With the bandage's end tied neatly and tucked in amongst the folds, Khalida retracted completely, dusting her hands as she sat back on her heels. Her empty smile remained lit by the warped shine in her eyes. "So?"

Gingerly, Micah stroked a few fingers over his wrappings. They sat tight against his skin, warm to the touch, strained by his erratic breathing. They felt like more of a trap than his coat had been.

An angel's heart could heal any wound, any pain. Even sharing that shred of knowledge with the humans had felt like a risk, a truth that trailed guilt and fear in its wake. But the extent of that healing was something they were supposed to have forgotten. It was that greed that had driven them to kill, that wish that had to be yanked out of reach before they could achieve it. There wasn't a more dangerous thought than a human who could live forever.

That same hungry desire lurked in the dark depths of Khalida's eyes. He pictured her a hundred years on, still lithe and bright with ambition, having spent a hundred years building her throne with the suffering of the city. He imagined all the years after.

She would be a true demon. He couldn't let her achieve that dream.

But how? What could he do?

His glare was feeble, but he prayed it had some effect all the same. "You can't."

She cocked her head. "I dare say I can do whatever I like."

Her gaze slid from Micah, and instinctive, momentary relief tumbled through him, as if the serpent coiled around his lungs had relaxed its squeezing hold. He wrestled in a few looser, full breaths. It wasn't enough to clear his head. The second she looked back his way, the coils constricted doubly as tight, his heart floundering with such force he was sure his chest would burst.

Her finger beckoned, though not to him. "First, however," she said, her smile almost fanged, "I'd like to conduct a test. You're content to observe, I'm sure?"

The lazy saunter of Raksey's step approached, his red-stained trousers fluttering as he came to a stop beside her. Micah made the mistake of glancing up at him. His eyes flashed with serrated, venomous joy, his grin a perfect match to the sharp glint of the knife he spun in his hand. He presented the weapon to Khalida with a flourish.

She accepted it with none of his eccentric flamboyance, but no less grace. As she held it up to study it, the red-tinged light of the room bounced off the blood that coated its surface, giving it a scarlet shine of an even brighter shade. Micah pressed his hand flat over his bandage to hide its shaking. That was his own blood. The mere sight of it drove a painful spike into his wound.

The murky mix of delight and curiosity reflected in Khalida's expression only deepened the sensation. Again her gaze flicked to Micah, cutting right over the knife's upheld point, before jumping away to his side. "Lilith. You're quite the forward-thinking scientist, I hear. Would you mind assisting me in an experiment?"

He twisted in time to see Lilith bare her teeth. He didn't recognise the word she spat, but enough hatred sliced through it to make him flinch.

"Hm." Khalida twitched the knife's point, and the man stood behind her grabbed a handful of her jacket, hauling her to her feet. Her heels skidded loosely over the polished floorboards as she squirmed. Her elbow smacked into his side and he growled, threading his fingers through her hair instead. A cry cut from her throat with his tug, and she stilled. There was no remains of her bun now. As he released her hair, curling a muscled arm around her middle instead to pin her in place, it hung like straw in her face. Limp, drooping as much as the dampened fire in her eyes.

Helplessness writhed in Micah's chest. Shoving his feet under him, he pushed himself half-upright, nails digging into the cracks in the paintwork as he leaned into the wall. The room was unsteady, but he could still make out Khalida's face with ease, the lack of remorse there. "Leave her alone," he bit out. "If... if it's me you want, then you can let her go. Let all of them go."

The barest frown creased Khalida's brow. "That sounds like a waste." She shrugged. "I really thought you'd be interested in this kind of research, Lilith. Why must you keep fighting me?"

"I don't know," Lilith hissed, dried venom dripping off each word. "Maybe it's the constant threats and your rather obvious plot for world domination."

Khalida laughed, and it was gentle, a haunting echo of the way Nerezza used to laugh at Micah when he was small. Kind mockery, the sort that proceeded an affectionate ruffle of his hair. He reached up to touch it, the silver ends swinging over his eyes before he swept them back. Sweat shifted his grip on the wall.

"You're right," she mused. "You don't know."

Knife held aloft, she stepped towards Lilith, and desperation coursed through Micah's veins. Forcing his legs to straighten, he steeled himself and flung his right wing between them. Uselessly hung at his side, his left one twinged with his fear. "Stop." Fists clenched, he pinned Khalida with his stare. "I said leave her alone."

