The relic vault was quiet now, heavy with the scent of sanctified ash and flowing water. The final flames had faded, but their light still seemed to linger—etched into the walls, the altar, the hearts of those who remained.
They came in pairs.
Six guards in gleaming white plate, gold filigree running down their pauldrons like tears. The Pontifex's Own. They entered slowly, weapons sheathed, visors raised. None spoke. None dared.
They looked upon their lord with eyes full of disbelief.
Pontifex Caelestis XXIV lay draped in wet robes, blackened at the hems, his hand still loosely curled as if in mid-prayer. The holy water that had flowed through the chamber lapped quietly at his feet.
The guards stood frozen for a moment, unable to approach.
Commander Vaelus entered last. His face was pale behind his helmet's open crest, eyes bloodshot with disbelief and something near shame.
He stepped forward alone.
Then dropped to one knee.
"We are too late…" he whispered, voice cracking. "Too late to stand with him."
Behind him, the guards followed suit, six armored knees striking the stone in reverent unison. Caelin stood off to the side, bloodied, burned, still breathing—but barely.
Behemoth watched in silence. The creature stood like a stone effigy beside the ruined sarcophagus. Water clung to its massive frame. Its eyes did not glow now. Only after several breaths did Vaelus rise and give the order.
"Take him."
Two of the guards stepped forward. Carefully, reverently, they lifted the Pontifex's body. No relic was ever handled with more care. No crown borne with more weight.
They carried him through the relic vault and up the broken stair, through a ship scarred by demons but now silent—purified by flame and sacrifice.
As the Pontifex passed beneath the ancient gate of the vault, every guard along the halls knelt. Not one looked upon his face.
They would bury him among the others, yes—but none would mistake him for one of them. He had earned more than marble or gold. He would surely become legend.
As the relic vault emptied and the body of Pontifex Caelestis XXIV disappeared beyond the archway, silence fell again.
Behemoth lingered by the broken sarcophagus. His great, grey frame cast a long shadow beneath the sacred glow of ancient relics. He did not resist when the squad of six guards approached. Their weapons were drawn, but not raised.
The beast only turned once—to look at Caelin. There was something in that glance. Not gratitude. Not recognition. Something primal and shared. A mutual understanding: they were both weapons forged in pain.
The guards encircled the Behemoth and began their descent toward the hull—toward the containment cells where the Pope had once kept the alien as a curiosity. Now, it returned not as a trophy, but as a survivor.
And Caelin… was already being led back to his own cell. Commander Vaelus himself walked at his side, one hand on the hilt of his sword—not out of caution, but from habit. His face was unreadable beneath the silver edge of his hooded helm. They walked in silence through damaged halls. Blood smeared the tiles. Purified corpses of demons were still being scraped off the walls. Templari priests whispered prayers over scorched steel and broken holy wards.
"I saw what you did," Vaelus finally said. His voice was rough, clipped. "Not just with the demon. With Baal."
Caelin said nothing.
"You fought with your bare hands," the Commander continued. "Held the line with your body. When I received the comm from His Holiness... I thought it was a trick. A demon's lie."
Still, Caelin said nothing. They turned a corridor, past more kneeling guards who bowed as the two passed. Vaelus slowed his steps.
"You understand, don't you?" he asked. "Without the Pontifex… the Holy Synod will delay. Argue. Mourn. But the fleet cannot wait."
"I know," Caelin finally answered. His voice was low. Exhausted.
Vaelus stopped before the brig door. The cell—stark and black as penitence itself—stood open, waiting.
"I will take command," Vaelus said, looking Caelin over. "Until the Synod anoints a successor, the Templari will move as I direct. I'll see to the integrity of the fleet… the sanctity of the mission."
He glanced down the corridor, then back.
"There will be questions," he added. "Accusations. About how the demons got in. About you. About that boy."
Caelin met his gaze. "Then let them come."
Vaelus offered the ghost of a smile.
"You've earned your name back. And then some. But don't expect gratitude. Not from them."
He turned away, then paused.
"Rest. While you can. Redemption is never a quiet road."
And with that, he keyed the cell shut, the door sealing with a hiss of sanctified air. Caelin was alone again. The silence of the brig embraced him. Cold, austere, familiar. He sat back against the wall, the blood of battle still drying on his face. Outside, the fleet drifted through the stars, leaderless… but not rudderless.
The cell door groaned open.
A woman stepped inside, the red cross of the Order of Saint Camilla stitched across the shoulder of her robe. She carried a worn satchel that clinked faintly with medical tools and vials. Her stride slowed the moment she laid eyes on him.
Caelin sat motionless on the bench, still clad in his battered Forsaken armor. Blood—his own and that of demons—was dried thick across the blackened plating. Dents ran down his arms and ribs, metal torn where talons had found purchase. Across his chestplate, dulled but unbroken, shone the engraving of a lion's head—its mane wild, its gaze defiant.
