long disease. Pain and agony await you." The audience rustled uneasily in their seats. Soon, gasps, screams, cries filled the dark as Oliver's words sought out each person and made them feel their mortality, reminding them how very fragile life was.  

"But if you must die, would it not be better to die in our glorious embrace?" The lamia crawled around the dais to show herself to all the audience. "She could take you, oh, so sweetly, soft, gentle into that dark night. We make death a celebration, a joyful passing. No lingering doubts. You will want her hands upon you in the end. She will show you joys that few mortals ever dream of. Is death such a high price to pay, when you will die anyway? Wouldn't it be better to die with our lips upon your skin than by time's slowly ticking clock?"

"I offer you all your darkest dreams come true in our arms, my friends. Come to us now." The darkness rustled with movement. The lights came up, and there were people coming out of the seats. People climbing over the railing. People coming to embrace death.

Also in the audience, Hadrian paused with a hand rummaging in the box of popcorn. And as if speaking to himself, he sighed, “I kind of like this guy. A pity.”

Richard was too preoccupied, waiting for the theatrics to end and the battle to truly begin, to respond to the exasperating guy next to him.

On the stage, Anita watched Oliver with barely disguised disdain, her hand resting on her gun, her entire body coiled with tension. In contrast, Jean-Claude looked out over the crowd, his smile cold, calculated. The spotlight returned to him once again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we will give you a few moments to recover yourselves from the first magic of the evening. Then we will show you some of our secrets."  

The crowd settled back into their seats and a hush fell over the audience once again.

"Vampires are able to call animals to their aid. My animal is the wolf." Jean-Claude walked around the top of the dais displaying the wolves. "But I can also call the wolf's human cousin. The werewolf." He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm. Music began. Soft and low at first, then rising in a shimmering crescendo.

A man and a woman walked away from the dais and closer to the audience, dropping onto their knees as their face twisted in pain, bones and muscle shifted and skin began to ripple into fur—culminating in two eerie howls that echoed through the tent.

The audience applauded wildly, stamping and shouting. Hadrian also joined in, popcorn and soda nearly forgotten.

"I have nothing so showy to offer you." The lights were back on Oliver. "The snake is my creature." The lamia twined around him, hissing loud enough to carry to the audience. She flicked a forked tongue to lick his white-coated ear.  He motioned to the foot of the dais. Two black-cloaked figures stood on either side, hoods hiding their faces. "These are my creatures, but let us keep them for a surprise." Oliver looked over at Jean-Claude with a glint in his eyes.

"Then shall we begin?" Jean-Claude’s voice carried a dark invitation, his eyes fixed on Oliver with an intensity that made even the air seem to pause.

Oliver inclined his head, an ancient, serpentine movement that conveyed both acknowledgment and a certain unspoken threat. “By all means,” he said, his voice a whisper of stone grinding against stone.

The audience shifted, a collective inhale as the two vampires faced each other. The energy in the tent turned electric, a silent battle of wills that began with nothing more than a shared gaze. They hadn’t moved, yet it was clear to Hadrian—and anyone with a keen eye—that the fight was already underway, layers of power curling around them like an invisible miasma.

Green eyes watched the show unfolding with unwavering attention. He could feel the weight of their energies, a clash of centuries-old authority that pressed against his own senses. He pushed his gold rimmed spectacles up the bridge of his nose absentmindedly, letting the tension wash over him like a pleasant breeze.

And then, almost as if on cue, Oliver’s entourage emerged, filing onto the stage, expressions ranging from contempt to savage anticipation. Alejandro, Melanie, and Karl Inger each held a distinct aura, a motley crew of lethal intent. They looked every inch the servants of an ancient vampire, chosen for their brutality and loyalty. Meanwhile, Jean-Claude’s own allies responded in turn, each radiating their own distinct flavor of danger—Anita, a coiled spring of tension; Richard, a quiet, simmering rage; and Edward, a deadly calm that was almost chilling in its precision.

Hadrian’s gaze drifted over them all with idle curiosity, as though he were mentally evaluating each player’s worth. It was, after all, his job to keep an eye on the proceedings and step in when needed.

The first clash was as swift as it was brutal with the cloaked figures on Oliver's side rushing over first. Anita and Edward moved with a speed and precision that bordered on deadly elegance, meeting the cloaked cobra-headed figures with an almost casual brutality. Likewise, Richard and the werewolves took their place against Alejandro’s pack of vampires, their expressions locked in grim determination. And lastly, Yasmeen and Alejandro faced off in a struggle between master vampires.