A sniff of a chuckle, far darker than her usual titter. His grey feathers quivered as her palm brushed over them. "Beautiful," she murmured, entirely unfazed. Her hand curled, fingers poking until they cupped the rounded outline of a bone. There was gentle, careful pressure. Regret speared ice through his chest. "I wonder just how fragile these are?"

"Fragile enough," Raksey chipped in, lingering at her side like a shadow. His head peeked around her, gaze zeroing in on the wing. "I'd be willing to conduct that experiment if you wished, Mistress."

Micah's wing shrunk back of its own accord, retreating to fold in at his side. Khalida waved a dismissive hand at Raksey. "Not now." Her skirt washed over her thighs in crimson waves as she strode the final couple of steps to Lilith, no time left for Micah to do anything more. The only acknowledgement cast his way was the tilt of Raksey's head, the twinkling warning that froze him entirely stiff.

"I've more immediate interest in this topic." She held only a couple inches over Lilith, and yet her stance held her as tall and sharp as the spire of a tower. In comparison, Lilith was a simple human on the street, swallowed by the tower's shade and buried in grit and dirt. "Your left arm, please."

Lilith's arm shifted back in response. The man locked a hand over her wrist, jerking it back, his fingers roughly digging under the sleeve and wrenching it back. Her teeth were visibly gritted. With pain, Micah realised, when he spied the red-stained cloth tied there with far less precision than his own bandage.

Her arm. How could he forget? A stranger's knife had slashed a bloodied line there the night Kasper died. Maybe it was the same knife that now hovered over the flesh, clutched in Khalida's hand as she ripped away the cloth.

The wound wasn't bleeding any longer, but the scab slitting the skin was pale and fresh, barely formed. After being manhandled, one edge was partially peeled away. Unshed tears burned in Lilith's eyes.

"Stop," Micah tried again. He sounded feeble.

Khalida paid him no notice. She pressed the flat of the knife against the wound, and, in a swift movement, dragged it downward. The point nicked the skin as it passed. A thin film of blood -- Micah's blood -- was left in its wake, a lighter stain against the darker colour of the cloth.

A frown broke through the pain in Lilth's expression. Micah glanced up at her, his breath held. Realisation bloomed into a weak hope.

A droplet of the blood vanished, and his heart jittered, suddenly torn from his panic and aware of the tangle of joy balling in his stomach. Just slowly, he was sure he could see the scab reattaching. Healing. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Had he really come that far? Was there truly power brewing in his veins?

The breathless seconds floated by on a distant breeze. Asariel's blood had been a pure, shining silver by the time he died, the same shade of the small store Eike held somewhere in the cathedral. Raksey had mentioned glints of silver in Micah's own blood. His gaze drifted to his chest, his thumb running over his bandages. This was no place for elation, no time to feel proud of something the humans planned to exploit, yet he felt it regardless.

"Nothing." Raksey rolled the word around his mouth, tying it up with plenty of disdain. Micah's head snapped up, and all at once, his pride crumbled.

The wound remained. So did the rest of the blood.

If there had been something, it was nowhere near enough.

Khalida hummed, a musing kind of disappointment. Scooping up the cloth, she wiped away the blood, and Lilith's captor tugged the sleeve back into place. She yanked her arm back to her side, though her quizzical stare was fixed on Micah. He twisted away, shame like acid that ate away at his insides. It shouldn't matter. And yet still, for a fleeting moment, he'd hoped he'd redeemed himself enough that there might be more.

"Well," Khalida said, dropping the knife. It landed beside her foot with a clatter, the sound accenting the dark gleam of her eyes as they pounced on him. A grim smile sat on her lips. "That's a shame."

Her hand slithered down her side, and Micah knew what she was reaching for before her fingers closed around its curved handle, its long barrel lifted until it pointed his way. Corinne's rifle. It was identical in its mahogany shade, its slim shape. Its trigger.

"I suppose I'll have to try my second test," she added, as if it was a throwaway comment, a thought that didn't dangle his life off the end of it.

