“You weren’t supposed to see that memorandum,” comes the harsh whisper, the words moving like glass underfoot [ dangerous, deliberate, & sharp, ] Lute is not standing at attention this time; her body is angled, intercepting him before he can cross the sanctified corridor fully. There’s still blood on her tabard from the unauthorized cleaving of an unregistered Exorcist, one who was sticking her nose where it didn’t fucking belong. Her breath is shallow & yet, her hands do not tremble, “I fulfilled my directive. What Sera failed to mention is that the diplomats from Greed requested you by name; not Archangel Michael, not The Speaker; just you. Now, there’s silence from Heaven’s end, like we’re pretending it never happened.” Her eyes lift [ finally ] — a warning: “If Greed is invoking your name in closed diplomatic channels, not as title, but as currency, then someone in Heaven gave them permission. Either you authorized it, or someone above our clearance is playing politics with your legacy.” [ Silence weighs like a verdict, ] “I took the body off-record; buried it beneath the northern vault. They’ll think it self-immolated; you have three days before Sera notices the breach…” She steps back but her voice turns scalpel-clean, “I wasn’t made to navigate treason. But if this is a game you started, I refuse to be a pawn.” [ of course, they both know this is an outright lie; Lute would always follow Adam, ] / take this random blurb; what's going on? I literally have no idea... <3
⅋. THE GILDED CORRIDORS OF HEAVEN'S INNER PALACE STRETCH INTO ETERNITY. One can go mad climbing stairwells and circling domed towers of the choirs for hours. endless spirals of sanctity, corniced with high columns reaching toward the skies. It all gleams with the might of heaven, a maze of holy halls. THE SHARP CUT OF HIS LIEUTENANT DOES NOT MOULD TO THE SHAPE OF HIS CHAMBERS. Beneath the dome which rises above, this architectural hollowed heart, a vast bowl of stone and light, the jagged edges of her are antithetical. His exorcists wear carnage like a second skin. They're brutal creatures, birds of prey built for war, and there is no absolution for monstrous things in a holy place. The remnant of violence staining Lute's uniform carnellian does not surprise him — he expects nothing less from her.
But as she stands at the threshold, a small flutter of judgment, her dictum stabs him with its admonition. The Commander's arms cross over his chest as he indulges her impromptu interrogation, composure at first tempered. ❛ Words from a demon’s mouth mean nothing. ❜ He scoffs, as if to dissuade her doubts. As if it were all part of some grand joke. They both know it isn’t. What he does in the Inferno is his private affair to keep — there is an understanding shared between the knight and the demon nobles. It is the etiquette of war, the treatise of politics; THAT THE REAL AGREEMENTS ARE MADE BENEATH THE TABLE. She does not back down, but neither does he. His tone is like glass left in a desert, collecting irritation as though it were heat. With a shrug, he pushes past her, stalking into his own quarters. ❛ The Rings know whose hand moves the sword when the decrees fall. It's simple. The Devil and all his court know it. Heaven knows it, too. ❜ Even if the wheels of bureaucracy would never recognise any of the dirty work done to oil its machinery. ❛ They just don't like acknowledging it. ❜
A KNIGHT IS A CUTOUT OF DUTY. His sword is pledged to St. Michael, and it speaks the language of bloodshed in God's name. In this, Adam has never faltered. Wing dipped in blood, he has never doubted any order or command thrown at him. EVERYTHING HE DOES, HE DOES IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN. It is not sin, he's convinced himself as he shakes hands with an Overlord. It is duty, he tells himself as he drafts terms with informants from across Inferno. It is simply necessary. ❛ Is that what you think this is? Well, fuck me. Maybe they would call it treason, but the High Council calls anything treason that doesn’t bend to their will. ( Commander stalks forth, grasping her jaw in one gloved hand; not hard, just reprimanding. ) Tell me, Lute — when did ledger-keepers last cleanse a pit of Hellspawn with their own fucking hands? ❜
She looks to him. Their eyes meet. Frustration crawls across his ribs, his essence, a caged monster wrought of centuries of service. ❛ We’re the ones getting down and dirty, gutting demons in the dark. Heaven sure does love its victories, but they can't stomach the stench of them. ❜ It is not an admission. She won't win that from him, not yet. It's a dangerous territory they venture into. What he asks of her goes beyond the purpose she was designed for, and for a flicker of a second, Adam's not quite sure her loyalty to him can withstand the erosion of his own values.
Irritation swells with the thought, then dissipates like smoke. His grip tightens where it cups her jaw, then releases. ❛ Don't presume to lecture me again. I know what I'm doing. ❜
