I had always imagined my escape from Azael would be a grand affair doves, trumpets, perhaps a righteous speech and a crowd of rebels ready to hoist me onto their shoulders. In reality, I was currently dragging myself through a half-collapsed corridor, boots squeaking on spilled shadow ichor, breath burning in my lungs, with only the echo of Azael's curses for company and the faint scent of toasted furniture.
In fairness, the battle had started well enough. There is a certain poetry to trading blows with your tormentor in a throne room that looks like it was decorated by a pyromaniac who had recently discovered abstract art. By the time we reached the second round, I'd managed to collapse two pillars, ignite a tapestry that was definitely worth more than my soul, and insult Azael's taste in footwear. ("Serrated heels? What are you, an allegory?")
