[Suzerain of Sheol]

The burning sword descends, flaring as it parts the inky shadows in the center of the shrine, tiny whispers of flame bursting as Uriel's empyrotic fire ignites the lingering darkness of Sheol. There is a scream, a howling resonance that quakes the bones of all who hear it as Cain's malefic aura erupts, filling the entire Basilica with the radiance of a holier Heaven than that which sits lordless in the empty skies above them. For a long moment, the darkness is banished, as though the ancient, ruined temple has been sanctified once more.

Then the laughter begins.

Cloaked in bursting flames, the wraith stands visible at the heart of Asasiah's raging conflagration., a hole in the majestic fury of the fire of her sword. For all the power in those flames, swirling in a gold-and-crimson vortex up into the cloudless sky, Cain stands unmoved, a bar of impossibly-black steel in his invisible hands. Despite the titanic, aeons-honed strength in her frail-seeming arms, the Emim holds her off effortlessly, utterly still. A void looks back into the hybrid's wrath-filled eyes, and from it comes that awful laughter, hearkening to a primordial ecstasy in murder. A blade of darksome power like a shard of the abyss itself flickers at the end of the burning spirit's staff. A web of stains – Abel's shining blood – traces a horrifying pattern down its length.

Their silent struggle continues only as long as it takes for darkness to overtake the watching sun. Still shrouded in agony and flame, Cain hurls the awakened angel away with all the effort of a shrug, sending her crashing through one of the few standing pillars left in the shrine, bringing down a rain of stone and rubble on her stunned form.

Unconcerned for the others, the Murderer stands and observes, noting Asasiah's fast-returning vitality as she stirs and writhes beneath the stones.

It is with utter disdain that he lifts his spear overhead, twists it in a blur of black against golden flame, and hurls it, shrieking, through Asasiah's chest.

* * *

He can feel dust choking his veins, the ashes of a hundred-million dead, the daily bread of Sheol. He can feel ice sheathing his withered heart, turning his blood to hoar. He can feel the weight of countless wasted lifetimes sitting upon his bones. The inheritance of the elder damned.

And for all that power, the old man is helpless.

He did not know what he had expected, coming here. It was the allure of power that had led him to this... brashness. As though there were not older, more terrible spirits than his to be found in the pits of Abaddon's realm. Whatever he had hoped to accomplish would come to naught. Here was not a soul that could be exorcised, and any power Shealtiel might hurl at the wraith in desperation would only quicken the unholy creature with its own essence.

In life, Cain had been a prodigy, son of the First Man, bequeathed a legacy of psychic might enough to shape the world to their newborn wills. And uncountable centuries of undeath had done nothing to blunt that awful power. Not even an arch-angel's fire could touch this coldness, nor ever hope to break the curse of Cain.

Shealtiel watches Asasiah struggle against the Emim, knowing that it will be for nothing. Metatron himself, if legends hold true, could sear the old spirit from existence with his Light, but Uriel... great, puissant Uriel... can do nothing but fail.

He does not even look as the young woman crashes down, does not flinch as another part of the shrine collapses. Shealtiel has eyes only for the burning silhouette of the First Slayer, and, even as he feels Asasiah's soul fall quiet in the ether, the necromancer kneels, unspent power bleeding from his eyes. With bowed head, he turns his eyes from the abominable sight, and awaits the end.