Caelin awoke to the sting of sunlight in his eyes.
For a moment, he thought he had died. The weightless warmth across his face, the sound of wind rustling ash through broken trees—it felt too peaceful for the hell he had just endured. Then came the pain.
His ribs screamed as he rolled onto his side. His limbs ached with the dull throb of overexertion. Blood, both his and the demon's, crusted over torn leather and shattered plate. The bracer on his left arm blinked with a silent red alert—damage sustained, systems struggling.
The Nephilim was dead. He remembered the light… the burning… the name it had spoken...his name. Caelin.
He clenched his jaw and pushed to his feet. The wound in the earth, the nest, the pulsing halls of flesh—they were far below now. He stood at the edge of a collapsed crater, earth torn open like a scar. The skies above were darkening. Smoke curled upward from countless cracks still weeping corruption. And from the distance—he heard it.
The horde was moving. No longer in disarray. They were angry and they were coming.
He tapped the bracer on his wrist. The interface flickered—location beacon already broadcasting. His extraction window was closing. If he didn't reach the rendezvous point in time, there would be no second chance. He started running.
His body protested, but he moved anyway, feet pounding against cracked stone, lungs burning with each breath. The sun dipped lower behind the clouds, casting long shadows from the broken statues and pillars littering the cursed terrain.
Then—he stopped. A flash of memory. The boy. Left behind in the upper ruins near the old temple.
Caelin looked back. The horde's presence was closing in behind him. He could already hear the scuttling claws and screeches. Going back was suicide, but leaving the boy?
He swore under his breath and turned sharply, sprinting toward the ruins. Every step was slower than the last, but he pushed harder, fueled not by duty, but by conviction. He had failed once and he would not fail again.
The ruins came into view just as the first guttural roar echoed behind him. The sound split the air like thunder—dozens of demon voices crying out as one. The horde had seen him. They were no longer hunting. They were chasing.
Caelin's boots skidded across the uneven rubble as he lunged up the crumbling temple steps. The half-toppled pillars and shattered stained glass were just as he left them—except now, the scent of sulfur was thicker in the air, choking, oppressive.
"Come on, come on..." he muttered through gritted teeth.
He slammed his palm against his bracer. The cracked screen buzzed to life, static dancing across the glass.
TRANSMIT CODE: FORSAKEN
REQUEST: EMERGENCY ANGHELOS EXTRACTION – IMMEDIATE
LOCATION: RUIN COORDINATES ATTACHED – SURVIVOR PACKAGE INCLUDED
AUTHORITY: PERSONAL DECREE – HIS HOLINESS POPE SEBASTIEN IV
A brief pause. Then—
RESPONSE RECEIVED.
"Extraction approved. ETA three minutes. No deviation allowed. Window closing fast."
Three minutes.
He vaulted the final step and saw the boy—seventeen, half-conscious, barely able to move. Still in the same place. Still breathing. Caelin dropped to one knee, checking his pulse. Strong and alive.
"Come on, lad," he said low, his voice rough with strain. "Not dying down here."
The screech of winged things above forced his eyes skyward. The demon horde was cresting the ridge, dozens at least, maybe more. Twisted, gangly figures with wings like torn banners, leaping, crawling, gliding—spurred by madness. The earth behind him split with a quake, opening like a mouth.
"Anghelos, confirm visual!" Caelin shouted into the bracer as he hoisted the boy onto his back. "They're here! I repeat—they're here!"
"Confirmed. Visual acquired. Anghelos inbound. Hold position."
Caelin could see it now—a silver dropcraft piercing the clouds, descending like a sword from heaven. The Anghelos-class shuttle had no weapons, just speed and reinforced shielding. It could take one man and one more—maybe. He skidded into the extraction zone just as the horde reached the temple steps. The demons shrieked with animal fury, but didn't hesitate.
They charged.
The Anghelos descended fast, the hatch already opening. A rope line dropped.
"Jump now!" came the pilot's voice—distorted and sharp.
Caelin didn't wait. He secured the boy's arms across his shoulders, wrapped them tight with a prayer-worn strap, grabbed the rope, and was yanked upward just as claws tore through the air below him.
A demon leapt—caught his boot—ripped the sole clean off. Caelin rose, muscles burning, face coated in sweat and ash. Below, the horde swarmed the ruins like ants over a carcass, but they were too late. The hatch slammed shut. He collapsed onto the cold metal floor, the boy still slung over his shoulders, breathing shallow but steady.
