The Hammer of War, Chapter 34

Serafall Leviathan stepped from the twilight and into the hall of the ruined suite. A pair of devils in dark uniforms flanked her, their postures stiff with caution. She did not speak to them. She merely raised a slim finger, motioning them to stay. They obeyed. An unseen pressure gripped the air. Not the calm hush of an empty hotel floor, but something else – a quiet that had taken root after violence.

At the far end of the corridor stood a door torn from its hinges, its frame warped as though by great force. The acrid smell of old blood lingered on everything, a copper tang that prickled at the back of the throat. Serafall inhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing. She wore no flamboyant attire now, just a subdued black cloak over a simple blouse and skirt. Her usual energetic persona lay buried beneath the gravity of her task. Her role here was not as a showy Magical Girl, nor as a clownish figure of comedic relief, but as the sole authority who could move freely in this place and speak for the devils at large.

She drew closer to the broken entrance. One of her devils, a tall woman with gloved hands, reached for the door to push it wider. But Serafall lifted a hand and shook her head. She stepped forward herself, pushing the splintered wood aside. It gave with a brittle creak, leaving the stench of dried gore and dust to billow out into the corridor. A faint barrier shimmered near the threshold, an illusion cast for the benefit of mortal eyes. Humans outside would see only a fumigation team at work – protective suits, hazard signs posted around the building. They would have no reason to question. They would never guess that behind these illusions lay a crime scene whose nature would send them reeling.

Serafall stepped inside. The place was half-collapsed. One wall had caved inward, floorboards peeled up along the edges. The overhead lights flickered with dying energy. Splotches of blood stained the wooden planks in wide arcs, as if someone had hammered flesh repeatedly against them. A row of shattered windows let the evening light in, motes of dust swirling in the pale glow. She paused at the first sign of footprints, scuffed across dried puddles of black and red. Her gaze moved to the left, where the remains of a sofa sat scorched and partially disintegrated by some arcane meltdown.

Helena’s body lay near the corner, partially covered with a ragged blanket that some attempt at dignity had placed over her. Serafall nodded for her devils to wait, and she approached alone. Each step was deliberate. She crouched beside the shrouded corpse and lifted the blanket. The smell grew sharper. She pressed her lips together, breathing through parted teeth. The form beneath was broken in ways no average mortal scuffle could produce. The upper skull region – or what remained of it – was caved in, the bone hammered repeatedly. Some of the cracks still oozed a blackish fluid that smelled half of sulfur, half of rotted metal. Helena’s charred wings splayed behind her, twisted and bent at unnatural angles.

Serafall set a hand near the remnants of the collarbone, scanning the body with a faint pulse of her own magic. She found the usual residue that devils left in death – the echoes of their lineage, the swirl of dark energy that once powered them. But there was another signature too, a gaping void in the fabric of magic itself. She recognized a partial pattern of anti-magic. That intangible presence that ate away at spells. She withdrew her hand, eyes narrowing. Dimetrium was the only known substance that nullified magic so thoroughly, but that metal left distinct ripples in the local time-space. She felt for them, pressing her senses outward. She found none. It was like trying to catch smoke. The devastation suggested a power that ate Helena’s spells, but left no typical residue. No trace. No standard cause. Puzzling.

She rose and surveyed the rest of the suite. Three other bodies lay scattered, all devils from House Stolas if the faint brand on their shoulders was any indication. Their lifeless eyes stared up in shock. She moved to the nearest, kneeling to examine the wounds. Clean holes in the torso, burned edges suggesting lasers or focused beams of energy. She touched the blackened flesh and sniffed. No sulfur, no meltdown, just the tang of superheated tissue. No sign of conventional metal shards or gunpowder. Some advanced form of magical-laser, or something else. Possibly from the human world’s unknown technologies, or so it might appear, though Serafall suspected that was not quite it. 

The Technocracy had no quarrel with Devils and, as far as Serafall was aware, neither did they have any quarrel with the House of Stolas. No, the Technocrats would not start a war without precedence; it was simply not in their nature, even considering their subfactions. 

She turned back to Helena’s remains. The left side of Helena's body displayed partial burns that seemed older, half-healed. Crisp edges where some plasma-based assault had scorched flesh days or hours earlier. She recognized that characteristic: plasma melted in a wide radius, but here it was more localized, maybe a single direct shot. The battered wings. The hair singed near the scalp. Helena must have encountered some unstoppable force that hammered her not just once, but multiple times. If the final blow came from repeated punching, that meant the attacker closed in eventually, culminating in savage brutality. Helena’s crushed skull told that story clearly enough.

Serafall sighed.

“Can’t believe it’s been close to a hundred years since we last met, Helena; didn’t think we’d meet again, like this. I always warned you to never underestimate your enemies; looks like you never learned.” She spoke quietly, though no one answered. The illusions around the building ensured no mortals overheard. The pair of devils by the door waited, uncertain.

Serafall drew a small mirror from her cloak, flicked her wrist over it in a known scrying pattern. The surface shimmered with watery light. She closed her eyes, channeling a fragment of Chronomancy – enough to glimpse the final minutes of Helena's life. Typically, it would reveal short illusions or echoes. But the mirror rippled with static, the images incomplete. The presence of anti-magic interference made it nearly impossible to glean a clear vision. She saw only fragments: Helena staggering, arms raised, a swirl of chain-like spells forming, then a blank emptiness. The moment of death was sealed from her sight by that same devouring aura.