Hadrian watched it all unfold, idly popping another piece of popcorn into his mouth as the stage became a symphony of chaos and violence. The lights caught each movement, each clash of fang and claw, casting it in a strange, almost surreal beauty. Blood splattered across the floor, but the audience seemed entranced, caught between horror and fascination and maybe under a little bit of vampire thrall, their cheers and gasps mingling into a frenzied roar.

“What a show,” Hadrian murmured, to no one in particular.

Jean-Claude, meanwhile, had stepped into his own battle with Oliver, their powers colliding in a silent clash that rippled through the air, almost palpable to anyone with a modicum of magical sensitivity. Hadrian could feel it pressing against him like a wave, the force of two ancient wills locked in combat.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Anita take a hit—a vicious blow that sent her staggering back, blood trickling down her face. She wiped it away with a snarl, and Hadrian almost admired her resolve, even if her stubbornness often veered into recklessness.

“Ooh, careful there, darling,” he made a commiserating moue of pain, though he knew she couldn’t hear him. 

The fight continued, the stage a chaotic mess of violence and raw power. But Hadrian’s attention drifted back to Jean-Claude and Oliver, their battle of vampiric will reaching a fever pitch. He could see the strain etched across Jean-Claude’s face, a slight furrow of concentration, though he maintained his composure with admirable grace.

A slow smile crept across Hadrian’s face as he watched the two vampires, as though he were privy to some unspoken secret. He leaned back, crossing his legs after putting down his now empty box of popcorn and soda bottle. Whatever the outcome, he knew one thing for certain: the city’s fate was less about this battle and more about the choices that would follow.

It was, after all, a game—and in games, the players often forgot that the true power rested not in brute strength, but in those who controlled the board.

The chaos onstage had reached a climax. Bodies lay strewn across the floor like broken puppets—some vampires, some lycanthropes, some caught mid-transformation, twisted in frozen agony. Hadrian continued watching with a cool, detached gaze, his fingers tapping idly on the armrest of his chair. Edward was moving through the cobra-headed figures with cold precision, each shot placed with surgical intent, leaving nothing but silence and blood splatters in his wake.

At the same time Alejandro overpowered Yasmeen, a quick, brutal arc of violence that ended with her throat torn open, her lifeblood pouring out as her body fell to the ground. Marguerite's anguished wail rose above the din, raw and primal, a sound that cut through even the thickest fog of battle. She sank to her knees beside Yasmeen’s body, her trembling hands rising to her face. And, with a sickening, tearing sound, she gouged out her own eyes, each act of mutilation echoing through the stunned silence that followed.

In the seats, Hadrian raised a brow, unexpectedly startled, watching as Marguerite staggered back, now a sightless shell of grief. Her fingers were slick with blood, and she stumbled, disoriented, her gaze empty and hollow. The sight of her sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. A few of the braver souls shifted uncomfortably, as if realizing that perhaps this wasn’t quite the performance they had anticipated.

Yet it was Anita who now drew Hadrian’s full attention. Alejandro had crossed to her, his gaze burning with possessive hunger. He was marking her, the ancient ritual binding her fully as his human servant, claiming her irrevocably. Blood ran from her throat, smeared across her lips, as she was forced to drink his blood in turn, the act sealing their connection with a dark intimacy that left no question of who held dominion.

And then, with a final flicker of energy, Oliver shattered Jean-Claude’s concentration. The Master of St. Louis faltered, his power buckling under the weight of Oliver’s relentless assault. With a sneer of triumph, Oliver restrained him, locking Jean-Claude in a shimmering cage of raw, inescapable magic. Jean-Claude’s face became a stoic mask, his midnight blue eyes blazing as he attempted to shatter the cage, but the binds held.

Satisfied, Oliver turned slowly, his gaze landing on Hadrian with a cold, imperious calculation.

"Ah, the sorcerer," Oliver’s voice was low, dripping with dark satisfaction. “I had wondered whether the legends were real. But now here you are, playing the part of spectator while the rest of us contend for survival.”

