The sky was burning.
Ash drifted through the air like dying snow, glowing faintly in the dim light of a ruined dawn. Each flake spiraled down in silence, only to vanish when it touched the blackened ground. The land below was a grave — not of stone, but of flesh. Broken spears jutted from the earth like jagged ribs, and beneath them lay the bodies of men, beasts, and things that had no name.
And from the heart of the clouds, something fell.
A shadow streaked through the firelight, wreathed in smoke, tumbling toward the earth. For a moment, it seemed like a star had been torn from the heavens. But stars do not scream. Stars do not bleed.
The impact shook the ground. Soil and dust erupted in a wave, scattering crows from their feast.
At the center of the crater, Kael knelt.
He was bare to the waist, his skin smeared with soot and dried blood. His black wings hung heavy behind him, their feathers scorched at the edges. Around his head flickered a halo — not the pure gold of the heavenly host, but a thin, cracked ring of dim fire. Its glow was weak, as if ashamed to be seen. In his right hand, point buried in the earth, burned a sword of molten gold.
Kael lifted his head slowly, drawing in a ragged breath. The air was heavy with the stench of rot and iron. He tasted war on his tongue.
So… this was the mortal realm.
He had not walked its soil in centuries, not since the day the gates closed to him. They had called it exile, but he knew the truth: it was banishment. Condemnation. A sentence without end.
"Still alive," he murmured, his voice low, almost bitter. "That makes one of us."
The battlefield stretched endlessly in every direction, bodies piled like waves. The sky hung low and bruised, as though the world itself had been beaten. Kael stood, pulling his sword free. Golden embers fell from the blade, hissing when they touched the ground.
Somewhere in the distance, a horn blew. It was not the sound of triumph.
Kael turned his gaze toward it. Beyond the mists, he could see faint movement — soldiers, scavengers, perhaps both. Mortals. They would smell the ash. They would come.
He began to walk, each step crunching on brittle bone. His wings trailed behind him, dragging slightly, leaving streaks in the dust.
It did not take long before the first scavenger appeared. A man, lean and gaunt, with a rusted dagger and eyes like a starving dog. He froze when he saw Kael, his gaze darting between the halo, the wings, and the blade.
"You… you're one of them," the man stammered.
Kael said nothing.
The man's courage broke. He turned to run, but Kael's hand shot out. Fingers closed around the man's throat with inhuman speed, lifting him from the ground as easily as plucking a weed.
"You've walked among the dead," Kael said quietly. "Tell me — who commands here?"
The man clawed at his grip, choking. "The… Black… Covenant…"
The words sent a shadow through Kael's eyes.
He loosened his hold just enough for the man to speak. "They… they came from the East. Took the city. Took everything. Said the war was only beginning."
Kael frowned. The name was familiar. The Black Covenant was no mere mortal army. They were an order that dabbled in things forbidden even to the heavens — things older than angels, older than light.
"What do they want?" Kael asked.
The man shook his head violently. "Don't know! Please—"
Kael released him. The man fell to the ground, coughing. When he looked up again, the angel was already walking away.
He moved toward the ruined city on the horizon, its spires cracked like old bone. The ash thickened as he approached, swirling around him in slow eddies. His halo cast faint shadows across the rubble.
The gates had been torn from their hinges. Inside, the streets were littered with corpses, some freshly dead, others left to rot. Walls were painted with symbols Kael recognized — wards against angels. Not strong enough to keep him out, but strong enough to mark the territory as claimed.
He felt it before he heard it.
A pulse — faint, deep, almost like the heartbeat of the earth. It came from the central square.
Kael followed it.
When he arrived, he found the source: a black stone monolith, slick with blood. At its base, seven robed figures knelt in a circle, their heads bowed, chanting in a tongue that clawed at the mind. Between them lay something wrapped in chains.
The pulse came from it.
Kael stepped forward.
The nearest figure raised his head. Where eyes should have been, there was only darkness. "You are not welcome here, Ashwing," the figure hissed.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. "Then perhaps you should try to make me leave."
The robed figure smiled — a mouth too wide, teeth too many.
The others rose, their chanting growing louder, faster. The chains around the object began to writhe as though alive.
Kael's instincts screamed.
The chains snapped.