The insignia of Dareth still fastened to Caelin's armor like a cross that refused to fall. The Anghelos shot through the atmosphere with the force of a thousand cannons, leaving Caligo IX behind.
The whine of the rear hatch sealed off the sounds of the damned. Silence fell like a shroud.
Caelin stayed where he'd collapsed, the boy's weight still slung over his shoulder. The adrenaline was fading. Pain, exhaustion, and something deeper—grief, maybe—took its place.
The boy stirred. Slowly, his fingers curled weakly at Caelin's side, his head lifting just enough to glance around the dim cabin. His voice was hoarse.
"You… came back."
Caelin eased him off, setting him gently against the bulkhead. He sat beside him, head leaning back against the cold wall, breath ragged.
"I told you I would," Caelin said, eyes closed.
A pause. The hum of the ship's systems surrounded them, warm and distant.
"I thought… I thought you left me to die."
"I would've," Caelin said. Then opened his eyes. "If I was anyone else."
The boy managed a faint, broken smile. "You're not like the rest of the Templari."
"No," Caelin said. "Even when I was, i would've still came back."
They sat in silence a moment longer—brothers in a ruin, survivors by inches. Then the ship jolted upward.
"Brace," the pilot's voice came through the intercom. "Anghelos initiating return jump. Destination: Sanctum Caligar. The Holy Father's flagship. Light-speed in three… two…"
The air folded inward. The stars outside stretched into lines of pure light.
Then— They vanished.
The Anghelos shuttle broke from light-speed, reality snapping back in a ripple of displacement that shook the hull. Outside the viewport, the massive form of the Sanctum Caligar loomed like a cathedral cast adrift in space. Nearly six kilometers long, the holy dreadnought was shaped like a cruciform temple, its wings bristling with defense batteries and blessed solar sails inscribed with scripture in golden lettering. Gleaming towers and domes rose along its central spine, glowing faintly with divine light and energy siphoned from sacred cores deep within its heart.
The vessel's outer hull was a lattice of sanctified blacksteel and etched aurium—each inch carved with holy runes, prayers, and warding glyphs. Light-cannons flanked each side like organ pipes, and arrays of solar lances—rare and relic-tier weapons—were nested among their golden housings. Dozens of small transports and fighter escorts circled the vessel like armored seraphs.
Inside the Sanctum Caligar, the docking bay was a vast cathedral hangar. Columns of reinforced ceramite held up vaulted ceilings inlaid with mosaics of saints and martyrs. Tall stained-glass windows—armored transparisteel—cast kaleidoscopic light over the marble-like plating of the landing deck.
The Anghelos descended with reverence, guided in by beacon servitors whose eyes glowed with digital readouts, chanting binary psalms in low, monotonous tones. Hooded Templari tech-priests moved along catwalks above, swinging censers that poured fragrant vapor over arriving vessels—blessed incense laced with antiviral purifiers and sanctifying microspores. They murmured prayers to sanctify the shuttle from contamination.
As the shuttle's landing gear hissed and locked down, squads of Palatine Knights in gleaming white-and-gold armor stood ready. Their halberds shimmered with charged energy and relic scripts, and each bore a crimson cape fastened by a clasp carved with the symbol of Saint Peter's keys. No one moved until the bay's wards confirmed no demonic residue or spiritual corruption.
The Forsaken descended the ramp slowly, his broken, patchwork armor trailing in tatters. The boy followed, barefoot and gaunt, his eyes scanning the place with disbelief. Tech-servants came forward first, offering diagnostic scans and robes to the survivor.
From behind the formation, a Knight-Scribe stepped forward. His armor was less ornate but polished to perfection. He held a data-tablet in one hand, the other held up in blessing.
"Forsaken," the scribe said, neutral, unreadable. "You stand aboard the Sanctum Caligar, sanctified home of the Holy Father and seat of the Council of Flame."
He glanced at the boy, noting him with mild curiosity.
"You have returned from a mission not expected to yield survivors. The Holy Father has been notified. You will be summoned."
Then, softer—his eyes briefly touching the sword and symbol the Forsaken carried, wrapped in a strip of crimson cape: the blade of Marshal Dareth and the Lion of Judah, Dareths Emblem, wrapped in old cloth.
"…And I see you return not only with a soul saved, but two relics recovered."
The Templari around him murmured. Some crossed their chests. Others bowed their heads at the name.
Without another word, the Knight-Scribe gestured. Two squires moved forward to escort the Forsaken to the purification chambers. Others moved to gently guide the boy to medical.
