Earthly Realm, Year 2010 of the Second Earth, 

National Museum, Bohol

LUALHATI

Lualhati instinctively grabbed onto Abaddon's hand when she saw the full rage in his eyes as he turns to meet the guard.

"How dare you, puny---"

Thankfully, Abaddon understood the glare on Lualhati's face when she quickly stood up and came in between him and the guard and placed her hand on his chest.

Lualhati ended up giggling again as Abaddon's head snapped back at the security guard in full rage and then as if he thought twice about it, the King of the Abyss ended up getting tongue-tied.

"I mean,--- yes, I have to---"

"You have to go..." Lualhati managed to whisper to him.

"Fine, go." Abaddon raised his hand dismissively at the guard who, held in a trance quietly left.

Abaddon held her hand on his chest then gave another sheepish smile. "I shall leave you to your thoughts for now. I'm glad our bond is slowly deepening ag---I look forward to tomorrow."

Abaddon kissed her hand then left.

It took Lualhati another few minutes and a dreamy sigh before her heart settled down.

She was about to return to her sketches when the same guard approached.

Except, something was off.

Lualhati noticed how the man's gait was too precise. Too still.

"Ma'am," the guard said, voice hollow. "The curator would like to speak with you. Please follow me."

She stood slowly, frowning. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No," he said. "Not yet."

Before she could respond, his hand twisted, unnatural, revealing claws that should not have belonged to any human.

Abaddon appeared from the shadows, but the creature lunged first.

Lualhati spun, ducking the blow on instinct. Her sketchbook flew, pages fluttering like doves. She sidestepped and grabbed a fallen metal pole from a nearby exhibit, swinging it toward the creature's chest. It screeched, recoiling.

She was ready to strike again when a crack split the air.

A shimmering veil tore open beside her...and out stepped Eamon, one of Abaddon's generals, silver-eyed and haloed in shadow.

His blade found the creature's throat before it could leap again. One clean motion. One dead nephilim.

The museum fell silent.

Lualhati panted, her stance still defensive.

Eamon bowed slightly. "Lady Lualhati, forgive the intrusion."

"Who---what---was that?" she gasped.

"A fallen one," Eamon said. "Drawn here by your bond with the King. He slipped through the veil, emboldened by proximity."

She turned to Abaddon, wide-eyed. "You followed me, and now they're following me."

"I know," he said darkly. "That is why you are now under the Abyss' protection."

Eamon sheathed his blade with a quiet finality. "From this day forward, my lady, if you are in danger, one of the Council of Eight will come. Or the King himself. You are no longer... alone."

Lualhati opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. She looked at Abaddon, at the way his jaw clenched in fury and fear.

And underneath all of it, she saw something else.

Love.

Not the mortal kind. The terrifying, sacred, and eternal kind. The kind that could break time and tear through realms. The kind that could make even a god tremble.

She stepped toward him.

And this time, it was her hand that reached for his.

"I'm still angry," she said softly.

"I deserve it."

"But... thank you."

He did not speak. Only closed his fingers around hers, like a vow made without words.

The museum guards, confused but alive, would later claim an earthquake had struck and that some old statue had crumbled. No one remembered the fallen creature. No one remembered the silver-eyed general.

Only Lualhati remembered.

And only Abaddon could feel how tightly her fingers stayed laced with his.

Even as the storm gathered again.

*******

Day Seven

Illustre Ancestral Home

The seventh dusk arrived swathed in lavender and low gold, the kind of twilight that made the world feel suspended caught between prayer and forgetting. Wind curled in from the sea, teasing the lanterns that hung like blessings along the eaves of the ancestral house.

Lualhati stood alone on the upper balustrade, brushing her hair with the slow, meditative rhythm taught to her by her grandmother. Below, the babaylans had begun their twilight chants. Smoke from kamangyan coiled toward the darkening sky, thick with the scent of anise and salt.

She’d felt it all day: something stirring, quiet but inevitable. A hum beneath her ribs. Not nerves. Not dread. Just… readiness.

And then, a note  began to play.

Low, slow, deliberate. Not otherworldly. Not demonic. Not even ethereal.
Human.
A single acoustic guitar. Then a second voice joined. It was  clear, soul-deep, and unmistakable.

Ella Illustre.
Lualhati’s cousin. The country’s most beloved solo artist.

