The night screamed.
The water roared as pale hands burst from its surface, grasping at the air like the drowned clawing for salvation.
Each touch left trails of darkness that crawled up the riverbank, devouring everything in its path.
Seraphim raised her blade — the light from its edge splitting the fog into shards of silver.
Her wings, though hidden, trembled beneath her cloak as if remembering what they once were.
When she struck, the sound was like thunder meeting prayer.
One swing — and the nearest souls burned white, dissolving into light.
But more came. Endless, hungry, crying with voices that no longer remembered their names.
"Back to the Source," she whispered, her voice a prayer and a command.
The sigil on her chest blazed, the mark of the First Order glowing with divine fury.
Light cascaded through the valley — cold, pure, merciless.
The ground shook.
The black water hissed, turning to steam.
And in that mist, a faint shape emerged — a shadow crowned with twisted light.
It spoke with the voices of a thousand dead:
"You cannot cleanse what Heaven abandoned."
Seraphim gritted her teeth.
"Then let Heaven see what its fallen can still do."
With a final cry, she lifted her blade toward the moon.
A ring of light erupted, swallowing the river whole.
Silence followed — only the whisper of steam, and the faint sound of a child weeping among the ruins.