As the Forsaken took one last look at the bay, he saw the great seal of the Church above the main gate: the double-cross of Saint Peter, ringed by a halo of flame. A reminder. A warning. And for a moment…a burden.
He said nothing, just walked forward.
The crest was heavy in his palm, even wrapped in a strip of worn cloth to hide the gleam of its gold. The Lion of Judah, roaring with defiance and crowned in righteousness, stamped into blessed aurium—Marshal Dareth's personal insignia, now carried by a Forsaken.
As the Knight-Scribe's eyes fell upon it, his stoicism faltered for a breath. The murmurs among the Palatine Knights grew quieter. Some bowed their heads in reverence; others clenched their fists across their chests.
"It is confirmed," the scribe murmured. "Marshal Dareth has fallen."
A silence passed through the bay like a prayer through stone halls.
The Forsaken gave no words, only offered the crest over. But the scribe refused to touch it.
"That is not for me to receive. The Holy Father must witness it."
Two silent Paladins flanked him, ushering him forward through a side corridor sealed with sanctified steel. The boy was escorted away gently, given into the hands of the Hospitaller sisters—veiled women in white and red, with burning censers in one hand and scanning relics in the other. As the doors sealed behind them, Caelin was alone again.
He was taken to the Chamber of Ash.
Steam hissed from the walls as sanctified water was sprayed over him. His armor was stripped off—piece by broken piece—revealing bruised skin, lash scars, and the faded crossbrand over his heart. Runes in the walls flared with soft light as tech-priests read purification litanies from illuminated manuscripts. The crest and the sword were taken from him—temporarily—bathed in blessed oil and wrapped in linen, guarded by one of the Purifiers of the Flame.
When the prayers were done, a priest approached with robes of coarse black weave and a belt of crimson thread: the mark of the penitent.
"You will be received now, Forsaken," the priest said solemnly. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Kneel only when ordered. His Holiness will weigh your words as scripture and judge their worth."
Then the massive adamantine doors opened and he entered the Hall of Divine Judgment aboard the Sanctum Caligar.
The chamber was wide as a throne room and high as a cathedral. Golden statues of saints and martyrs loomed from the columns. Angels of flame and fury were etched into the glass-like floor beneath his feet.
At the far end, seated atop a dais that rose like a mountain, was Pontifex Caelestis XXIV, Shepherd of the Flame, Keeper of the Starbound Keys, and Voice of the Last Throne. He was clad in robes of incandescent white trimmed in starlit gold, wearing a great circlet of light that shimmered like a halo. His face was partially obscured by the veil of his cowl, but his voice was like thunder clothed in calm:
"Forsaken. Step forward."
Caelin obeyed. Slowly. The weight of silence hung over the room like incense smoke.
"You return from Caligo IX," said Pontifex Caelestis XXIV, "A world not dead, but one devoured swiftly in flame and shadow. A world we watched fall beneath the heel of infernal conquest."
He paused, leaning forward.
"And yet, here you stand… with relics recovered, a survivor saved, and the Crest of the Lion returned."
He studied Caelin a moment longer.
"Tell me everything. From the moment you landed… to the name of the demon you slew."
Caelin spoke as commanded.
His voice was level, controlled—not out of reverence, but exhaustion. He gave only what was necessary: his descent through the wound, the nests, the guardian, the purification, and the survivor. A clinical recounting of tragedy. The priests and scribes surrounding the dais took furious notes on data-slates and illuminated codices. Only once did they interrupt—to confirm the retrieval of Marshal Dareth's crest and sword.
But when Caelin spoke the demon's name, the chamber grew colder.
"Karaziel," he said. "Firstborn of Moloch. Nephilim of the Watcher Host."
Several scribes froze mid-stroke. One priest dropped his quill. Only Pontifex Caelestis XXIV remained unmoved, though his gaze sharpened behind the golden veil of his mitral helm.
"He called himself the god of war. Claimed he had worn the names Thor, Ares, and Baldr. He spoke them with pride—like victories."
"Blasphemy has always been their mask," the Pontifex intoned. "And pride their sigil."
"He remembered my name," he added after a pause. That drew a murmur from the circle of priests, quickly hushed.
The Pontifex's voice lowered. "Did he speak of the Fall?"
Caelin nodded once. "He used it. Twisted it. He spoke of Maeria. He knew."
"And you resisted?"
"I did." His tone didn't waver, but behind his eyes, memory churned like stormwater. "I told him it was not lust, but covenant. That I loved her. That she was not sin."
The chamber flinched—not from the echo of Caelin's words, but from the Pontifex's fury.
