Music recommendation: Back to the Shadows by Christopher Beck on Spotify Music
The stench of burnt flesh clung to the air, sharp and suffocating, while smoke from scorched earth curled into the heavens. The ground below was painted in crimson, littered with corpses of every kind—demons, shifters, Fae, and angels alike. Broken weapons jutted from the soil like gravestones. Wings, both feathered and leathery, lay torn and lifeless, fluttering in the dying wind.
The battle raged on with no end in sight. Shrieks of the fallen mingled with the clash of steel and the guttural roars of beasts. "Onward, my brothers!" a demon general bellowed, his voice booming over the chaos. His blade carved through an angel's chest, spraying feathers and blood. "Let them taste our blades and bathe in the blood of our enemies!" His call roused the rebel army; their eyes gleamed like rubies in the gloom as they thundered forward, claws and fangs flashing.
Ten legions of angels descended from the storm-choked skies. Their weapons shone with divine brilliance as they pierced through the swarm below. A few demons fell instantly, their bodies burning away upon contact with holy steel. Yet the horde surged like a tide, undeterred, roaring defiance against the celestial host.
On a ridge high above the battlefield stood two figures, their armor gleaming faintly with an iridescent sheen even beneath the pall of smoke. White wings unfurled wide at their backs, their forms radiant, unshaken. They were archangels—commanders of Heaven's host. One stood still and silent, helmet concealing his face, his hands resting firmly on the pommel of his sword. Beside him, another removed his helmet, revealing long platinum hair that fell in a silken cascade to his waist. His stoic gaze swept the carnage below.
"May the Creator have mercy on their souls," he murmured, as if the words were a fragile prayer against the tide of slaughter. A faint curve touched his lips, not of joy but of weary resignation. He tilted his head, voice low with wryness. "What do you think, Arael?"
The other archangel—Arael—did not answer at once. He turned his head, eyes narrowing at his counterpart's words, the faint scowl beneath his helm betraying his disapproval. He loathed empty platitudes, especially on a battlefield soaked in screams. Yet, even he could not dismiss the gravity of their duty. The rebellion had forced their hand; to do nothing was to watch the mortal and immortal realms crumble. The consequences of mercy would be far too dire.
Still, Arael's gaze sharpened. His senses swept the battlefield like a hawk searching for its prey, seeking the one responsible for this endless bloodshed. Then he felt it—a pull, a malignant weight that pressed on his spirit. His eyes locked on a lone figure amidst the slaughter.
The Fallen One.
Black wings stretched wide, darker than midnight, their edges trailing shadowy wisps that writhed like smoke. His claws dripped with blood, crimson soaking into the soil where another angel fell lifeless at his feet. Yet even in carnage, his eyes never wavered. Burning like twin flames of the abyss, they rose to meet Arael's from across the field.
Arael's jaw clenched. Without hesitation, he spread his wings and launched from the ridge. The other archangel called after him, but Arael was already gone, slicing through the air. He plummeted like a comet, the light of Heaven against the shadow of rebellion.
In a heartbeat, he was upon the Fallen. His gauntleted hand seized the traitor by the throat and slammed him into the earth with a force that shook the ground. The impact cracked the battlefield, scattering dust and stone in all directions. A crater yawned where they landed, drawing every eye nearby.
Arael tightened his grip, his nails piercing flesh. Black ichor welled around his fingers, staining his gauntlet. Yet the Fallen did not resist. He stared back, crimson eyes unblinking, his expression a storm of sorrow, fury, and something deeper—regret.
"Stop… make it stop."
The whisper was faint, disembodied, as if it came not from the battlefield but from some distant memory. Arael's resolve wavered. He pressed harder, shadows writhing against his hold, the darkness clawing at his senses.
"NO! Please—make it STOP!"
The voice was no longer faint. It was desperate, female, echoing like a scream through the void.
The battlefield dissolved.
Lyra jolted awake.
Her breath tore from her lungs in ragged gasps as her body shot upright, curls of raven-black hair spilling wildly across her pale, sweat-drenched face. She clutched the sheets with trembling fingers, the phantom sensation of claws at her chest refusing to fade. Her heart thundered so loudly she swore the entire room must hear it.
Crimson eyes. Always those crimson eyes. Burning, endless, seared into her mind.
'Another nightmare,' she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths until the rhythm steadied. Slowly, she lowered her hands, reminding herself she was safe.
The room was quiet. Sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, pale and gentle, illuminating the modest wooden furniture of her chamber. The familiar scent of dried herbs and firewood grounded her. This was her home, not the battlefield of her dreams.
From beyond the window came the sound of wood splitting, followed by a grunt of effort. Lyra's shoulders eased as reality settled back into place. Of course. Her grandfather was already awake, tending to the day's chores. Winter was creeping closer, and Conrad never wasted daylight when there was wood to chop and food to prepare.
She swung her legs off the bed, shivering slightly at the chill of the floorboards. Rising, she crossed to her dresser and shed her nightdress, replacing it with a beige tunic and well-worn leather trousers. Practical, simple. She tugged the hem into place and moved to the washbasin. Cold water splashed across her face, banishing the lingering cobwebs of sleep.
Her reflection stared back at her from the rippling surface of the basin. High cheekbones, aquamarine eyes striking even when rimmed with fatigue, framed by unruly waves of black hair. She combed her fingers through it and tied it back into a ponytail that fell neatly down her spine. It was a face she knew well—ordinary by some standards, but steady, resilient. With a final nod at her reflection, she turned away.
Boots laced, quiver slung over her shoulder, bow in hand. She inhaled the crisp morning air as she stepped outside. The frost-kissed grass crunched underfoot, and the forest loomed at the edge of their property, mist curling through its trees. The pull of the woods called to her, promising distraction from the remnants of her nightmare.
She had nearly reached the porch steps when a familiar voice broke through the quiet.
"Lyra! Where do you think you're heading off to?"
She froze, grimacing, then turned.
Conrad stood a few paces away, a stack of chopped logs balanced in his arms. His figure was still broad despite his years, his frame solid, the lines of hard labor etched into his skin. White streaks threaded through his short gray hair, and his blue eyes—sharp and unwavering—fixed on her with grandfatherly authority.
Lyra sighed. She had hoped to slip away unnoticed, but his stern expression dashed that hope instantly. With reluctant steps, she walked toward him, silently praying this wouldn't spiral into another argument. Yet the set of his jaw suggested otherwise.