He ducked back into the wall, gasping when his injured wing knocked into it. Panic flung up his hands. "Wait!" His tongue tripped over itself. "If--if I'm useless, then what's the point? My heart will just... just wither and fade." He swallowed, that echo of Corinne's flat words aching in his chest. She was right. Of course she was right. "It would be pointless to take."

The heel of her boot clipped the edge of the floorboard as she moved closer. Her expression softened, morphed into what might have been pity. "I think you're being too hard on yourself, Micah." Sadness glimmered in her eyes. "You poor thing. You're not useless."

"It won't work." Each word was dragged up his throat, scraping between his teeth as it emerged. "I can't give you what you want." The odd urge to apologise fluttered in its wake, though he bit that part off. Fear seemed to have steered in unnecessary guilt in place of his anger.

She sighed, and the rifle lowered. He breathed a long, shuddering exhale, his relief a cool fragrance that washed through his lungs. This was good, in a way. She couldn't get what she wanted with him. Perhaps his own uselessness was of benefit after all.

Perhaps he wasn't going to die.

"If you feel so strongly about it..." The barrel of the rifle swung, back and forth, a motion that matched her backward step. She looked to the side. "I suppose it's a good thing I have a reserve angel."

His stomach dropped.

"Raksey, would you bring our bat-winged friend over here? We can test--"

"No!" In a burst of desperate adrenaline, he sprung forward, grabbing for the rifle. His damp palms slid over it, weak compared to her firm grip. Her head tipped with curiosity. Though his chest pooled with dread, he eased the rifle towards himself, surprised when she let him lift it, not stopping until its gentle touch met the surface of his bandage.

"No," he said, his voice shaking. Every bit of him followed suit. The weapon jittered between his hands. "No, do it to me. My... my heart will work. I was lying." The words tasted bitter in his throat. Part of him wished he believed them.

But he was just being selfish again. What mattered was keeping the others alive, not his own stupid desire to be more than he was.

She hummed. "Are you quite sure?"

"I'm sure." He cursed himself. If only he had learned to lie. All he could hope was that his own terror was thick enough to hide all trace of it. "Kill me. Let Jinx go. You... you only need me."

His eyes stung. He bit down on his lip, hating how horribly afraid he was, but determined to do this anyway. He wasn't going to be selfish this time. He kept his gaze on Khalida, his fingers curling tighter over the end of the rifle.

Maybe this was the reason Eike had sent him, really. Not as punishment. Not to retrieve the Heart. Not because he was smart, or skilled, or capable.

Not because he would survive, but because he would die, and then they would all finally be rid of him.

"Fine." Khalida righted her stance, the trigger caught beneath her finger. Her smile was crooked. "Thank you, Micah. I'm glad you understand."

His nod was stiff. His eyes squeezed shut without his command. Behind them, he pictured Elysia, the ornate pillars, the shining gold, the clear skies. At least he could be confident that it would remain standing. Even if he'd never see it again.

The rifle slipped from his hands.

For a moment, he simply remained frozen, feeling for the empty air where it had once been. Then, carefully, he prised open his eyes.

Corinne stood in front of him.

He couldn't breathe. It was her, tangles of dirty hair flung over one shoulder, her tattered coat hung unbuttoned like a limp pair of wings. One pale hand gripped Khalida's wrist, twisting it so the rifle pointed at the floor. The other held a blood-speckled knife. With a growl, she flung it right at Khalida's throat.

Khalida dodged, diving to the side, her elbow knocking into Corinne's shoulder. She skidded back to the right with a gasp. Raksey grabbed her arm, and Micah winced at the sound of the knife hitting the floor.

Khalida's grin really did seem to bear fangs.

With a sharp tug, she wrenched her wrist free from Corinne's grip, inspecting the rifle as if it might be damaged. By the time her gaze lifted, it was cold and calculating, and it oozed with pleasure.

"Corinne," she said, an odd mix of sticky concern and smooth delight. "It's nice to see you awake."

Corinne's hiss was almost animalistic. She jerked against Raksey's grip, but didn't break free. Though Micah couldn't see her face from this angle, he could practically taste the anger and pain that rolled off her, distinctly aware of the way she trembled, of the free hand she curled into a fist. Fresh blood trickled down her leg. She balanced on it awkwardly, her knee half-bent.

And yet Khalida still smiled. He couldn't help the distinct sense that this was exactly what she'd been waiting for.

