The midnight bells tolled.
The bitter breath of winter carried their voices across the city, into darkened homes and across warmly lit hearths. The city slumbered, blissfully unaware of the impossibility taking shape down in the twisted alleyways of the shipyards.
Damian staggered down the alleyway, his broken left leg hanging uselessly beneath the knee. His muscles screamed in protest with every desperate lurch, his shattered bones ripping through his flesh. Splashes of dim, dirty light poured from back-alley windows, illuminating sections of loose cobblestone. Harsh shadows crowded against the light, the darkness crawling like a pit of worms.
Damian reached for the walls and pulled himself along, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. The square-cut ruby on his ring finger scraped against the brickwork, sending sparks flying into the air.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, and saw his pursuer.
The man was briefly lit by the infrequent patches of light, before becoming a predator in the night once more. In those moments, spread out between lengths of shadow, Damian saw the face of his predator—his own face, staring him down.
Two men, sharing the same face.
An impossibility granted form by the Fates; a discordance that could be settled only by blood.
The alleyway ended in a chain-link gate, but the cheap metal was only a temporary impediment.
With a flick of his wrist, and a mutter under his breath, a flicker of Flame burst forth from his open palm. A slim piece of the fence melted away, and Damian squeezed himself through the narrow gap, his clothes and skin tearing on the jagged metal. Blood bloomed from the new cuts and scrapes across his shoulders and neck.
Beyond lay the shipping yard, where metal containers towered high over his head.
The rain, which had been largely blocked by the mess of buildings in the alley, was now free to pummel down overhead. He turned his gaze skyward, toward the night sky blanketed by heavy cloud. If those gray, waterlogged clouds split apart, would he see the moon one last time?
A moon drifting alone in a starless sky?
A solitary light in the inky blackness, cursed to wander forever alone?
Damian cast his gaze around, his breaths coming in sharp, painful bursts.
Sweat dripped from his hair, slipping down his neck and back. The containers offered little shelter; prolonging this game of cat-and-mouse would not change the outcome. The victor had already been decided—but such logic did little to sway the survival instincts of the human body.
A metallic noise caught his attention. The hunter had followed him through the broken fence. The rain intensified, drumming into a crescendo worthy of this final confrontation. Icy droplets slammed into Damian's skin, stinging his open wounds.
The hunter flicked his wrist, and a short dagger of blazing Flame appeared in his hand. A pitiful weapon in a duel, but a weapon uniquely suited to killing. The falling rain turned to steam within inches of the weapon, yet the wielder's clothes and skin remained unaffected.
Such was the power of the Blessing—gentle like a candle to its owner; fierce like an inferno to its enemy.
Damian wiped his mouth and spat blood onto the ground. The time had come to make his final stand, and he refused to cower. Not before himself, this twisted apparition born of hatred and malice.
With his other hand, he drew upon the power of the Flame, upon the Blessing of the Great Angel. The flicker of power caught within the ruby's prism vibrated in excitement, pouring even more energy into the invocation.
Damian's voice was but a whisper, his words snatched away by the pounding rain.
"Aspect of Wrath Unleashed, I call upon the Sword of the Angel."
Chains of purest Flame exploded from his forearm, whipping around like snakes. They shackled his wrist and coalesced into a singular form, extending from his right hand into a blazing sword some three-and-a-half feet long.
The hunter approached, dagger at the ready.
The world held its breath—
—and the battle began with a flash.
The two men clashed, dagger against sword; Flame against Flame. Embers spewed from their holy weapons with every clash, sending sparks flying. The motes of heavenly power glowed brilliantly, lighting up the dark shipyard, before dying upon the rain-soaked ground.
The impossibility tried to resolve itself.
A contradiction born aloft the edge of a blade. Two men of the same face, the same blood, their fates knotted like thread—thread now fraying apart.
A moment's hesitation was all it took—the wavering of one man's faith. The dagger cleaved through the sword, in a way steel never could.
Damian's weapon shattered into fragments of amber light, flittering away like fireflies.
A sharp crack resounded throughout the empty night, and Damian was slammed back into a shipping container. His chest screamed in agony, his ribs cracked by the aggressive kick. He would have screamed aloud, but the air was driven from his lungs, leaving his vision swimming.
The hunter approached, boots splashing through puddles, the rain still pounding down upon both men.
Is this how it ends? All my hopes for a better future, taken away in an instant?
Damian stared himself in the eye.
Is this what you really want? Will this secure the future you desire?
Two pairs of eyes, each brown flecked with the amber hues of the Roswald lineage—proof of their claim to the throne, and their claim to the Angel. The twin ruby rings, one on each of their hands, flickered like ships hailing one another at sea.
A contradiction that could not be permitted; an impossible knot in the intricate web of the Fates.
And what do we do with knots? We cut them free.
The other him hesitated, just briefly.
"I'm sorry."
The dagger sank deep into his flesh. Piercing muscle. Breaking bone. Burning with the furious wrath of an Angel, boiling away blood and carving out Damian's very soul.
Gone, cast away, like ashes in the wind.