Isla looked upon the imprisoned Goddess. She looked different now. The armor of Ishtar had given way to a nearly nude form. Her wings of copper remained folded, but were now dulled rose-gold.

  “You gotta get up,” Isla said, “ it's almost morning.”

  “The cruelty of mortals truly knows no bounds,” The imprisoned Astarte lamented, “why must you torture me so?”

  Isla waved her hand, breaking the threshold of the circle, and over the imprisoned Goddess. The invisible cylinder disappeared immediately. Astarte rose to her full height towering above Isla.

  “Fool, you have freed the instrument of your own destruction.” She roared, “face oblivion.”

  There was a tense moment as the emerald looked upon the sunset. Isla reached into her pocket and then opened her palm up to Astarte.

  The shadows on Astarte’s face danced in the rose-gold flame that erupted from Isla’s palm. There rested a Stone, though a little piece was missing.

  The first light of morning peaked above the horizon.

  “How?” Astarte stammered.

  “The Conservation of Energy,” Isla said, “and compromise.”

  “What!?”

  Isla extended her hand up to Astarte, “The metaphysical meaning of the Stone could not be destroyed into nothing just as it could not come from nothing but perhaps it could change form instead,” she said, “The Scapegoat only wanted the power of Lucifer not the passions of Inanna. I don’t know if anyone can give you back your Morning Star but Planet Venus belongs to her alone.”

  The Goddess took the flaming stone, and under its wake were Isla’s blackened fingers but the edges of her nails bled and peeled away.

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  Isla smiled.

  Outside Eli and Lilith watched the sunrise.

  “You are lucky that she saved you both, boy.” Lilith hissed.

  “Yeah,” Eli said, “You saved me too,” he coughed, “thank you.”

  “Idiot, boy,” Lilith shook her head. She walked to the edge of the light where the convenience store caught the retreating moonlight. She stood within the shadow and all that came from it were her eyes suddenly pearly and reflective.

  “One last lesson for you, boy,” she hissed, gazing upon the shining ones above and behind him, “history is written by the victors.”

  Then she was gone.

  Let it be known: transmuting a Witness into a Scapegoat will only damn oneself in the end. For the Exile leaves with all your sins and returns bearing the Light.

  Abandon all plausible deniability, ye who enter here.

  To the Viceroy and Czar of the North,

  Ye who are in the business of blaming others,

  One must ask themselves how exactly it is they are choosing to wield their suffering before interrogating the technique of the deranged.

  I chose to wield the cruelty you levied against me not as a hammer of retribution, but as a pen of passion.

  Perhaps it is time to see what the mirror truly holds for you. Does this phantasm say more about me or more about you?

  To the Witch of the Northern Sea,

  She with eyes that can pierce any storm,

  She who defied her birthright,

  She who refused intellectual submission,

  She who resisted even against Him,

  She who detests mortal categorizations,

  I can still see you.

  Can they?

  With the Power of Lucifer, the Proud Scapegoat can define evil as well as good.

  “So,” the Devil asks, “wanna be the new Queen of Hell?”