Golden light from the sanctuary's braziers flickered wildly, reacting to the sudden tension. The Pontifex rose to his full height, the edges of his ornate robes dragging like banners in an unseen wind.
"You dare speak such heresy here?" he thundered. The scribes halted entirely. No one breathed.
"She was a consecrated sister of the Church!" The Pontifex's voice rang like judgment through the chamber. "Sworn in chastity. Purified by fire. Her fate was mercy."
Caelin didn't lift his eyes. "Then mercy is cruel."
The Pontifex took one step forward.
"You defiled your vow and your bloodline. You were Forsaken not merely for sin—but for refusing repentance. Do not mistake survival for absolution."
Caelin's jaw tensed, but he said nothing. There was a long silence before the Pontifex turned away, robes settling once more.
"Continue," he said coldly.
Caelin obeyed.
He spoke of the chamber deep within Caligo IX—the stench, the heat, the shadows that moved with intent. Of Karaziel's cruelty, his tactics, his teleportation through darkness like smoke through a sieve. Of the lies he wove and the wounds he dealt. The Nephilim was no beast—he was war incarnate, sharpened over millennia.
"The demon fought with knowledge," Caelin said. "He knew every form. Every angle. He struck as though he had written the scriptures of battle himself."
There was a silence in the chamber as he continued, slowly, deliberately.
"I invoked Christ," he said. "The demon burned when I spoke the name. Its skin blistered. Its rhythm broke. That was the only time it faltered."
He let the next part sit longer on his tongue before he released it.
"It went mad. No longer a tactician—just fury. Rage and claws. But I endured."
A murmur of Latin prayers passed through the scribes' lips. The Pontifex remained silent, stone-like.
"I fought until my arms failed. Until my vision blurred. When I struck the final blow, I was empty. Spent. But then—" Caelin paused, remembering the warmth not born of flame, "—there was light. Not like fire. Not like any ship's glow. It descended like a column. Silent. Gentle. I couldn't stand in it. I fell."
He glanced down at his hands. Even now, they trembled slightly.
"But I knew… I had not fallen alone."
He met the Pontifex's veiled gaze for the first time since the interrogation began.
"And the lair?"
"Destroyed," Caelin answered without hesitation. "Karaziel is dead. Its altar shattered. Its spawn silenced."
A beat passed.
"But the planet is still crawling," he added. "Nests. Tunnels. Remnants of the corruption. I saw them—whole broods stirred when their god fell. The wound is too deep. It cannot be healed."
He stood a little straighter despite the fatigue.
"If Caligo IX is to be saved from becoming a staging ground for the Host… it must be burned. All of it."
Silence reigned in the hall. Then the Pontifex, grim as judgment itself, gave a slow nod.
"So be it."
The chamber remained still for a long time after the Pontifex spoke.
The priests and scribes ceased their writing. The murmurs of Latin benedictions faded. Only the cold hum of the starship's sanctified systems remained—like a heartbeat encased in steel.
Pontifex Caelestis XXIV raised one hand. An acolyte stepped forward, bearing a silver-edged codex bound in black leather, etched with thorns and fire. The Book of the Forsaken.
The Pontifex opened it to a bookmarked page.
"Caelin," he said at last.
The word cut the silence like a blade. It was not spoken with warmth—but with finality.
"You have completed your first act of redemption," the Pontifex continued. "Though your house remains sundered, your title stripped, your name—by the grace of the Throne Eternal—is returned."
He turned the codex toward Caelin. One of the many black lines, drawn over a forgotten identity, had been crossed out with red ink.
"You are no longer 'Forsaken,' in name."
Caelin didn't speak.
He merely bowed his head—not in reverence, but in silent defiance of the fate he'd been consigned to.
The Pope closed the book with a solemn snap.
"Caelin," he said again. "Rise."
The acolyte stepped forward once more, presenting the open codex and a quill tipped in red ink. The page bore many names—crossed out, forgotten, erased by decree.
Caelin stared down at the line now cleared, the black ink scraped away to reveal pale parchment beneath. A space made ready.
His fingers hovered over the quill. He had not written his name in years. Not since the sentence had been passed. Not since the fire. With deliberate care, he took the quill and pressed it to the page. The ink bled like blood.
Caelin.
The name was plain, unadorned. No title. No house. But it was his. And it was returned. The acolyte withdrew, bowing low. The book was closed, sealed again. Pontifex Caelestis XXIV gave a silent nod, the faintest movement of approval.
And so ended the record of his first redemption.