A few weeks had passed since the cathedral massacre and the rooftop kiss with Raphael. The city still bore scars—cracked streets, blackened spires, whispers of a holy succubus who walked through fire and left only bodies—but Lucy had found a pocket of quiet. She sat in a secluded chamber high above one of Isolde's private estates, a room bathed in late-afternoon gold. Velvet drapes the color of old wine framed tall windows. A low chaise stretched beneath her, piled with silk cushions. She lounged across it in a skimpy black-and-silver outfit that left little to the imagination: a cropped top that barely contained her chest, a short skirt slit high on both thighs, and thigh-high stockings that shimmered faintly with rose-gold thread. Her hair—once practical silver-blonde—had shifted to a vivid, defiant pink that cascaded in loose waves down her back, catching the light like spun candy.
Thorn sprawled across her lap, tiny rose-gold body curled into a contented ball. The little devil's wings were tucked tight, petals along her horns blooming a lazy silver-blue. Every so often she gave a soft, purring sigh and nuzzled Lucy's stomach, tail flicking in slow, happy arcs.
Isolde knelt at the foot of the chaise, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She wore a simple silk robe, sleeves rolled up, and was gently massaging Lucy's feet. Her thumbs worked slow, reverent circles over the arches, easing tension Lucy hadn't even noticed she carried. The duchess's touch was warm, careful, almost worshipful. Every few strokes she glanced up with quiet adoration, then returned to her task without a word.
Lucy held an ancient liturgy book open on her chest—an Order text she had stolen during her escape. The pages were worn, edges gilded, words of praise and purity inked in careful black. She turned them slowly, lips moving in silent recitation, eyes calm and focused. The old words no longer felt like chains. They felt like armor she had reforged herself.
The window casement creaked.
Raphael slipped inside with the grace of a falling feather. His white wings folded neatly against his back, silver edges catching the sunset. His pale gold hair was wind-tousled, robes slightly rumpled from flight. He landed soundlessly on the rug, blue eyes finding Lucy immediately. For a heartbeat he simply looked at her—pink hair, skimpy outfit, Thorn on her lap, Isolde at her feet—and something soft and reverent flickered across his face.
Lucy didn't look up from the page. "Report."
Raphael stepped closer, voice low but steady. "Heaven has caught up. The superiors held council at dawn. They branded you heretic. Abomination. A walking wound in the divine order. Michael himself signed the decree. They call you the holy succubus reborn, and they have ordered your purge. No trial. No mercy. Just fire and sword."
The room stayed quiet except for the soft rustle of pages as Lucy turned another leaf.
Isolde's fingers paused on Lucy's ankle, then resumed their gentle pressure. Thorn lifted her head, ears twitching, but didn't hiss. She simply watched Raphael with bright, curious eyes.
Lucy closed the book with a soft snap and finally looked at him. Her gaze was clear, steady, almost amused. The pink hair framed her face like a crown of defiant flame. Confidence radiated from her now—not the brittle bravado of a fugitive, but the calm certainty of someone who had stared into her own abyss and decided to redecorate.
"Let them come," she said simply.
Raphael blinked.
Lucy set the liturgy aside and leaned back against the cushions, one leg stretching out so Isolde could continue her work. "They branded me heretic the moment I walked out of that crypt. The moment I refused to die quietly. The moment I chose to live instead of kneel. A piece of paper from Michael doesn't change anything. It just makes the game official."
She reached down and stroked Thorn's back. The little devil arched into the touch, purring loudly enough for everyone to hear.
"They'll bring their flaming swords," Lucy continued, voice light but edged with steel. "Their choirs. Their righteous fury. And I'll meet them. Not because I want to fight. But because I'm done hiding who I am."
Raphael knelt beside the chaise, one wing brushing the floor. "They will not stop at you. They will burn anyone who stands with you. Isolde. Me. The others who follow."
Lucy's gaze softened when it landed on him. "Then stand with me because you want to. Not because you have to. I'm not collecting soldiers, Raphael. I'm collecting people who choose me."
Isolde lifted her head, eyes shining. "I already chose."
Raphael bowed his head. "As did I."
Thorn yawned, stretched, then crawled up to nestle under Lucy's chin. The little devil's petals bloomed bright silver-blue, then rose-gold, then silver again, as if showing off for the room.
Lucy looked out the window at the city below. Smoke rose from distant chimneys. Somewhere under those streets, the Bloom waited—patient, hungry, growing.
She smiled—slow, confident, a little wicked.
"Let them come," she repeated, voice carrying the quiet weight of someone who had already decided the outcome.
The room settled into peaceful silence.
Isolde returned to massaging her feet.
Thorn purred.
Raphael stayed kneeling, wings folded, watching her with unshakable devotion.
And Lucy sat there—pink hair glowing in the fading light, book of old prayers resting beside her, a tiny devil on her chest, an angel at her side, a duchess at her feet—perfectly at ease.