Hadrian moved his gaze away from Jean-Claude and tilted his head curiously, regarding Oliver with a faint smile. "I find it’s often more illuminating to observe," he replied, voice smooth, measured. He didn't seem at all surprised that the other had picked him out from the crowd. "And yet, I’m curious—what is it, precisely, that you want from me?”

Oliver’s smile widened, though it held no warmth. “You know what I want.” His hand rose, pointing toward Jean-Claude, who now stood still in his restraints, composed even as he fought for breath. Blazing blue eyes were focused on Hadrian as if he was the only one important in this exchange. “Stake him. You of all people have the ability to override the power of the amulet.”

Hadrian tapped a slender finger against the side of his forehead, feigning ignorance. “And what exactly gives you that impression?”

Oliver’s eyes glittered, dark and calculating. “The Harlequin has kept records. Vague accounts that are more stories than facts, but your work—the amulet, the protections woven into Jean-Claude’s very essence—those tell the truth. You are Raziel, the immortal sorcerer, the Angel of Secrets who gave the Dark Mother her powers, the one who taught her the necromancies that turned her from mortal to… something else.”

The crowd had fallen deathly silent, the air taut with shock and anticipation. All but Jean-Claude, his gaze never removing itself from the youthful figure standing offstage, midnight blues seeming to blaze even brighter with an ingrained and ever more blatant obsession.

Hadrian smiled faintly, bemused at the sudden turn of events. "Raziel? Well, that’s a name I haven’t heard in quite some time."

Alejandro, who had moved to Hadrian’s side, inclined his head in deference. “Through the Harlequin, the Council knows of your… contributions, Raziel. We know what you taught the Dark Mother when she was still a mortal, the knowledge you imparted that allowed her to transcend death itself.”

Hadrian’s intrigued smile deepened. He rose slowly, deliberately, brushing nonexistent popcorn crumbs from his coat before he met Alejandro’s gaze. "And yet here I am, in St. Louis, rather than assassinated by the Harlequin or even locked away in some Council cell. Surely that must tell you something, Alejandro?"

A flicker of doubt crossed Alejandro’s face, but Oliver interjected, his voice hard, unyielding. “You are no friend to any of us, Raziel. Your allegiance lies only with yourself, and that makes you dangerous. Stake Jean-Claude, or I will ensure you regret your defiance.”

For the first time that night, Hadrian’s smile faded, a glint of something cold and Other flashing within those hard emeralds. He took a step forward, his gaze locked on Oliver’s, voice dropping to a deadly softness. “I’ve lived a tediously long time, Mr. Oliver. I’ve seen kingdoms rise and fall, watched whole worlds crumble to dust. And in all that time, no one has dared to give me orders.”

A ripple of power flickered around him, subtle yet undeniable, and a murmur of unease spread through the crowd. The charm, the easygoing elegance that usually marked Hadrian’s demeanor, had fallen away, revealing a glimpse of something far more dark and unfathomable—a being so eternal that concepts of death and time ceased to exist.

Oliver held his ground, though his expression tightened with a sliver of apprehension. "You might be immortal, Raziel," he said, voice steady, though it lacked its former arrogance, "but even immortals can be broken."

Hadrian let out a startled laugh. “Oh, you have no idea how broken I am. I'm afraid you're too late to the game, if that's your goal.” Then as if flipping a switch, his gaze sharpened into a devouring, carnivorous green, and without warning, he reached out, sinking his mind into Oliver’s with ruthless efficiency.

The connection was instantaneous, a mental invasion that tore through Oliver’s thoughts, memories, secrets—Hadrian was an intruder with no patience for subtlety, ripping through the vampire’s mind like a scalpel. He saw the Council’s records, the documents and ancient scrolls that detailed scattered eyewitness accounts, speculations and confirmations of the powers he possessed—all kept meticulously by the Harlequin. He saw these ancient vampires’ zealous search for his existence, their greed and hubris in thinking they could find and seize his secrets and powers for themselves. And underlying it all, a quiet fear.

But it was more than just fear—it was the fascination, the reverence, that came with the knowledge of something so powerful, something that should have been beyond reach yet lingered still, like a whisper of another dimension. Hadrian absorbed it all, piecing together fragments of his own legend as he tore through Oliver’s mind with clinical indifference.

Oliver gasped, his clown face twisting in horror and fury, yet he was powerless to break the connection. Hadrian’s grip was unyielding, prying deeper, unearthing every hidden fragment, every shadowed corner of the vampire’s psyche. And with every scrape of mental fingers, Oliver's personality was erased, crushed in the overwhelming invasion of his psyche.