Her voice soared gently over the garden: a stripped-down rendition of “Tahanan”, a modern kundiman Ella had written in secret for Lualhati’s birthday years ago. A lullaby not for children, but for the haunted.

"Kung saan ka huminto, ako ang tahanan mo…
Walang giyera sa pagitan ng tibok ng ating puso."

The words slowed her breath. Froze her halfway through a brushstroke.

She moved to the front of the house just as the gate creaked open, not with thunder, not with smoke, but with deference. Respect.

He didn’t storm in.

He arrived.

Abaddon as Apollyon, her bethrothed.

He stood at the foot of the stairs in a coat the color of ashes just after rain, carrying a wild bouquet of sampaguita and camia tied with abaca twine. His jawline looked carved from story. But his stance was awkward, almost shy that it broke the illusion of menace.

Behind him, Lualhati recognized three of his generals, draped in tailored restraint.
Eamon. Smirking like she was enjoying the theater far too much.
And beside them, Ella herself, still singing, barefoot under the glow of hanging lanterns. She met Lualhati’s eyes and winked then nodded at Abaddon before continuing the next verse.

Abaddon cleared his throat. “I was told a serenade was… expected.”

Lualhati raised a brow. “By whom?”

“Your cousin Ella,” he admitted, sheepish. “And your grandmother’s ghost. They collaborated.”

“I didn’t realize the dead and the famous were in such close contact.”

“She was very specific. Threatening almost.”

Lualhati fought the curve of her lips, failing gloriously. “And the flowers?”

“She said if I brought roses, she’d drag me back to the abyss herself.”

She took the bouquet. Their fingers brushed briefly, but it was volcanic. And still neither pulled away.

Ella’s voice faded gently on the last line.

"Dito ka lang…
Sa akin lang…
Mahal kong digmaang matahimik."

Silence. Then applause from the wind itself.

Ella gave a playful bow and slipped inside with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll leave you two to... whatever this is,” she called, before vanishing into the house.

Only then did Abaddon speak again but quieter now. “I tried to wait for the seven days. Like you said.”

He hesitated. “But truthfully… I’ve waited longer.”

Lualhati studied him, this paradox in tailored dusk. “What do you mean?”

Abaddon glanced upward, toward nothing, and yet everything. “From the moment your soul first sang its name across the veil, I felt it. Before you knew what you were. Before I had a face, or language for longing. You were light, and I was the one damned to chase it.”

She swallowed. “And now?”

“Now I know your name. And it’s no longer light I chase, but you.”
A beat. “And I need you to know something before we go any further.”

She didn’t move.

“I’m not here because I want to possess you.” He stepped closer ever so slowly, reverently. “I’m here because I was made to guard you.”

Lualhati blinked. “Guard me?”

“I was once a sentinel before I fell,” he said, voice low and breaking. “Before war, before disobedience, before I chose fury over grace. But for you, my purpose shifted. I don’t just protect your life, Lualhati. I protect the sacredness of your choices. Your stillness. Your…becoming.”

He looked suddenly unsure of himself.

“You don’t owe me anything. Not your affection. Not your forgiveness. But I needed you to know that I exist not to bind you. I exist to walk beside you. Or behind you. Or far away, if that’s what you need.”

She stared at him for a long moment; breath caught somewhere in her throat.

Again, she reached for his perfect jawline, fingertips brushing the skin just beneath his cheek. His lopsided grin flashed. It was wolfish, boyish, impossible.

Sharp canines gleamed in the lamplight.

Suddenly, he bared them dramatically and pretended to bite at her fingers.

Lualhati let out a sharp, startled yelp, yanking her hand back to her chest, then thudding her fist against his chest in reflex.

The sound of his laughter cracked the hush around them.
Rich. Undeniably warm.

“That never gets old!” the demon chuckled, grinning wide.

Flushed, breathless, Lualhati let the moment linger. Let herself feel the pull she’d denied.

Then softly, bravely, she stepped into him and rested her head against his chest, arms slipping around his waist.

“You are him,” she whispered.

His breath caught like a tether pulled tight.

And he held her, carefully, reverently. As if holding her was a sacred act he’d trained a thousand lifetimes to perfect.

Around them, the night held still.

The wind quieted. The stars leaned closer.

In the distance, Ella's voice began again, but this time from within the house, a soft reprise. The kind of song you don’t dance to. The kind you listen to when you’re finally safe.

*******