Something was happening. Joan didn't know what, but she could sense it. Her baby girl perceived it too. She was restless, constantly moving and kicking. The Fallen Angel's discomfort had alerted Leonora, who immediately warned the Lord of Dreams. Half-dressed and in a wild frenzy, Morpheus barged into the room, looking like a dashing peacock with his long open kimono flapping about him.

"What is it? Are you all right? Is it the child? Is it still in there? Well, speak up, you damn girl!"

"No, I switched the baby for a stuffed pillow." Joan rolled her eyes at his absurd questions. "Obviously it's still in here. What else do you think the bump is?"

"Laugh all you want, but if anything happens to your little brat, it'll be all our heads!"

Morpheus dropped onto the bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. He appeared minutes away from having a fit.

"I've sent word to that wretched Countess," he said, rubbing his temples. "She'll know what to do with you."

Joan groaned in exasperation. The last thing she needed was that putrefying witch adding to her stress. Leonora threw an apologetic glance at Joan, but she couldn't chide the maidservant for Morpheus' panicky state. She had only tried to help.
There was a knock on the open door, and sure enough, there she was — Countess Bathory. Her veil hung over her perfectly coiffed hair, revealing her pasty face, while the rest of her body was covered in rich, black velvet cloth. A foul stench entered the room, churning Joan's stomach. She noticed it even made Morpheus uncomfortable, based on his pinched expression.

"You said there was something amiss?" asked the Countess, forgoing a proper greeting (not that Joan would've given her one in return).

"I-Indeed," he said. "The... child seems to be... moving a lot."

"Hm, well, it is nearer to her time. But I suppose it's better to have a look. Wouldn't want anything to happen to the... little angel."

Joan met the witch's gaze. Hatred. A desire to kill. That's what she saw. If it wasn't for Lucifer having a hold on Bathory and needing Joan alive, the bitch would've probably already tried to kill her. The feeling was mutual.
The Countess stepped into the room, further spreading her vile odour. Joan did her best not to gag as the walking corpse came to her side and held her gloved hand above her belly. The baby kicked hard, causing Joan to groan at the sharp sting inside her. She couldn't blame her daughter's reaction, though.

"All is well," said Bathory. "I suspect it merely feels the loss the Heavens have suffered."

The room fell silent. Morpheus and Leonora exchanged a look with each other before looking at Joan, but she only had eyes for the Countess.

"What do you mean?" she asked fearfully.

The horrid woman grinned wickedly. Joan's heart stopped. What was going on outside the Dream Realm that had such an effect on her unborn child? On her, a Fallen Angel, even?

"What happened?" Joan's voice broke. "Did... Did someone die?"

But Bathory remained silent, clearly enjoying the distress she was inflicting. Her Cheshire-like grin widened.

"Tell me what happened!" cried Joan.

The triumphant smirk on the witch's face faltered at her outburst as the room started shaking. Bathory instantly recoiled and raised her hand, ruby sparks flickering at her fingertips as her broken amulet burned red. Morpheus hurriedly stepped in. He forced himself between the bed and the demon witch, blocking her view of Joan.

"All right, that's enough!" he yelled. "Get out of my palace, you decrepit viper, before I tell the Devil what you have done here! OUT!"

With one last look at the pregnant Fallen Angel, the Blood Countess left the room, leaving the stench and the echoes of her poison behind. Leonora rushed to Joan's side and took her hand. Joan trembled with anxiety. She had to know what was happening. She had to know if they were all right. Her friends, her mother, Gabriël...

Oh, dear God, no, not him, she prayed. Please don't let it be him!

She looked up at Morpheus as her tears fell. It was the first time she saw him look at her (or anyone) with sympathy. He opened his mouth to speak, but then decided against it. Nothing he could've said would've mattered, anyway.
As he left Joan's room, he nearly bumped into Ragazzino. The boy had most certainly followed everything from the corridor outside and hurried over to Joan, ignoring his master's bewildered look. Ragazzino climbed on the bed, and Joan allowed him to pull her into an embrace. But the foreign words he sang brought no comfort to the distraught mother-to-be.

***

Strange, thought Morpheus as he returned to his own rooms. Peculiar even.

His favourite golden maidservant had never mentioned that the boy had taken a special liking to the Fallen Angel. Interesting that of all the servants in his domain, Joan should be in the company of those two. Coincidence, surely. But then again, there was no such thing.
The three people in that room had all been brought into his Realm by the Devil. The golden-haired maidservant was leverage to be used against her idiot brother. No idea what the Russian boy could possibly mean to the Prince of Hell, but there was certainly no denying the elusive power the boy held. And then there was the Fallen Angel and the whelp growing inside her.
How curious they had all found each other.

***

Michael had never felt so useless in his entire existence. Eve had disappeared, and with her, Azrael too, it seemed. He attempted to contact the former Angel of Death, but he wasn't strong enough to do it alone; he needed Eve.
The Archangel paced anxiously in the darkness, trying to make sense of Azrael's presence. Her rune had burned off his arm, so something definitely happened to her. But may it had to do with this place. Was Morpheus keeping her prisoner, too? Did Samael trick her all those years ago like he had Michael? Was Lucifer involved in this? If he was, then the Devil's scheming and planning went back even further than Michael thought.

