[Suzerain of Sheol]

As the others one by one succumb to sleep, Shealtiel sits in contemplation, legs folded, his back against the crate now. Despite his words to Dante earlier, he isn't even remotely certain what will happen when he dies. He has never known another servant of Sheol, nor encountered the spirit of one in any of his conjurings. It is possible that the Rephaim are born from souls such as his, but he has nothing to prove that disconcerting fact.

As the night wears on, he maintains his vigil, keeping his spiritual senses sharp, lest they be caught unawares. It is not unusual for him to go without sleep; as he has grown older and more thoroughly mastered his power, his body has become less and less of a hindrance to him in its daily functions and needs; he can go for weeks without sleep, if he needs to. That meal from Michael will hold him over for a month. Even his mind feels dislocated -- not particularly resistant to psychic assaults so much as harder to reach, as though disconnected from the electric network of his brain. He thinks of the Emim, divorced wholly from their bodies, and wonders if he is not becoming something similar.

But, no. He feels the pain and strain of his magicks all too much. He knows in his bones that he is weak, old, failing. It is the price of the vast lore of experience he has achieved. If he were a young man again, with this knowledge and mastery, he could rival a Saint. As it stands, he must measure himself, check every outstretch of power, or risk breaking himself beyond the point of recovery.

Eventually, the others begin to rouse, still under the lurid light of the moon, but that is no surprise. Morning's light is bloody in this world of theirs.