From within, something unfurled — a mass of black feathers, twisted limbs, and burning eyes. It rose, towering above him, and in that instant Kael knew what it was.
It was not mortal.
It was not of the heavens.
It was something that should never have been freed.
The thing turned its gaze upon him, and the air grew colder.
Then it spoke, its voice like stone grinding on bone:
"Kael."
His blood froze. It knew his name.
Kael's grip tightened on his blade. The molten edge flickered, spitting sparks into the ash, but he did not swing — not yet. The creature before him was not one to be struck blindly.
"Speak your purpose," Kael said, forcing his voice to remain steady.
The mass of feathers shivered, reshaping itself. Limbs bent in ways that mocked human form, and from within the shadowed tangle, a pale face emerged — beautiful, but stretched too thin, as if carved from the memory of someone who had once been mortal. Its eyes burned a color Kael could not name.
"I have no purpose," it whispered. "Only hunger."
The words crawled beneath his skin.
The seven robed figures fell prostrate before it, their chanting dissolving into hoarse, reverent laughter. One tore off his hood entirely, revealing a skull tattoo that covered his scalp. "The Binding is broken," he cried. "The Harrower walks again!"
Kael's mind worked quickly. The Harrower — an old name from the wars before light and shadow were born. A devourer of both mortal souls and celestial grace. Something the heavens had sealed away for eternity.
If the Black Covenant had freed it… then the war truly was beginning.
The Harrower turned its burning gaze fully on him. "I remember you, little exile," it said, smiling without warmth. "You once stood beside the Gate of Sorrow. You did not see me then… but I saw you."
Kael's jaw clenched. The Gate of Sorrow was a place he had not spoken of in centuries. Few even knew it existed.
"You know my name," Kael said. "That makes you dangerous."
"Dangerous?" the Harrower mused. "No. I am inevitable."
The air around it seemed to bend, and Kael felt his halo flicker violently. A pull, deep and invasive, tugged at his very being. The Harrower was trying to draw the light from him, to strip him down to an empty husk.
Kael moved.
His sword flared as he swung in a blazing arc, cutting through the air between them. The strike landed against the Harrower's form, but instead of the satisfying resistance of flesh, there was only the dull, sickening impact of hitting something that was not entirely there.
The creature staggered back, its face distorting with a sound like metal twisting. The seven robed servants screamed — not in fear, but in exaltation.
One charged at Kael with a curved blade. Kael didn't even look; his wing snapped outward, feathers like razors slicing across the man's throat. Blood misted in the ash.
The Harrower's voice rose into a low growl. "Still sharp, even without heaven's hand to guide you."
"Try me again," Kael said, his eyes narrowing.
The creature lunged.
It moved faster than any mortal eye could follow, a blur of black and burning gold. Kael barely managed to bring his blade up in time to block, the force of the impact driving him to one knee. His boots dug furrows into the ash-coated stones as he held his ground.
"You cannot stop what has begun," the Harrower hissed, pressing forward. "Your kind made sure of that when they threw you down."
Kael shoved back with all his strength, breaking the lock. "If this is your idea of gratitude for being freed, I'll make sure you regret it."
The Harrower laughed — a sound that scraped at the edges of sanity — and with a burst of shadow, it vanished.
Kael spun, searching, his sword raised.
A whisper came from behind him. "We will meet again, Ashwing."
The ground trembled. The black stone monolith cracked down the middle, its surface spiderwebbing with glowing veins. The robed servants wailed as the fissures spread, swallowing them one by one.
Kael leapt back, wings flaring, just as the square collapsed inward. Dust and debris billowed upward, blotting out the dim sun.
When the ash settled, the monolith was gone — and so was the Harrower.
Kael stood alone in the ruined square, the pulse gone, replaced by an aching silence.
He sheathed his sword slowly. He knew this was only the beginning. The Black Covenant would not stop with one summoning. And if the Harrower had marked him… then every shadow in the mortal realm would know his name soon enough.
He turned toward the broken gates, intending to leave before scavengers arrived — but then he heard it.
A voice.
It came softly at first, like the echo of a dream, drifting from somewhere deep within the ruins.
"Kael…"
He froze. His breath caught in his throat. He knew that voice.
It belonged to someone who had been dead for centuries.