Chapter 396: Death and the Watcher

It was Azrael who moved first. There was no warning, save the distance closing between them. One moment, Azrael was twenty paces away, and the next, his hand was around Azazel’s throat, his wings propelling him forward like he was the final end. The air exploded outward from the force of impact, sending shockwaves through the plain and throwing back the remaining fighters who had witnessed the battle.

Azazel caught Azrael’s outstretched wrist with the ease of someone used to dealing with gods. The force nearly ended the fight, sending cracks of power rippling into the ground and rings of dust and debris into the air.

"You talk too much for a dead man," growled death itself.

Azazel’s smile was tight and cruel. "And you hesitate too much for Death."

With a twist of his body and a turn of his hips, Azazel sent Azrael sprawling to the right. The Angel of Death was not one to waste effort railing against gravity, and he used the shift to propel himself back into the fight. His free hand caught a blade of pure black entropy and carved a vertical path through the air to Azazel’s side.

The Watcher barely shifted his stance in time, the edge of the entropy blade raking his coat and leaving a shallow line of blood where the material had been caught. His body rolled forward, not pausing, and countered with a spear of rust-colored power. Azrael turned his shoulder to meet the force, shoving against it and sending Azazel skidding back on his boots.

The clash of power lit the battlefield in hues of black and red. It was not the sound of metal. It was the sound of laws being fought over.

Azrael pressed forward. His body was stronger. His mind clearer. Every fiber of his being resonated with his authority, sharpened by Lucifer’s orders. Azazel blocked, redirected, parried, and countered, but his power was not what it had been. Not without the boost from the old outer gods. Every movement saw him pushed back another pace. He was not done yet, but it was not his era to dictate terms.

Azazel dropped to one knee, sending another wave of withering energy rolling along the earth. Azrael’s wings snapped open, and with a dive, he sent two hands of coalescing entropy into Azazel’s chest. The Watcher countered with a barrier of sigils, ancient things, the same ones that had taught the old men to forge swords and wage war. It did not last for long, and Azrael’s power punched through the gaps before following up with a second strike to the heart.

Azazel was sent flying, boots cutting furrows into the earth as he landed heavily some paces back. He let out a grunt of pain as he planted a hand into the ground, steadying himself. Blood trickled down his cheek as he wiped at the smear on his jaw with the back of his hand. "You’ve improved, Death," he drawled, his voice tight with amusement. "The new throne suits you."

Azrael said nothing. He simply stepped forward again, wings half-open as he balanced on his toes. This time, the attack came faster, in a tight triplet. Azazel parried the first strike and took the second across his forearm before he barely managed to shift aside from the third. The entropy blade cut a long, smoldering seam in his sleeve. All around the two combatants, the armies stood frozen.

Cain’s eyes were narrow slits of crimson as he watched the fight unfold. Seth’s grip was white-knuckled around his longsword. Mabel’s hands hovered just above her charge, waiting for the right moment to intervene. Seraphina, still bleeding lightblood from her arm, seemed to hesitate between the two sides, her mind weighing the options. ℯℯ𝑙.

It was Azazel who finally broke. He planted his feet and sent a pulse of power outward, drawing the attention of both sides before he caught the next strike from Azrael. His arms wreathed in rust-red energy, he met the next salvo from Death with a blast of his own, the force sending shockwaves rolling through the battlefield. The two combatants stood at the eye of the storm, momentarily locked in a stalemate. The plain beneath them tilted and groaned, the damage from earlier fights still fresh. Eamon’s sky crackled and groaned. The next exchange would decide more than the battlefield.

Azazel’s power was slower, but it was still sharp, and it was still old. It curled around Azrael’s own black energy, locking the two together. For a moment, it seemed to hold. Then, slowly, inexorably, Azrael’s power began to overwhelm his opponent’s. Azazel’s feet slipped backward an inch, then two.

"You are lesser," said Azrael, his voice cutting through the storm. "Without the old gods, you are merely an angel who has taught too many and fallen too far." He paused as he shifted his weight, the force of his wings folding pressing against Azazel’s chest. "Yield."

Azazel’s answer was a snarl and a sudden explosion of power. He shoved against Azrael, the force sending the Angel of Death skidding upward and backward. Azazel rolled with the momentum, pushing off the earth with his knees and sending a spear of withering energy into Azrael’s side. Death’s wings snapped against his back, catching the blast and sending him flying. He landed heavily on his knees several paces away, wings folding tight against his spine. His mouth was a tight line, the smile long gone.

Azazel’s power pulsed outward again, but it was different this time. It was not the steady hum of ancient power. It was the crackle and pop of something new. Azrael’s eyes narrowed as he took in the shift. The balance had changed, and not in his favor. He felt it in every fiber of his being, in every thread of his power. It was not enough, but it was more than he had before.

"Your turn," said Azazel, his voice quiet.

The sky above the battlefield grew darker as Azrael’s wings beat once, twice. The entropy around him gathered in sheets, coalescing into something tangible. It was not the same as before. It was not a power nearly equal to Azazel’s. It was Death deciding the matter was best settled. The Angel of Death attacked, his wings carrying him downward faster than the Watcher could react.

Azazel met him midair, channeling everything he had left into a final burst of rust-red energy. The clash sent a shockwave rolling through the battlefield, sending another ring of fighters sprawling. It was not as powerful as the last attack, but it was enough to send Cain digging his claws into the earth. Mabel’s barrier failed utterly and had to be reformed in haste. Seraphina staggered to one knee, her lightblood trailing from her lip.

When the dust had settled, Azrael stood over Azazel, his wings folding tight against his back. The Watcher was on his knees, one hand planted in the earth, blood trickling from his nose and the cut along his jaw. His power was still present, but it was weaker, thinner. Azrael’s entropy blade hovered just above Azazel’s throat.

"You forced my hand," said Azrael softly. "That is the only reason you are still speaking."

Azazel looked up at him, his smile bloody but genuine. "Good," he rasped. "I was beginning to think the new age had made all of you soft."

Azrael’s wings beat once, the force of it nearly pushing Azazel to his back. The entropy blade never lowered.

The armies of both sides watched, waiting. Far above them, Lucifer noted the shift in Azrael’s power. He could feel it in the very air itself. Azazel, lesser than he had been, knelt still in his own blood, and laughed once, a soft sound, as if the entire fight had been worth the effort.