Azrael disappeared over a millennium after Lucifer fell. Before that, she'd been coming to the Vale less and less. She said God gave her a student, and she was instructing him. Only a few amongst the Archangels had been introduced to Samael at that point, supposedly because she didn't want too many to know about him yet. Samael had been the one to inform them later that Azrael left the collective, and he would assume her responsibilities as the Angel of Death.
No one had bothered to ask questions. There had been no search, no inquiry, nothing... Everyone had simply accepted Azrael left, assuming she became a hermit like Uriël. They all forget about her over time — even the Lord Protector. 
Despite this, there had always been a voice within Michael warning him about Samael. They often came to blows because of their mistrust of each other. He should've known something was amiss. He should've been more vigilant and gone looking for Azrael. Another mistake. Another addition to his shame.

Suddenly, a chill fell over Michael. The ground trembled. In the middle of the room, under the ever-present light, rose a stone table. Was it an altar? No — a tomb. The body of a man appeared on it. His throat was cut, and blood seeped over his body. Michael recognised him as one of the Nephilim of the Resia Sanctum.

What is this? What has happened?

"Such a shame."

Michael looked up to see Lucifer coming from the shadows, a mocked sadness on his face.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"This? This is the first of many. The consequence of your betrayal. The Horsemen are laying waste to God's mortal creation whilst I strike at his divine. I wonder; do you know what happens to angels when they die?"

Michael stumbled back at Lucifer's maniacal grin. This couldn't be real. It had to be another of his infernal tricks.

"It's finally here, Michael. The Final Battle is upon us. But don't worry; you'll have a front-row seat from your prison. I'll make sure you are aware of all the pain, all the death, all the destruction my armies will cause. You'll see your precious Vale crumble into nothing. You'll witness your precious Gabriël chose me. The darkness will take over everything you hold dear. And when I'm done, I will make you relive it. Over and over again. You will never be free of this nightmare, Michael. Never!"

Michael screamed and lunged at Lucifer, but the Devil had already vanished, his villainous laugh echoing through the void. The Archangel was left alone with the illusion of the Nephilim's corpse. He didn't dare to go near it, but neither could he look away. 
Lucifer had asked the one question Michael could not answer. He asked the one thing all angels, even Archangels, feared the most. What happens when they die?

***

The Master seemed pleased after the events of the previous night, which was a fortunate thing for many within the palace. He had been in the sourest mood for the past two weeks, torturing and killing lower demons, hell beasts and cursed souls in all Nine Circles for the slightest of grievances. 
The initial failures of the strike team in their attacks on the Nephilim had only made things worse. Every time they reported their attacks proved futile because the Sanctum was evacuated or the remaining Nephilim stood their ground long enough to escape, the Master howled and raged, rampaging throughout the palace.
The Borgia Bastard had pleaded to be put in charge of the assault on Resia, even requesting an army of lower demons. The man had no honour whatsoever. Grigori had never imagined the Master would agree to it. But he had, and Borgia achieved what the Prince of Wallachia could not, bringing them a victory. And yet, the man sulked like a child who had his favourite toy taken away. For all he had done to ensure Resia would fall, only one Nephilim died, and she had slipped from his grasp once again. Anne Boleyn still lived, and to the high and mighty Cesare Borgia, who had awoken only that afternoon from the wounds he had suffered, this was an unforgivable failure.

Grigori stood against the wall in the Master's chambers, his mind troubled as he watched the merriment of the victory feast before him. The attack on the Nephilim would prove to be a mistake. Especially now that there had been a casualty.
Gabriël would act. He was Lord Protector now; he had to act. Though not a warrior like Michael, he was one of the smartest people Grigori had ever met. The Archangel wouldn't attack head-on; he would devise a trick, a ruse, something no one would suspect. That was the real danger.

"You don't join us."

Grigori looked up and saw Vlad Tepes beside him. The man held two cups of wine, extending one to Grigori.

"I find no cause for celebration," he said as he accepted the cup.

"I assumed as much. You never agreed with this scheme, did you?"

"No. But if memory serves, neither did you." The Impaler's expression remained blank, but Grigori knew he had the man's attention and leaned in to continue in a soft voice. "I've known for some time. You play a dangerous game."

"Don't we all?" replied Tepes.

"May I ask why?"

"I did not deserve to be one of God's warriors in Heaven. I have killed too many. All in His name, but that does not make it right, of course. My proper place is here, amongst the other retches. But I will not deny Him. I will always serve Him."

Grigori admired the man's sense of unconditional loyalty. It was a rare thing to see in Hell, where ever demon fought for one person and one person only — themselves.

"Be careful," he warned as he took a sip of wine. "Our Master was once an Archangel. He may already know about you."

Both looked at the man dressed fully in black, seated on his throne. The Devil sat straight but had his eyes closed. A vicious smirk graced his face. The few who noticed hastily looked away.

"I thank you for your concern," said Tepes. "And for your silence. If I can repay you —"

"There is something," interrupted Grigori.

Tepes furrowed his brow in mild surprise and waited patiently for him to continue.

"The Romanovs; is there any way to get them out of here?"

"All of them? No. But perhaps one may leave unnoticed."

"The youngest daughter, Anastasia," said Grigori. "She has the strength and perseverance that would've made her a fit candidate for the Vale."

"I cannot go there again," said Tepes. "I already took a risk in doing so once."

"The Castel Sant' Angelo then. The Nephilim will do the rest."

The Prince of Wallachia regarded Grigori carefully, eyeing him up and down. He didn't blame him for his caution. For all Tepes knew, Grigori was setting a trap for him. Eventually, he nodded.

"Make sure the girl stands ready. I will take her away tonight."

Tepes walked away, leaving Grigori once again on his own. When he looked through the chamber, he noticed the Master had opened his eyes. The Borgia Bastard stood at his side, whispering his venom. Their eyes were fixed on him, and uneasiness overcame Grigori, the likes of which he had only felt once before — the day he'd died.