Annoyance flashed on Serafall’s face. She cut the spell, letting the mirror go dark. She slid it back into her cloak.

A short, stocky devil approached from the corridor, carrying a battered slip of paper in gloved hands. His gaze flickered to Helena’s corpse, then to Serafall, voice hushed. “We found this pinned under some debris. It bears her handwriting.”

Serafall took it gently, eyes scanning the scrawled lines. She recognized Helena’s style – bold, slanted script. She read:

I found someone very interesting here–a new power I haven’t seen before. We fought, briefly, and I made a mistake in underestimating that brat and suffered for it. Truth is I made one bad decision after another. He’ll probably come after me. I’ll be ready. I’m even bringing out the family sword, just in case he pulls out another surprise from his ass. If I somehow die from this, well, shit; tell my mom she’s a bitch. And also tell my brother to burn my desktop because there’s stuff there that should not see the light of day.

Serafall exhaled softly, folding the note. That was Helena: proud, rash, cursing even in the face of defeat. The mention of “some new power” – that must be the anti-magic or whatever overcame her. A male adversary, though that alone told Serafall little. She set the note aside, nodding to her assistant.

“Bag this as evidence,” she said quietly. The stocky devil slid it into a sealed envelope, stepping back with a polite bow.

Serafall circled Helena's corpse once more, scanning the immediate floor for any sign of personal items. She found a single black gem near the bed – some focusing crystal for lesser spells. She found a half-burned cloak that matched the House Stolas crest. Nothing else. The entire suite looked ravaged by magic beyond measure.

She stood in the center of the room, arms folded beneath her cloak. She felt the dryness of the air, the stale reek of cinders. The city outside rolled on, oblivious to this quiet war in their midst.

“Your next steps, Lady Leviathan?” her tall female devil asked from the doorway.

Serafall glanced at her. “We gather every scrap of information. Lock down this floor. Keep the illusions in place. Humans must not see the truth. Then we speak with the local supernaturals. The Vampires first. They usually deal in information.”

She paused. A brief flicker of annoyance crossed her eyes. “I’m sure they have their own secrets. But they might have seen something. We can’t dismiss that possibility.”

Her devils bowed. The short one motioned for a forensic mage to bring the tools. They would collect the remains of Helena and her servants. Serafall gave a final look around the battered suite, scanning the peeling wallpaper and the half-destroyed furniture. She pictured Helena fighting, cornered, pinned down by a force that unraveled all her spells. She pictured Helena’s surprise turning to fear in those last breaths. Indeed, an anti-magic so absolute was near unheard of. Even Dimetrium left a signature in the realm of cause and effect. The complete absence of such a sign spoke volumes. Some new force roamed these streets, vicious and unstoppable enough to kill a near-ultimate devil.

She turned on her heel, heading to the corridor. The illusions flickered around her, ensuring no mortal sense would breach the quarantine. Outside, a handful of lesser devils stood guard in the hallway, wearing mundane pest-control uniforms as a double cover. They parted in silence to let her pass. She walked with measured steps, cloak trailing behind. Each footfall carried a subdued echo on the tile.

At the elevator, she paused. The doors, battered and half-swollen from magical blowback, waited at the end of a short foyer. A single sign read “Under Maintenance – Do Not Enter.” She gestured, and the doors slid open under a quiet cantrip. She stepped inside with her assistants. The elevator chimed softly as it descended.

No one spoke. She breathed slow, mind churning with possibilities. A new power in Portland, something strong enough to kill Helena Stolas. Something lethal to devils, perhaps to all magic-kind. She pictured what might happen if this power roamed free, attacking devils or angels or any supernatural being. Diplomatic fallout. War. Chaos. Her role as representative demanded she keep the peace, or at least keep the truth contained. But first, she needed facts.

The elevator slid open at the lobby, deserted except for illusions of plastic barriers and pest-control signage. A faint odor of sulfur clung to the air, carried from above. She moved through the deserted lobby, high marble pillars overshadowed by illusions that made them look like cheap plywood. She stepped out into the night. Streetlights lined the sidewalk, the road quiet. Vehicles passed occasionally, drivers oblivious to the devil watchers stationed at corners, illusions wrapping them from view.

One of her devils gestured to a black sedan parked at the curb. She nodded, crossing the small distance with a purposeful stride. The night air felt cooler here, free of the thick stench of death. She slid into the back seat, an assistant closing the door behind her. The driver, another devil in a crisp suit, nodded once in greeting, then merged into traffic. She stared through the tinted window, eyes scanning the city lights. Hard to believe that so many lived their normal lives, partied, slept, ate, never suspecting that behind one quarantined building a devil of rank had been beaten into pulp by some monstrous force.

She tapped a comm device on her wrist. 

“We have no direct scrying results,” she said softly, speaking to whoever was on the other end of that frequency. “Chronomancy is compromised. We do have a note from the deceased. It suggests a male adversary with new powers. She calls him a brat. Possibly a human. Possibly something else. We'll talk to the Vampires next. Rendezvous at the House of Midnight.”

A static-laced reply drifted from the device. She gave no outward reaction. The sedan wound through the quieter streets, headlights reflecting on damp asphalt. She watched shuttered shops pass by, neon signs turned off for the night. Her devils said nothing, waiting for orders. She exhaled quietly, letting the evening breeze from a cracked window wash over her face. The city, for all its human normalcy, hid a labyrinth of supernatural enclaves. The vampires had a foothold here, a portion of territory recognized by some old pact. They might know something about an anti-magic user – or they might lie. She’d soon see.