The night was a canvas of bruised clouds, torn by veins of pale lightning. Elias stood alone on the ridge, his cloak whipping against the wind, his eyes fixed upon the dark valley below — a scar upon the world. The earth there was blackened, poisoned by something that had fallen from the heavens long ago. The locals called it the Wound of Asterion, but among the scholars of the old faith, it had another name — the Tomb of the Fallen.
Elias had come here because of a dream. Or perhaps it had been a summons. The voice that haunted his sleep — the same infernal whisper that had marked his flesh and shattered his faith — had spoken of a gift buried beneath the bones of an angel.
He descended the ridge, his boots crunching against brittle stones. Each step brought the air heavier with the stench of ash and decay. His companions — the few that remained — followed in silence.
There was Kael, the brooding soldier who had once served the Inquisition before Elias spared his life. His face was a map of scars, his loyalty uncertain but his blade steady.
Beside him walked Mira, the healer who feared her own gift — she could mend wounds but at the cost of feeling every pain she healed. Her eyes were hollow from too much mercy.
And then there was the boy — Taren — no older than sixteen, carrying the relic satchel. He watched Elias with quiet awe and growing fear.
"Are you certain of this path?" Kael muttered as they neared the valley's edge. "Nothing good lies in a place the angels themselves sealed."
Elias didn't answer. His eyes glowed faintly, the serpent mark on his arm pulsing like a heartbeat beneath his sleeve. The voice within whispered again, soft as smoke.
"Go deeper, little flame. What you seek lies where light first died."
He clenched his fist to silence it. But even his defiance was weaker now. The more he fought it, the more it lingered, entwining itself with his thoughts like ivy on a crumbling wall.
They reached the mouth of the chasm. The ground split open like the jaw of some ancient beast. Within, faint blue light shimmered — a ghostly glow that seemed to pulse with rhythm, like breathing.
Mira drew back. "This place… it's alive."
"Not alive," Elias said quietly. "Remembered."
They descended. The walls of the chasm were carved with runes — old celestial script, burned and broken, half-swallowed by molten stone. Some were prayers. Others… warnings.
At the bottom lay a massive crater, filled with what looked like glass. But when Elias knelt to touch it, it rippled like liquid and shimmered beneath his fingers.
A mirror — not of water or silver, but of souls.
Within its depths, faint shapes moved — wings, faces, shadows screaming in silence.
Kael cursed softly. "This is no tomb. It's a prison."
"Both," Elias murmured. "And what lies within still remembers the light."
Before they could speak further, the ground trembled. A burst of energy rippled from the mirror, and a figure rose from its surface — tall, radiant, terrible.
An angel.
But its light was fractured. Its wings were torn, its armor cracked. And from the fractures bled black fire.
The sight of it stole the breath from all but Elias. The others drew back, weapons raised.
The angel's voice was thunder wrapped in sorrow.
"Who dares disturb the rest of Asterion?"
Elias stepped forward. "A seeker of truth."
"Truth?" The angel's broken eyes burned with bitter flame. "You wear the serpent's brand, mortal. Your soul is already forfeit."
"I didn't ask for it," Elias said, his voice steady despite the quake in his chest. "But I'll use it to end what both your kind and the demons began."
The angel studied him, the black fire pulsing brighter. "You would wield the corruption of Hell to challenge the order of Heaven?"
"If the order is built upon lies… then yes."
For a long moment, silence. Then — the angel smiled, but it was a mournful thing.
"So be it, marked one. Take what remains of my light. May it damn you or deliver you — it matters not. The heavens have turned their gaze away from mercy."
The angel spread its hands. Shards of burning glass tore free from its body and whirled around Elias. Pain lanced through him — his mark flared, his veins alight with molten power.
He fell to his knees as visions flooded his mind — cities of gold burning, angels slaughtering men in the name of purity, the earth weeping blood. And through it all, the same voice echoed:
"Power is not sin. What you do with it is."
When the storm ended, Elias rose — barely. His eyes burned silver-white. The angel was gone, leaving behind only a fragment — a single, luminous feather hovering before him.
Mira caught his arm. "Elias, stop! Your veins—"
They glowed like veins of fire. He could feel everything — every heartbeat in the valley, every grain of ash. The world felt alive and screaming.
Kael stepped forward, wary. "What did it give you?"
Elias stared at the feather in his palm. "A weapon. A curse. I can't yet tell which."
That night, as they made camp among the dead stones, Elias dreamt of wings — not white and pure, but vast and burning. He stood upon a battlefield of ash, facing a figure cloaked in radiant light.
"You think yourself chosen," the figure said. "But you are merely the vessel of what we abandoned."
When he awoke, the fire had gone cold. Mira sat by him, her expression drawn. "You spoke in your sleep. Names I've never heard."
He rubbed his temples. "They're not names. They're echoes."
She hesitated. "Elias… do you ever wonder if the voice guiding you—"
"Is lying?" he finished, eyes distant. "Every day."
But when he looked at the feather again, still glowing faintly with celestial fire, something in his chest tightened. Because beneath the fear, beneath the burden, there was also… hunger.
A hunger for truth. For vengeance. For power enough to tear the heavens down if he must.
The serpent mark pulsed once — and somewhere in the darkness beyond, the voice laughed softly.
"The gift is only the beginning, little flame. Now, let us see what you burn."
The wind carried that whisper through the camp, unnoticed by the others. Elias turned his face toward the dying embers of their fire — and for the first time, he saw the faint outline of wings flicker behind him, not of light or shadow, but both.
He said nothing. But the world had changed. And so had he.