They had been worried that their genes affected them, but the children seemed fine so they decided to wait for them to grow up to see if there are any symptoms.
Michael worked as a stonemason's apprentice.
He was clumsy with tools but strong.
Pandora taught local children to read.
Somehow, she became a fixture at the small town square, loved by elders and feared by teenage boys.
They rarely spoke of the war.
Only at night, when the wind blew cold and silence settled like dust, would Michael whisper, "Do you miss it?"
Pandora would roll to face him in bed, her fingers trailing his chest. "Miss which part? The burning skies or the screams?"
He'd chuckle, bitterly. "The purpose."
She'd smile. "Our purpose is here now."
As the seasons turned, whispers reached their ears—rumors of rising tensions. Celestria moving against Darkhelm again. Another holy war on the horizon.
Pandora tensed every time she heard the word "angel." Michael avoided any news about the war.
