Chapter 337: The Rogues Strike Again
The convoy left at dawn.
Not that dawn meant anything anymore. The sky was the same grey it had been for weeks, cracked and bleeding light that didn’t warm anything it touched. But the healers needed supplies. The fractures needed anchors. The runners needed to move before the next collapse.
Twelve gods. Four angels. A cart of supplies that had taken days to gather.
No one expected an attack.
That was the mistake.
Azrael had been waiting. Not at the fracture. Not at the camp. Somewhere in between. A stretch of white plain where the shadows pooled too thick and the light from the cracks didn’t reach.
The ambush was brutal.
Not because it was complicated. Because it was simple. The rogue angels fell on the convoy like wolves on a herd. No warning. No demand for surrender. Just blades and fire and the terrible efficiency of beings who had stopped caring about anything but vengeance.
The first god died before he knew he was under attack.
The second died reaching for his weapon.
The third tried to run. Didn’t make it.
The angels fought back. They always fought back. But Azrael had brought numbers. Had brought speed. Had brought the kind of cruelty that came from believing you had nothing left to lose.
When it was over, the cart was destroyed. The supplies were scattered. The bodies lay in the grey light, twisted and broken.
The rogue angels vanished.
They didn’t take prisoners.
They didn’t need to.
---
The survivors limped back to camp hours later.
Three of them. A young god from a pantheon no one remembered, his arm hanging at a wrong angle. A Valkyrie with half her wing missing, her teeth clenched against the pain. A runner who had hidden behind the cart and watched his friends die.
They told the story in fragments.
Ambush. Blades. Fire. Too many. Too fast.
No warning.
No mercy.
Ares heard the story and went for his sword.
"We should have hunted them down weeks ago," he said. His voice was low, controlled, dangerous. "We sat here. We debated. We held ceremonies for dead mortals while Azrael built his army. And now they’re dead. Our people. Our—"
"Ares."
Athena’s voice cut through his rage.
He turned on her.
"Don’t."
"Don’t what? Tell you the truth?" She stepped closer. Her face was calm, but her hands were shaking. "You wanted blood weeks ago. You’d still want blood now. But blood won’t bring them back."
"It will stop more from dying."
"Will it?" She gestured at the camp. At the wounded. At the cracked sky. "We don’t even know where Azrael is hiding. We don’t know how many followers he has. We don’t know what he wants."
"We know what he wants. He wants us dead."
"That’s not a strategy. That’s a tantrum."
Ares’s hand tightened on his sword.
Athena didn’t flinch.
---
Zeus stood at the edge of the gathering.
He had been there since the survivors returned. Listening. Watching. Saying nothing.
The others spoke around him. Ares demanded blood. Athena demanded patience. Odin counseled caution. Hermes reported what he had seen. The arguments spiraled, overlapped, faded, restarted.
Zeus listened.
The camp was afraid. Not of the rogue angels. Of him. Of what he might do. Of what he might not do.
They had expected rage after the first attack. Had expected thunder. Had expected the storm. Instead, he had sent runners to find lost souls.
They didn’t understand that.
He didn’t expect them to.
But this was different. This wasn’t lost souls. This was murder. Cold. Deliberate. Azrael had sent a message, and the message was clear.
There would be no peace.
Not while he still drew breath.
---
Athena found him after the gathering dispersed.
She stood beside him, looking out at the camp, at the wounded, at the grey light that never changed.
"Father."
"Ares is right."
She turned to him.
"We should have hunted them down weeks ago."
"Ares is also wrong."
"About what?"
"About blood solving anything."
Athena was quiet for a moment.
"Then what do we do?"
Zeus didn’t answer.
"Father. We need to decide. Are we rulers? Or are we just surviving?"
The question hung in the air.
Zeus looked at her. His face was tired. Not the tired of a long battle. The tired of a man who had been asked to carry something he never wanted.
"I don’t know," he said.
"That’s not an answer."
"It’s the only one I have."
Athena’s jaw tightened.
"We can’t keep doing this. Reacting. Waiting. Letting them strike first."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"I suggest we stop being afraid of what we might become and start being what they need."
Zeus stared at her.
"Ares would call that a crown."
"Ares calls everything a crown."
"Maybe he’s right."
Athena stepped closer.
"He’s not. But that doesn’t mean we do nothing."
Zeus was silent for a long moment.
Then he stood.
He walked past her, toward the center of the camp, toward the gods and angels who had been watching him, waiting for him, hoping he would tell them what came next.
He stopped in the middle of the gathering.
"I’ll handle it myself."
The words landed like stones.
Ares blinked. "What?"
"I’ll handle it. Azrael. The rogue angels. I’ll find them. I’ll end this."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
Ares stared at him.
"That’s suicide."
"Maybe."
"Zeus—"
"I said I’ll handle it."
The camp was silent.
Athena watched him. Her face was unreadable, but something behind her eyes shifted. Fear? Hope? He couldn’t tell.
Zeus turned away from the gathering.
Walked toward the edge of the camp.
Toward the fractures.
Toward whatever came next.
Behind him, the gods whispered.
Ares didn’t.
He just stood there, hand on his sword, watching the storm king walk into the grey.
The sky cracked a little wider.
And somewhere in the distance, Azrael waited.
A/N
Thanks for reading this far, I know it’s mid, but this is the best I can do with the little time I have.
I Will try in the future to do more better when I have free time.
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