His chest heaved. He shouldn't have let himself, and yet the dizzy, faded thrill of seeing her alive and awake tripped out the broken whisper regardless. "Corinne."

It might have been his imagination, but he was sure her breath hitched.

Raksey drew a knife of his own, a clean one, glinting metallic silver. He turned it over, his head cocked towards Khalida. "Now may I spill her blood?"

"No." She took another step back, analysing. "Release her."

"But--"

"Release her." Her fingers stroked the rifle. "What can she do?"

Reluctantly, Raksey obliged. Corinne stumbled, and Micah rushed forward without thought, grabbing onto her shoulder to steady her. He didn't have the chance to be shocked that no-one stopped him. Her dark hazel eyes were wild as they met his.

"Micah," she breathed.

"Corinne." A sob lodged in his throat. His lip trembled. He inhaled sharply, then threw his arms around her, pulling her into him. His head rested on her shoulder. She was stiff beneath his touch, her weight more leaning into him than returning the embrace, but he didn't care. She didn't need to look at him. She didn't need to give him anything. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Alright, scruffy." She extracted herself from him, though one hand still pressed down on his shoulder, keeping her balanced. After a moment, the other grabbed for his arm. If a smile did flicker over her lips, it was soon transformed into an agonised grimace. Her gaze darted over his shoulder, hesitated, then landed on him again.

His heart twinged. There was deep, harsh fear lurking behind her eyes, glinting with that hazel spark. It was the softest look she'd ever given him, and he wished it would harden again, that she would look as certain as she always did. "Micah," she said again, her voice fragmented. "I--"

"Look at you both." The silky ribbon of Khalida's voice wound its way between them, binding them in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Micah saw her edge forward, the rifle still loose in her grip. She smiled that eerily genuine smile. "You're awfully cute together, I must say. I hate to break it up."

A quiet hiss scraped between Corinne's gritted teeth. Hand sliding further around Micah, she tugged him sideways, shoving him behind her before he could stop her. His shoulder ached as she clung to its support, but he didn't dare fight her. "Stop this stupid obsession, Khalida," she snapped. "The magic doesn't work. How much evidence of that do you need? Just..." She slipped, her inhale shaking as she leaned more heavily onto Micah. He seized her arm, wishing he was as big as Ghidor, big enough to keep her safe entirely. He stretched out his wing as a partial shield, but even that was feeble. If this went on much longer, he'd crumble before she did.

"Just stop," she finished. "Leave Micah out of your delusions. Your game is with me."

This time, Khalida's laugh had a cruel bite. "This isn't a game, Corinne." The red stripe in her hair glinted as she tossed it back. "This is life and death."

A shot cut through the final word.

Every nerve in Micah's body jerked. Terror seared through his veins, his heart cracking thunder in his ears, until sense filtered through enough to see that the bullet hadn't struck him. He was okay. He was still standing.

Then Corinne's hand slipped off his shoulder, and his panic exploded.

With a wordless cry, he lunged forward, desperate to catch her, but his legs buckled under him and he found himself dragged down with her. His knees struck the floorboards. He kept a tight hold on her arm, his ears ringing, all else blurred out of focus. There was only her.

A rapid crimson stain soaked her shirt, made darker by the black material. He wrenched his focus from it. The fear in her eyes had brightened, tears shimmering there like the glassy film of a pond reflecting a night sky. She blinked as if to cast them aside. It didn't work.

"No." He could hardly hear himself speak. "No, you're not dying. No. I can--" He choked, his own tears flooding forth all at once. "I'll fix it. I'll--"

"Micah."

Even with her voice so quiet, so broken, she still had the ability to seize up his tongue. She reached out, and he let her take his hand, her fingers threading with his. Her skin was cold.

"I'm sorry for dragging you into this mess." She drew in a quick breath, her stare sharp despite its fearful shine. She feared death, but she was facing it with bravery regardless. "You get out of this, alright?"

Clinging to her hand, he shook his head. "No. We... We're both getting out. I..." His vision clouded over. "Please. I have to fix it."

"You can't fix it." She really was smiling, just barely, a sad kind of smile that battled through layers of fear and pain to emerge. "It's okay."

But it's not okay. His lips parted soundlessly, his voice a shattered, beaten thing. He wiped at his eyes with little success. I wanted to protect you. But I failed again. I messed up. I can't fail you. Please, don't let me--

"But he can fix it, can't he?"

