Once again, Azazel found himself a prisoner.

For interfering in Metorael’s plans not once but twice, Azazel and his companions were clapped in irons and dragged out of town in the middle of the night.

Cold winds whipped around them, and they struggled to keep up with Metorael’s quick, long strides through the grassy fields. Every time they fell behind, Metorael gave the chain they shared a sharp tug, and Venali the Zealot gave Neji, at the end of the line, a shove. Worst of all, behind him Azazel could hear Ember’s sniffles and sobs, and his heart ached for her.

When they crested the top of a hill, Azazel looked up to see a fortress floating fifteen feet off the ground. Its walls were blood-red, and banners hung over the battlements with the symbol of Montu, the god of war, emblazoned across them in gold thread. Countless swords wreathed in fire swirled and orbited around the fortress, and in the watchtowers stood angels in black armor, each carrying a longbow.

Azazel could only guess when it was that this fortress had arrived in Tir Shazelle, and the sheer numbers of the legion it likely contained.

He had no time to wonder, though, as Metorael yanked on his chain again to bring him forward.

The swirling swords of fire stopped dead and turned their points toward Metorael and Azazel. The Archangel raised his hand into the air and three streams of blue fire burst upward from his palm. After the final flame dissipated, the swords resumed their patrol around the fortress, and the front gate opened. From the front gate a long, steel ladder extended, until the end touched down on the ground before Metorael’s feet.

The Archangel’s hair whipped about in the wind as he turned to Azazel and said, “Climb.”

With the chain still attached to his waist and manacles still binding his wrists, Azazel started his ascent up into the fortress. Behind him, he could hear Ember and Neji struggling on each rung.

At the top of the ladder they entered through the castle gates into a long hallway. Lining the hallway stood wooden crosses, attached to which were the bones of slain demons (and, possibly, a few humans). Once all four of them had reached the top of the staircase, Metorael drifted in, carried by his six, feathered wings, and pulled them along once again.

As they traveled the halls of this floating fortress, angels of every rank and kind passed them by, both those who looked human except for their wings, and those who resembled ethereal beasts. Among them were more zealots, like Venali, in long coats with the symbol of Montu on the back, and humans wearing dark red armor with the same symbol.

At the end of their long journey through the flying fortress, the four of them came to an amphitheater, with angels filling each successive row up and around them. The moment the Archangel stepped into the room, all of the arguments and bickering between the angels in the rows ceased, and all eyes turned to the god of war’s right hand. Metorael pointed to Azazel, then to a spot in the middle of the floor. Azazel stood in the middle, with his three companions behind him.

Metorael turned to the crowd of angels looking on and pointed at Azazel. “This angel took it upon himself to interfere in my affairs. He protected a most blasphemous heretic; a priestess who’d allowed a demon to bed her. He attacked one of my zealots and stood between me and my enemy. For these reasons and more, I believe him to be a fallen angel, perhaps one who has taken the demons’ side in The War. If there are none among you who can vouch for his character, I will proceed immediately to execution.”

Azazel was sure his heart had just stopped at Metorael’s words. He knew the Archangel was furious with him, but he had no idea he’d actually planned to kill him. Memories of the priestess’ screams of agony rushed back to Azazel’s mind, and his eyes immediately searched for a way out of this situation. Venali still held his sword and his seleni pouch, so he couldn’t call upon Liita for a miracle, neither could he even try to fight his way out of this. He thought of begging for mercy, but he’d already seen how poorly that had worked out for the priestess.

There was only one option he could think of that had even a hope of working. “How dare you accuse me?” Azazel bellowed.

Metorael rounded on him, those burning eyes filling the younger angel’s heart with terror.

Azazel steeled himself, and though every inch of his being was filled with fear he neither trembled nor faltered. “I am the King of Tir Shazelle. I stood in your way because you threatened one of my subjects without a proper trial or evidence. Is not a king supposed to protect his subjects from injustice?”

Metorael’s fiery eyes widened, and the left one twitched.

Behind him, Azazel could hear Ember and Neji murmuring to each other their concerns that King Ozz had just lost his mind.

Azazel pointed a finger at Metorael. “I accuse you of obstruction of justice! I am a loyal servant of Seth, as I have been my whole life. You—”

Metorael’s palm smacked Azazel in the face, and his fingers clasped around Azazel’s temples. “You accuse me?” Azazel reached up and grabbed Metorael’s fingers, trying to pry them from his head, but the seraphim held firm. “Me? I am the Archangel of Montu! His voice from Heaven itself!”

Azazel dug his heels into the ground and kicked back, away from the Archangel as hard as he could. Still, the seraphim held fast to his face. Panic set in, and Azazel clawed at Metorael’s muscular forearm. His nails tore the flesh, but Metorael’s grip never loosened.

“Wait!” cried out a voice in the crowd. “I know him!”

With a hard shove, Metorael sent Azazel crashing to the ground. Pain shot up the young angel’s spine, his head throbbed, and all the world spun around him.

But he was alive, and a weight lifted from his heart.

“If you would vouch for his character, speak quickly!” Metorael boomed.

“We call him Azazel,” came a raspy reply. “And he was, indeed, sent to Tir Shazelle to be its king and protector. His duty is to his subjects. Surely you won’t execute him for doing his duty.”

Azazel turned his head to try to get a good look at the angel who was arguing his innocence, but a cloud of white smoke obscured the speaker from view.

Where do I know that voice?

“Mitzvael, step forward,” Metorael commanded.

“If it’s all the same to you, master…” replied the raspy voiced angel. The cloud of white smoke traveled down the aisles between the seats, and a long coat swished around his shins with every step. When he drew closer, Azazel could barely make out that this angel wore a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Orange embers lit up in front of the angel’s face, and more white smoke surrounded him. “…I prefer to be called, Law.”

Law! What’s he doing here?

Yes, when the smoke-shrouded angel drew closer, Azazel could see this was, indeed, Law, whom he’d met on the day he was banished from the angelic cities, now stepping forward to speak on his behalf.

Law removed the cigar from his teeth and flicked the ashes on the ground. “I was the one who told Azazel to make himself king of Tir Shazelle. He’s not a fallen angel, rest assured.”

Metorael folded his arms. “Ah. So, this is the one who infuriated the Green God by burning down a forest to hunt down a few demons?”

Azazel felt red rush to his cheeks, and he glanced back at the confused faces of Ember and Neji.

“Yup, that’s him.” Law slipped the cigar back between his teeth and held out his hand for the chain around Azazel’s waist. “And seeing as he’s Seth’s angel, that makes him my subordinate. I’ll handle his discipline.”

Metorael dropped the chain into Law’s hand. “Fine. Take him and his followers away. I have more important matters to attend to.”