Chapter 172 The Squatter on the Throne
Michael stepped into the beast's personal space, the air curdling between them. "Don’t you crave it?" he whispered. The sound wasn't a comfort; it was like a razor sliding over silk. "Revenge against the master who discarded you like a broken toy?"
Abyssara’s eyes didn't just flicker; they dissolved. The white and the iris vanished, replaced by twin pools of restless ink. The question hit a nerve that had been raw and exposed for eons. He didn't just want Lucifer’s head on a spike; he wanted to erase the shadow that had moved into his spot while he rot in the void. He pictured her Selena the replacement, the new "Abyssara," standing where he once stood, breathing his air.
"I want her dead," Abyssara rasped. As he spoke, his shadow didn't just lie on the floor it bled. It crawled across the floorboards like spilled oil, staining the light and making the very wood groan in protest. "I want her to feel the weight of what she stole. She is a squatter in my house, and I will burn it down with her still inside."
Michael watched the darkness bloom with a cold, calculated hunger. This was the fuse. He knew that if Abyssara slaughtered Selena, Lucifer wouldn't just be angry; he would be unhinged. He would hunt Michael, he would shatter the laws of the Silver City, and in that moment of madness, their Father would have no choice. The gates of the pit would swing wide, and Lucifer would be chained in the bowels of Hell, a permanent prisoner of his own rage.
"Then take what is yours," Michael urged. He stepped back, his golden wings twitching as he gave the beast room to breathe. "She is a flicker of a candle compared to the sun I’ve made you. My blood is in your veins now. You aren't just a servant anymore; you are something the realms haven't seen in an age."
Abyssara flexed his hands, his knuckles popping like dry twigs as he watched the skin pull tight over new, corded muscle. "The plan. Give it to me."
"Lucifer thinks you’re a memory," Michael said, a jagged smile cutting across his lips. "He’s distracted on Earth, playing at being human. The gates of Hell are wide open for a predator of your caliber. Go. Tear her from her throne."
"I’ve told you a thousand times, Lucifer—if you’re going to pull me across the veil, at least have the decency to send a message. Some of us actually enjoy the silence of the woods."
A sudden whirlwind of dead autumn leaves swept through the office, though the windows were shut tight against the city. Dorcas, the Queen of Nature, stepped out of the swirling debris, the sharp scent of damp moss and ozone clinging to her like a shroud. She turned toward Lucifer’s desk with a sharp word on her tongue, but the air died in her throat. Her gaze snagged on the figure leaning in the corner, half-hidden by the deep shadows of the far wall.
Her body went rigid, her spine snapping straight. Her eyes darted between the two men, tracking the heavy, suffocating tension vibrating between them. "Dream? What is this? A family reunion or a funeral?"
Dream let out a sound that was dry and hollow, a ghost of a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Aren't you happy to see me, sister? I thought you missed the old days."
Dorcas didn't bite. She ignored him entirely, her gaze snapping back to Lucifer, hard and accusing. "Why is he here? You two haven't shared a room without drawing blood since the fall."
"Because the game has changed," Lucifer said. His voice didn't just carry weight; it felt like lead sinking into the floorboards.
"Changed how?" she demanded, her voice rising.
"Abyssara is back."
The blood fled from Dorcas’s face, leaving her ghostly pale before a sudden, hot flush of rage burned across her cheeks. She gave a sharp, bark-like laugh that held no mirth. "Impossible. We tracked him. We bled him until there was nothing left. I watched the earth swallow his remains with my own eyes."
"Michael dug him up," Lucifer said, his gaze fixed on the window, watching the city lights flicker.
The air in the office suddenly felt thin, as if the room were being vacuumed of oxygen. Dorcas’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists. Underneath her touch, the polished wood of Lucifer's desk began to groan and crack; tiny, thorn-choked vines began to spiderweb out from her fingers, hungry and sharp. "The arrogance... that golden-winged fool has no idea what he’s played with."
"Which is why the three of us are standing here," Dream said. He stepped out of the corner and into the center of the room, his presence cold and absolute. "We don't have the luxury of our old grudges anymore. Together, we can bury that thing so deep even Michael won't be able to find the pieces."
Dorcas marched toward Dream, her boots thudding against the floor. Her eyes began to glow with a feral, predatory green light. She stopped inches from his chest, her breath smelling of crushed wild mint and pure fury. "And why should I trust you? You’ve spent half of eternity whispering in Michael’s ear, playing his games. How do I know this isn't another one of your visions meant to lead us into a trap?"
"Because even I have limits," Dream said. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding iron. "I won't stand by and watch him turn the Dreaming into a graveyard just to win an argument with Father."
Dream raised his right hand, his fingers splayed. Outside, the clear city sky suddenly bruised, turning a deep, violent shade of purple. A crack of thunder tore through the air, so massive it rattled the glass in its frames—it wasn't just weather; it was the sound of a cosmic law being written into existence.
"I vow it," Dream declared. His voice didn't just echo; it boomed, vibrating through their bones and making the shadows in the room dance like living things. "I will personally chain Michael in the heart of the Dreaming, in a cage of his own making, where he can never touch the living again."
A second bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in a harsh, blinding white glare that burned away every shadow for a split second, sealing the oath in the very fabric of reality.