Khalida's voice floated into his awareness, his whirlwind of thoughts buffeted aside. A blade slid in to block his view of Corinne. Its murky surface was mirrored enough for him to catch a glimpse of his silver eyes, the way they sparkled with reflected light and tears.

A dull kind of fury barrelled through his chest. Setting his jaw against his own shaking, he hauled his gaze up, the dark feeling balling into hatred. It tasted foul. He didn't care. He threw it all up at her, and the bitter hopelessness of it all formed a lump in his throat.

She watched him in return, unfazed, curious. One corner of her mouth curled. "Go on."

His teeth pressed together. For once, part of him wished he didn't understand, but he did, and the knowledge was a needle in his heart. It was pointless. He was going to fail.

He snatched the knife from her anyway.

"Micah." Corinne's voice, fading as it was, took on a desperate note. Her nails dragged over his hand. "Micah, no. Don't do what... she wants."

The knife's handle dug into his palm hard enough to hurt. He hoped he looked as fierce as he felt as he met her eyes. "I have to try."

Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into his arm.

It was only when he tore it through the flesh, ripping it out again, did the screaming agony register. It couldn't be worse than the wound in his middle, but it felt like it. The pain blistered with the burn of flaming ice. More tears blurred his vision, enough that he could barely make out anything more than the glitter of his own blood as it surged from the gash.

Her grip was slack enough that it was easy to pull his hand from hers. He didn't let himself think about what that meant, about how much hinged on this simple action, about how much he was begging for this to work, so much so that his heart rang with the echo of his hope. He simply positioned his arm over her wound, grabbed it with a shaking hand and the knife still pinned between his fingers, and squeezed.

Please, his heart whispered, a thrash in his chest. Please.

A shower of blood dripped from his arm, a fluid mix of red and silver that intermingled with the dark stain that soaked her shirt. Realisation shoved a gasp from his lungs. He clawed at the material, yanking it with all his strength until it tore and revealed the scarlet-stained flesh beneath.

He applied more pressure, not caring how much it burned or that the image tilted out of focus. Please.

There wasn't enough blood. He needed more. Releasing his arm, he drove the knife in again, pushing it further. A fiery ache overwhelmed his senses. He twisted and yanked it out. His cry sounded distant.

Please.

He squeezed again. More blood. His fingers were numb, barely feeling the sensation of skin on skin. His heartbeat was shockingly loud.

Please.

"Micah!"

Something cold wrapped around his wrist. He jolted, blinking away the scraps of darkness that tugged at his vision.

The first thing he saw was Corinne's face.

She held onto his wrist, her grip tight enough to pin him in place. She sat half-upright, her other arm keeping her braced against the floor. Her eyes swirled with a muddy mix of confusion and shock and a crack of pointed, pleading desperation.

"Stop," she snapped, and it broke through.

She was healed.

She was alive.

"I..." The word balanced awkwardly on his tongue, emerging too soft, not loud enough to shatter the haze that hung thick in the air. More tumbled out anyway, as faraway as his heartbeat. "I did it."

Black flickers snapped at the corners of his eyes. His gaze roamed to and fro, as if he might capture them with an unfocused stare. Corinne reeled his attention back to her with a tug.

"You did." Disbelief coated each syllable, struck through with amazement. Pride? Was she proud of him?

"Yeah." A giddy laugh bubbled up his throat, though he didn't hear it emerge. An incessant whine rung louder, rolling around in his ears, driving all else away. He slid sideways. His shoulder hit the ground, and grating pain strung the length of his wing, dulled as it was stirred up with everything else. Corinne's fingers laced with his again. She was less cold now, like melting ice.

Had he really saved her?

His grin was faint, yet its warmth filled the void of darkness behind his eyelids. It didn't matter what he'd done. She was alive. She would be okay.

Of all the sweet, tingling spice he'd tasted, the joy wrapping his tongue triumphed over every one.

⋄┈┈┈⋄⋄✧♡✧⋄⋄┈┈┈⋄

I have nothing to say here other than wow was this a ride to write. I think it broke me. If anyone needs me, I'll be thinking about Micah being so desperate he just skjksfds--

Oh and holding hands. They're holding hands. Goodbye.

- Pup