The Lion of Judah.
Her eyes caught on it and lingered.
"That armor should've been peeled off hours ago," she muttered, walking in fully. "You're bleeding under every plate."
He didn't answer. Didn't even look up.
"I can't treat you through that relic. Do you want to die here in it, or are you going to let me help?"
After a moment's pause, Caelin finally stirred. His joints creaked with effort. The helmet came off first—hissing faintly as he twisted the seal and pulled it free. Then, slowly, with quiet grimaces of pain, he began to unfasten the armor's clasps.
Each piece hit the floor with weight. Pauldrons, vambraces, gauntlets. The legplates came next. The last to fall away was the breastplate.
She caught it before it clanged to the ground, her hands tracing over the lion's face. For a moment, she said nothing—just looked down at it.
"Marshal Dareth's symbol," she said finally. "You kept it."
Caelin's voice was hoarse. "I reclaimed it."
She met his eyes. "Then carry it well."
Her gaze dropped to his exposed torso—and what she saw made her breath hitch.
His body was a ruined testament to battle. Gashes traced down his side. Punctures along his abdomen wept fresh blood. One of his shoulders looked partially dislocated. Long slashes, some cauterized, others jagged and raw, ran across his chest and arms.
"How in God's name are you still conscious?"
He gave a weak shrug, then flinched from the motion.
She immediately set to work. She cleaned what she could, binding wounds, stitching deep cuts, sealing punctures with blessed salve. When she touched his ribs, his breathing hitched—but he didn't cry out.
After a while, she spoke again—quietly, while dabbing at a cracked vein on his side.
"They said you fought a demon barehanded."
Caelin looked away. "More than one."
She nodded slowly, not questioning it.
"And the Pope?"
He was silent for a long moment.
"Gone."
She lowered her head. "Then may God have mercy on us."
The words hung between them like incense smoke—too fragile to break, too solemn to ignore.
Caelin leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. "He already has."
She turned to him, brows raised slightly. "By letting the Pontifex die?"
"No," Caelin rasped. "By letting the rest of us live."
She folded her arms, resting her hip on the edge of the cell's bench. "That's a bleak sort of mercy."
"I'm Forsaken. We don't get the gentle kind."
Silence settled for a moment. She opened her satchel and began slowly organizing the tools again—though clearly not in a hurry to leave.
"You don't get many visitors, do you?" she asked.
He gave the faintest shake of his head.
"I figured," she said, not unkindly. "Most of the others would rather not be seen down here. The brig smells like rust and regret. And you—you're still a myth to most of them."
"A myth?"
"You slew a Firstborn. Survived Tartarus-touched soil. Came back with Dareth's sword and a new mark on your chest." She nodded toward the Lion of Judah resting at his feet. "You're walking scripture now. They just don't know what to do with you."
Caelin looked at her for the first time with full attention. "And you?"
She hesitated, then smiled faintly. "I don't put my faith in myths. Just people. Wounded, bleeding, breathing. Like you."
He said nothing, but the corner of his mouth might have twitched.
She leaned forward slightly. "Can I ask something?"
Caelin nodded.
"What's it like... living in chains between wars? Knowing they only open your door when something needs killing?"
His gaze drifted to the cold iron of the bars. "It's honest."
She blinked. "Honest?"
"No politics. No sermons. No false absolution." He exhaled slowly. "They call me when truth must be paid in blood."
She studied him for a moment, then spoke more quietly. "And when do you rest?"
He gave a dry, humorless laugh. "When I've earned a name."
"But you have it back," she said. "Caelin. I saw it entered again into the Codex."
He looked away. "A name isn't a soul."
The words settled between them like dust. She didn't try to chase them away.
After a while, she spoke again—softer now. "I don't know if you need healing more in your flesh or your spirit."
"I don't get to ask for either," he murmured. "Only redemption."
She nodded quietly. "Then I hope you find it… before they break what's left."
Caelin's voice was nearly a whisper. "They already did."
She closed her satchel and stood. Her eyes lingered on him, then the armor, then the lion crest.
"I don't believe that."
And with that, she left.
The cell door closed behind her with a hollow clang, leaving Caelin once again with silence, steel, and the lion staring back at him.
The cell was silent, save for the occasional chime of the ship's internal clock and the soft hum of power cycling through Sanctum Caligar's bones. Caelin sat on the bench, armor reassembled and resting beside him like a dormant beast. The lion of Judah, polished and resolute on the breastplate, reflected the flickering light above.
He had not spoken to anyone since Sister Evadine's visit. She hadn't returned—not that he expected her to. Her absence simply left the silence heavier.
Then, the cell's outer gate unlatched with a hiss.
Commander Vaelus entered.
Imposing in his ceremonial armor, dark blue with silver trim and the winged cross of the Templari emblazoned on his pauldron, he walked with a commander's certainty and a tactician's restraint. His face was lined with weariness, but his eyes were sharp and intent.
