Chapter 394: The Watcher Descends

Smoke still hung low over the pitted landscape when the wind changed.

It was not the sudden shift of power that heralded the appearance of the celestial powers or the ebbing of Cain’s bloodline - it was something older, dryer. As if a long-forgotten desert still remembered rainfalls that had not touched its sands for millennia. The realization rippled through every combatant at once, weapons pausing in midair and wings stalling in their beat. Even the wounded fell silent in their agony.

Azazel stepped out of the shadows at the edge of the cratered battlefield.

He did not appear particularly remarkable at first, tall and dark-haired and dressed in a simple black outfit that did not match the ranks of Cain’s forces, but the weight of his gaze sent ripples of unease through the assembled troops. It sent cracks of old power skittering up Eamon’s artificially created sky, and dust rolling off the rocky ground to hang motionless around Azazel’s feet. The older vampires among Cain’s forces stiffened at the sight of him, their faces draining of blood, while a few of the most seasoned nephilim warriors reeled as if drunk.

Azrael was already moving before they could react further. The Angel of Death strode past the gathered combatants in three strides, his wings flaring out behind him in a slow, deliberate motion. He came to a halt ten paces away from the newcomer, taking in the man and the impossible circumstances of his appearance with an expression of stone.

"You were supposed to be dead," Azrael stated blandly. "Khaos killed you. I saw the power you bled on the battlefield."

Azazel merely chuckled, the sound foreign and misplaced on the lips of a man who was barely more than dust and ash. "Belief is a fickle thing," he replied, tilting his head to one side. "You were also told that I was the first to fall, and yet here I stand, wouldn’t you agree? I am rather surprised myself, given the circumstances."

The silence that followed was thick enough to crush, stretching out around the combatants who had not yet finished their paused movements. Cain halted, mid-step, blood still trickling down his fingers from his knuckles, while Seth’s silver blade remained suspended an inch away from Azazel’s throat. Mabel’s crimson energy flared and died, and Seraphina, leaning on her blade, went pale. It was not rage or even unease that rolled through the air - it was the realization of something far more insidious.

Azrael did not seem fazed in the slightest as he regarded the others. "The end is not a suggestion when it comes from the First. It is a certainty."

"Not when it comes from Khaos," Azazel chuckled, rolling his shoulders idly. "I awoke in the space between worlds. There was no judgment, no throne, no punishment, and certainly no death. It seems I was rather mistaken about the circumstances of my passing. It would seem waking up in the middle of a battlefield was the most I had to endure."

Azazel took another step forward, and this time it was Azrael who reacted. The Angel of Death’s wings flared out behind him as he loomed over the newcomer, his expression dark.

"You have no place here," Azrael growled. "This battlefield is not yours to fight in."

Azazel only laughed. "Is it not? Was it not loud enough for you to hear? Is it not obvious to you that something far bigger has happened, that your precious new God has been busy chaining his enemies to redemption and making wars between the children of men? You and Seraphina think you can drag it all back to the old ways, but everything changes, my dear Watcher spawn. Even you." He glanced briefly at Seraphina. "Even you who tried to drown a world in gold."

Seraphina pushed herself upright. "Watcher. You vanished when the flood came, and you have no right to dictate terms to us again."

"I have every right," Azazel replied coolly. He did not turn his gaze to Seraphina but kept it fixed on Azrael. "I taught men the art of weapons and vanity, the virtues of pride and power. I taught them what they knew before the flood, and some of them remembered it better than I ever expected." He fixed Azrael with a cold stare. "You may rule over the living, but you are still among the old ways, First Watcher, and it is my responsibility to ensure that humanity remembers."

"As are we," Cain growled. His voice was rough with restrained fury. "If Khaos killed you, then you should have stayed dead. We have enough problems without ghosts."

Azazel finally looked at Cain. For a moment, the First Murderer felt as if his very soul was being peeled back and examined under a magnifying glass. "Ghosts do not bleed, First Murderer." He gave a small, almost sad smile. "And I am not here to end your problems, although I do believe I am far from alone in that sentiment. I am here because the din of this particular war reached me in the in-between, and it tempted me to see it to its end. I am here because a God who was once the Devil is apparently finding ways to keep his spawn from tearing each other apart. I am here because the nephilim are standing in the same place as always, pretending that none of this has changed. And I am here, not for your sake, but for Seraphina’s." He tilted his head to take in the landscape, the broken remnants of the sky, the silent armies watching with wary gazes fixed on the confrontation. "I am also here because I am bored."

Azazel raised his hand, and the next instant Azrael’s hand closed around his throat, his wings snapping out behind him in a blur. Azazel did not flinch as the Angel of Death’s power cracked the space between them, sending a shockwave that sent dust and pebbles flying. Several combatants who had been watching the exchange closely lost their footing as Eamon’s realm trembled under the force.

"You have no place here," Azrael growled. His grip on Azazel’s throat was iron, constricting with every word. "You are not even alive."

"I am, apparently," Azazel replied calmly. He met Azrael’s eyes. "And you are stronger than you were, because your God has not taken your power from you. Perhaps he thought that by sparing you he would make you better, but it seems he only made you annoying."

Azrael’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. The two combatants stood facing each other, power crackling between them in a silent contest of wills, neither backing down as the gathered fighters waited for the outcome. Seraphina was the first to move, shakily pushing herself to her feet, and Mabel’s hands flared to life with crackling energy. Cain and Seth exchanged a long, lingering look, and for once it was not hatred in Seth’s gaze but a mutual understanding and respect.

Azazel eventually released Azrael’s throat and stepped back. He regarded the gathered masses one last time, a small smile playing on his lips. "I am not here to end your petty war," he said, his voice carrying across the battlefield with uncanny ease. "I am here to witness it, and if any of you manage to live through it all, I would be most obliged if you allowed me to collect the parts that remain." He cast another look at Azrael before adding, almost as an afterthought, "Tell your God that the dead do not stay buried when the one who killed them proves to be a rather poor wife."

Azazel turned his back to the battlefield, vanishing into the smoke as quickly as he had appeared. For a long moment, no one moved, as if waiting for some other sign that the Watcher had truly left. Then, far above the battlefield and the artificial clouds of Eamon’s realm, Lucifer’s eyes fluttered open.

Azazel’s name had not graced his ears in far too long.

And on the battlefield, the Watcher who should have been long dead stood among the living, amused and smiling, as if the war had been precisely the kind of spectacle he had been looking for.

The price of his appearance had already been too high. It was only going to get worse.