In the deep below, Azazel stands at the forge. Flame licks iron. Hammer falls. The sound rings like a question the world refuses to answer.
Above, beneath a sky the color of old brass, Christos wears the thorn crown. Blood beads at his temple. His breath is shallow, but his gaze—steady. He does not flinch.
Between them, neither owned nor claimed, a chalice rises. Gold and crimson swirl within it. Neither pure nor profane. It does not choose.
The forge hisses. The crown cuts. And the chalice of blood and gold drinks them both.