The sky above the Veil was a living thing, layers of crystal light pulsing and curling like breath. The wind up here wasn't wind at all. It shimmered, pulling along trails of gold from her wings as Seraphiel surged forward.
She moved like she belonged to the light itself.
Her flight wasn't silent, though. A younger voice chased after her from behind, shouting over the breeze.
"Slow down! Some of us weren't made to break the sound barrier!"
Seraphiel glanced back. A slim, scrappy angel flapped unevenly behind her, armor clinking with every beat of his wings. His feathers were still too bright. Still too soft.
"I told you not to wear ceremonial gear," she said, turning forward again. "Looks good. Flying in it is like a curse."
He wheezed. "You didn't tell me we'd be flying straight to the Sanctum. You said we were going on a 'routine patrol.' Routine! I skipped breakfast!"
"You'll survive."
They crossed the final ridge of clouds, and the Sanctum of Petitioners rose ahead like something from a dream. A single spire, so tall it cut through layers of sky, wrapped in moving rings of script and light. Bridges of song spiraled around it—yes, song—built from literal hymns cast into form. The entry hall glowed like the inside of a sunstone. It was more temple than tower, more weapon than sanctum.
And Seraphiel had flown past it more times than she cared to count.
Still… this time was different.
"You think they'll approve you?" her companion asked as they dropped lower.
"They summoned me. That's already unusual," she said.
"Yeah, but you've asked them how many times now? Four?"
"Six."
"And the last time they said—"
"I know what they said."
She didn't need the reminder. Every petition she'd made to descend, every report she'd submitted, every sign from the mortal world that something wasn't right—ignored. Denied. Reviewed with silence. But now, finally, she'd been called.
Not as a soldier.
Not as a servant.
But as herself.
Seraphiel landed on the skybridge without breaking stride. Her wings folded close, boots striking gold-trimmed marble. The chamber guards straightened as she passed. Recognition sparked in their eyes. The Dawn Knight—one of the last active guardians of the inner rings. Her name still carried weight.
She could feel the seal burning in her satchel. Unopened, still glowing faintly through the linen.
One way or another, everything was about to change.
Inside the Sanctum, the air was still, like the world was holding its breath.
Seraphiel waited in a long corridor lined with shifting runes. Voices rose in fragments from behind carved doors: debates, requests, chants. Everything here felt stretched thin with protocol. Her companion fidgeted beside her, then took a seat on the stone bench.
"You nervous?" he asked.
"No."
"Liar."
She smiled, faint and honest.
Before he could press further, a low chime rang through the corridor. The door at the far end cracked open. A tall figure stepped out—cloaked in ivory and gold, faceless beneath a hood that shimmered with moving scripture.
"Seraphiel. Come forward."
She walked alone into the chamber.
Inside, there was no throne. No council of eyes watching from above. Just a single table carved from starlight, and a sealed scroll resting on top of it.
"This is your formal approval," the figure said. "The Sanctum recognizes your long service and clear judgment. You are now authorized for realm-crossing."
Seraphiel stepped forward and took the scroll.
It was heavier than she expected. Warm.
"For what assignment?" she asked, keeping her voice level.
"There is no assignment. Not yet. But your seal is active. You may cross when you see fit, so long as you report any interaction with mortal energies. And return before eclipse."
She bowed, barely, and turned without asking further.
The door sealed behind her.
Outside, her companion leapt to his feet.
"You got it?!"
She nodded once.
"No way! Finally!" He whooped, spinning once mid-air. "Where are we going? Do we get orders now? Do we get matching armor? Do I get a bigger sword?"
"You're not coming."
His wings froze mid-beat. "Wait—what?"
"I'm not taking orders. I'm not going where they send me. Not this time."
He blinked. "Then where—"
"I'm visiting the village. The one near the cliffs. The mountain people."
His face lit up in recognition. "Oh. You mean the ones who used to leave sky-offerings? The smoke sigils? The weird honey-wine?"
She nodded.
"I didn't think you still remembered them."
"I never forgot."
The descent was quieter.
She flew alone this time, armor wrapped in veils to mute her light. She didn't want to scare the mortals. Her blade stayed sheathed on her back, humming with ancient heat. Below, the mortal realm unfurled: green hills, wild rivers, clouds that didn't sing, air that smelled of pine and ash.
It was a world alive in a way the Upper Realm had never been.
She'd only been down once beforeyears ag, o. A brief rite of passage. She'd healed a wounded shepherd. Taught a child to pray with her hands instead of her fear. She'd stood under the stars and laughed when rain made her wings useless.
And there was one village in particular that had left a mark on her.
Small. Quiet. Devout, but not desperate. Their prayers always felt warm, not panicked or greedy, just… full of heart. They lit candles each solstice and left them by the old shrine tree. Once, they'd even offered her a handmade cloak stitched with feathers. None of them knew her name, but they'd felt her presence. That had been enough.
She had wanted to return for years.
Now, with the seal burning bright against her chest, she could.
She passed over the last rise. Trees parted, and the familiar cliffs came into view.
Then her wings stuttered.
Smoke.
Thick columns of it, curling from the treetops. The kind that didn't come from a hearth. No. This was darker. Heavier. Blackened like old blood.
She dove lower, heart hammering.
The first house came into view, roof half-collapsed, flames licking at the beams. Then another. And another. The village center was barely recognizable. Ash covered the wells. The shrine tree was nothing but char.
No screams. No movement.
Just fire.
Seraphiel touched down hard enough to crack the dirt.
Her boots sank into scorched earth. Her veil peeled back, her eyes scanning every shadow.
She stepped over a broken bowl. A prayer charm lay in the ashes, half-burned, its string still knotted tight.
And up ahead, the temple.
Its outer walls were crumbling. The roof had already caved in. One of the spires, the one that used to ring with wind chimes, was twisted into a blackened spiral.
She moved forward, slow at first. Listening.
A voice echoed, low and guttural.
Then—
A scream.
Not pain.
Prayer.
It was the last breath of someone begging for mercy.
Seraphiel reached for her blade, eyes narrowing.
The temple doors creaked open ahead of her. Light spilled across the ground.
Something was inside.
And it definitely wasn't human.