And then, without warning, Oliver unleashed a surge of raw power. The ground beneath them trembled, a low, rumbling vibration that grew with frightening intensity. Hadrian felt it too late—an instinctive reflex from the vampire known as the Earthmover, a desperate attempt to shake him loose, to regain control.

The ground convulsed with brutal force, sending shockwaves through the Circus of the Damned. Cracks splintered outward from the center of the stage, the floor buckling and heaving as if the earth itself were rising up in protest. The audience screamed, panicked voices echoing, as metal beams creaked ominously overhead, dust and chips of plastic raining down like shards of a shattered sky. Vampires and lycanthropes alike scrambled for balance, instinct overtaking allegiance in the scramble for survival.

Hadrian released his hold, stepping back as Oliver staggered, his chest heaving, his gaze wild and unfocused. The vampire’s face was pale, his skin slick with sweat, yet he managed one last twisted, triumphant smile.

"Even you… cannot withstand the earth itself," Oliver rasped, his voice a harsh whisper.

Hadrian’s expression remained impassive. “The struggle of a pinned insect,” he observed, brushing a bit of dust from his shoulder with a look of mild distaste.

The ground continued to tremble, the metal beams groaning under the strain. All around them, people scrambled for safety, the panicked shouts and cries echoing through the chaos. The few who had remained seated, transfixed by the unfolding spectacle, now fled in terror, the reality of the situation sinking in with brutal clarity.

Through the swirling chaos, Alejandro’s gaze fell on Jean-Claude, standing still and seemingly unbothered against the binds of Oliver’s magic, which indeed began to waver as the owner's grasp on his own ego faded. His eyes, dark with greed and cunning, fixed on the amulet that glimmered faintly over Jean-Claude’s heart. It was a powerful artifact, a piece of Hadrian’s power that thrummed with a magic both seductive and immense—one Alejandro had craved for far too long.

In a single, reckless leap, Alejandro closed the distance, his hand snaking forward, fingers stretching toward the amulet. He could almost feel its power humming against his skin, so close he could taste the dark allure of its magic, the promise of dominion and control—

But his greed had blinded him.

Anita, bound and battered by her own bond to Alejandro, seized the moment. Her eyes burned with a mixture of defiance and desperation. Her heart pounded as she grabbed the white polished stake that had rolled across the stage to stop by her feet as if a sign from Fortuna. She had no time for second thoughts, no room for hesitation. In one swift, ruthless motion, she plunged the stake into Alejandro’s back where the heart was, driving it deep with all the force she could muster. His eyes flew wide, mouth opening in a silent scream as the stake pierced his heart.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

And then she brought her other hand down as well, gripping the hilt of a blade with iron determination. With a sharp, decisive swing, she sliced through his neck, severing his head in a swift arc. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, as Alejandro’s body crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.

As he fell, a strangled cry tore from Anita’s throat. She felt the violent snap of her own bond unraveling, the terrible emptiness rushing in to fill the void left by her “master”’s death. Her knees buckled, and she staggered, clutching at her chest as if to hold herself together. But she could feel it—her life slipping away, drawn into the darkness that had claimed Alejandro.

The world tilted, her vision dimming as the tented area seemed to stretch and warp around her. The earth continued to quake, the ground opening in gaping chasms that split the theater’s foundations, swallowing whole rows of seats, dragging the screaming audience into the dark depths below. Her last sight, blurred and fading, was the terrible beauty of destruction.

High above the ruins, through the dust and smoke, a figure hovered.

Wings stretched out, immense and otherworldly, silhouetted against the chaos and shadows that rose from the crumbling ground. Hadrian hovered amidst the chaos, his gaze serene, detached, as if he were an angel presiding over the end of days. His wings, dark as the void yet edged with an eerie, shimmering light, cast a haunting glow over the wreckage below, illuminating the scene in cold, spectral brilliance.

In her final moments, Anita’s fading gaze locked onto that sight—a figure of apocalyptic grace, a force beyond mortal comprehension, neither savior nor destroyer, but something vast, unyielding, and Other. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, or perhaps a curse, as the darkness closed in, her last breath slipping away with the image of Hadrian etched in her mind, a symbol of power and inevitability, hovering above the world she was leaving behind.