The walls fell away.
One mont Lucifer was walking through a tunnel of bones and crystals. The next, he was standing in open space. A cavern so vast the ceiling didn’t exist. The floor was smooth—polished, like glass worn by centuries of footsteps.
And at the center, an orb.
It floated ten feet above the ground, suspended by nothing. Its surface was dark, but light moved inside it—swirling, pulsing, breathing. Not light. Souls. Thousands of them. All colors, all shapes, all pressed together like fish in a net.
The rarest ones floated closest to the surface.
Lucifer saw them.
A warrior with eyes of fire. A child who glowed like starlight. A woman whose body shifted between forms, never settling.
And Francisca.
She hung near the top of the orb, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes closed. Her brown hair drifted around her face like she was underwater. Her skin was pale but whole. No wounds. No blood. Just stillness.
Preserved.
Not dead.
Lucifer’s shadows went still.
"Francisca."
No response.
He stepped toward the orb.
The air in front of him cracked.
Not a sound. A presence. Sothing folding itself into existence from angles that shouldn’t exist.
The Collector manifested.
It had no face. No features at all. Just a humanoid shape, massive—twice Lucifer’s height—with limbs too long and joints that bent the wrong way. Its skin was the color of old bone. Its hands had too many fingers.
Where its face should have been, there was only smooth, polished surface.
But Lucifer felt it watching.
"She is mine."
The voice ca from everywhere. Not loud. Just present. Like the Collector had always been speaking and Lucifer was only now noticing.
Lucifer’s jaw tightened.
"Give her back."
The Collector tilted its head—a slow, deliberate motion.
"She is unique. Her soul was fractured by a Progenitor’s death blow. Such fractures are rare. Irreplaceable."
Lucifer’s hands curled into fists.
"I don’t care about rare. I care about her."
The Collector’s faceless head turned toward the orb.
"She does not suffer. She does not age. She simply exists. My collection is her purpose now."
Lucifer took a step forward.
"Then take instead."
Damaris’s head snapped toward him.
"Lucifer—"
Lucifer didn’t look at his father.
"You collect unique souls. I’m the only Primordial Dhampir in existence. Vampire Progenitor. Demon blood. Human Authority." His voice was steady. "I’m more unique than she ever was."
The Collector was silent.
The orb pulsed.
"You would trade yourself."
"Yes."
"For her."
"Yes."
The Collector’s too-long fingers twitched.
"Your soul is... extraordinary." A pause. "But you are dangerous. You killed Adam. You broke the Human Authority free. You would not rest inside my collection. You would fight."
Lucifer’s shadows rose around him.
"Then don’t keep . Take my offer. Her for ."
The Collector’s faceless head turned toward the orb again.
Francisca floated, still, silent, waiting.
"No."
Lucifer’s blood went cold.
"The trade is uneven. Her uniqueness is passive. Yours is active. You would destabilize my collection." The Collector’s voice dropped. "I will keep her. And I will take you as well. In ti."
Damaris moved.
No warning. No signal.
Golden light erupted from his palms—not a beam, not a wave. A lance. Compact. Focused. It struck the Collector in the chest.
The creature staggered.
Not because of the light. Because of what the light was. Truth. Damaris’s truth. The truth of a father who had failed and was trying to make it right.
The Collector’s form flickered.
"You—"
Damaris hit it again.
And again.
The Collector’s too-long arms swung wildly, trying to catch him. Damaris was faster. Older. More desperate.
"Go!" he shouted at Lucifer.
Lucifer didn’t hesitate.
He ran.
The orb was twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten.
The Collector’s hand shot out—too fast, too long—and grabbed Damaris by the wing.
Golden light sprayed.
Damaris didn’t scream. He just kept attacking, kept burning, kept pulling the Collector’s attention.
Lucifer reached the orb.
The surface was warm. Alive. It pulsed against his palm like a heartbeat.
He pushed.
His hand sank inside.
Souls brushed against his fingers—thousands of them, confused, afraid, hopeful. He pushed deeper.
Francisca was at the center.
He grabbed her wrist.
Her skin was cold.
But her pulse—faint, almost gone—was still there.
"I’ve got you," he whispered.
The Collector scread.
Not a sound. A pressure. It slamd into Lucifer’s back, trying to push him out, trying to crush him.
He held on.
His shadows wrapped around Francisca’s body, pulling her toward the surface.
The Collector’s attention shifted fully to him.
Damaris saw the opening.
He raised both hands and brought them down.
Golden light exploded outward—not an attack. A severance. The threads connecting the Collector to its hoard snapped, one by one.
The orb shuddered.
Souls began to leak out.
The Collector turned back to Damaris, its faceless head sohow expressing fury.
"You—"
"I’m her father," Damaris said quietly. "And I’m done running."
He attacked again.
Lucifer pulled.
Francisca’s body broke the surface of the orb.
Her eyes were still closed. Her chest didn’t move. But her pulse was stronger now. Louder.
Lucifer cradled her against his chest.
"I’m taking you ho."
The Collector lunged.
Damaris stepped between them.
"Go," he said.
Lucifer looked at his father.
"Co with us."
Damaris smiled—small, tired, real.
"I’ll catch up."
The Collector’s hand closed around Damaris’s throat.
Lucifer’s shadows surged.
"GO!"
Lucifer ran.
The cavern blurred around him. Bones. Crystals. Trapped souls. He ran until his legs burned and his lungs scread and Francisca’s cold body pressed against his chest.
Behind him, golden light flared one last ti.
Then nothing.
He didn’t look back.
A/N
Thanks for reading this far, it has been a glorious ride, I love all your supports and contributions, and I will continue to do my best to keep you all entertained despite my tight and busy schedules. It has not been easy for and my ntal health.
And one day I hope this novel would be the talk of the ages.
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