The guards did not follow him in.
"You've become something of a legend, you know," Vaelus said, standing just within the threshold. "Some call you the Demon-Breaker now. Others whisper Lion of Caligo. It's spreading."
Caelin didn't look up. "I didn't do it for a name."
"No, you didn't," Vaelus said, voice lower, more measured. "That's why it matters."
He stepped closer, boots clicking on the cold floor. "Eight mid-tier demons destroyed. Baal himself cast back into Tartarus. The Pontifex slain in a final act of sacrifice. And you—barehanded, torn to pieces, still on your feet, dragging the world behind you like a cross."
Caelin finally looked up. "And yet still in a cell."
Vaelus didn't flinch. "Because that's the order. You're Forsaken. One act of redemption doesn't erase the decree. Not yet. But it's building."
There was a pause—charged, silent.
"We had to cede control of the fleet to the Templari High Command," Vaelus said, folding his hands behind his back. "Until the Conclave convenes and elects a new Pontifex. Could be weeks. Could be months."
"Too long," Caelin murmured.
Vaelus nodded. "Agreed."
He studied the former knight.
"There's talk," Vaelus said, tone quieter now, as if speaking something he shouldn't. "Among the upper echelons. That you've earned full redemption."
Caelin looked up, unmoving. His face gave nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Vaelus continued. "Three acts. That was the tradition. Yours were the descent into the wound, the death of Karaziel, and now... Baal." He paused. "There are Commanders, Inquisitors, even Cardinals whispering it. That you should be restored."
"But I'm not," Caelin said, flat.
Vaelus exhaled through his nose, a slow sigh. "Because only the Pontifex can issue the final decree. Only he can sign the Seal of Absolvitas."
"And he's dead," Caelin finished for him.
Vaelus nodded, face grim. "The College of Cardinals must choose another. But that could take time. And until then, no one can grant you anything. Not your name in full, not your station, not your house. You walk the edge between exile and absolution… with no bridge in sight."
Caelin leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.
"I don't need redemption to fight," he said.
"No, but without it… you'll always be the weapon. Never the man who was once worthy of command." Vaelus's voice softened slightly. "Some believe the Church needs more like you. But others think your example is dangerous. That you defy too much."
Caelin's mouth pulled into the shadow of a bitter smile. "I wasn't made to fit their altars."
"No," Vaelus said. "You were made to tear down theirs and build new ones."
The words lingered, faintly echoing off the steel walls.
Vaelus was no longer outside the bars. He had entered the cell minutes ago, standing now just a few steps from Caelin, close enough to see the etched wear in the Lion crest on his breastplate.
"There are two paths before you now," Vaelus said, not pacing, not preaching—just present. "First, you remain Forsaken. No Pope, no judgment, no credits. Not until another Pontifex sits the throne. You'll wait in silence until then—until the conclave sees fit to move."
Caelin said nothing. His eyes, though dulled with exhaustion, stayed sharp on the man before him.
Vaelus continued. "Second... you stop chasing redemption."
Caelin's jaw clenched, but he didn't interrupt.
"You give up the chance of ever returning to your old life," Vaelus said. "But in exchange, you start something new. The others speak your name now. You've earned it. Some think you should lead. I agree."
Caelin remained unmoved.
Vaelus stepped closer. "The 333 Forsaken are without captain. They are feared, discarded, and silent. But they fought for us. They bled. Some are still human enough to follow a standard again—if someone worthy raised one."
He looked at Caelin with intent. "I'm offering you that. Found a House of your own. Made not from old blood, but from ash and scars. You lead the 333. You give them purpose—or you die waiting for absolution from a voice that's already gone cold."
Caelin looked away, his gaze falling to the floor.
"You want me to lead ghosts," he muttered.
"No," Vaelus said, softer. "I want you to resurrect them."
Caelin looked up from his gauntlets. The cell felt colder, tighter somehow, the shadows pressing inward. His voice came low, strained. "You want me to lead the damned?"
"I want you to redeem them," Vaelus replied, calm but firm. "Make them more than what the Church left them to become. You've been given your name. Not your House. Not your title. But this… this is something greater than either."
Caelin stared at the stone floor. The weight of everything—the voices of the dead, the roar of demons, the sting of flame and loss—settled like iron in his chest.
Vaelus took a step back. "Don't answer now."
Caelin's gaze rose.
"I didn't come for your decision. I came to plant it in you. Let it grow, or let it rot. But don't speak too quickly." He turned toward the door as the guards parted, silent and grim.
"One day soon," Vaelus said over his shoulder, "you'll stop being a sword, and become the one who decides where the blade falls."
The light from the hall spilled in briefly, then vanished as the door closed.
And Caelin was alone again.
Only the hum of the cell remained, and the golden lion upon his breastplate, glowing faintly in the dark.