The Celestial Temple floated like a jewel suspended among golden clouds, its stained glass shimmering under a sun that seemed to burn just for us. The air smelled of sweet incense and the lotus flowers Elysia cultivated in the hanging gardens, a scent that mingled with the steam rising from the jasmine tea in my cup. The jade table beneath my fingers was cold, streaked with turquoise as if the sky itself had been carved into it. To my left, Seraphine sang, her voice a river of notes flowing like water over smooth stones, each tone weaving a balm that soothed the cracks in my soul. To my right, Elysia, my divine light, held her cup with delicate fingers, her radiant wings folded behind her like a contained dawn.
Kaelith's echo still lingered within me: his defiant gaze, his broken wings, his insolence. He'd sent a message, yes, but something in my chest—a sharp instinct honed like the daggers I once forged in Edenfall—told me the story wasn't over. The Gospel I carry tolerates no loose ends, and that cheap angel was a knot I still had to unravel.
"Father," Elysia said suddenly, her voice soft yet piercing, like a ray of light cutting through fog. She closed her eyes for a moment, her white lashes trembling, and when she opened them, her golden irises gleamed with a certainty that chilled the blood. "The messenger delivered the message, but he's also betrayed us."
The tea in my hand trembled, the amber liquid reflecting my face for a second before I set it down with a sharp thud that echoed in the silence. Seraphine stopped singing, the air falling empty without her melody, and looked at me with those turquoise eyes that promised oceans of calm. But there was no calm in me, not now.
"I've been a just judge," I said, my voice low, laced with an edge sharper than any blade. "I gave that fool a chance, but it seems not everyone has eyes to see the greatness my Gospel brings." I tilted my head slightly, my gaze lost in the shadows dancing across the marble columns. Betrayal wasn't new to me; I'd felt it in the streets of a world that spat me out, in the gunshots that took Lira. But here, on this canvas I've painted with blood and obsession, I wouldn't tolerate it.
A whisper of darkness rose to my left, a cold that smelled of damp earth and rusted metal. Nyxara emerged from the shadows as if the temple itself had birthed her, her ebony skin glinting in the dim light, her silver hair falling like a torn veil. Her red eyes met mine, and for a moment, she hesitated. Her lips quivered, a flicker of vulnerability in that lethal assassin I'd shaped with my own hands.
"Father," she said, her voice a whisper that sliced the air like a dagger through silk. "Do you want me to handle it?"
I looked at her, my living shadow, my blade in the night. There was something in her tone, a hunger not just for blood but for me. Before I could answer, she stepped closer, her breath brushing my face like an icy wind.
"Before I go…" She paused, her fingers grazing the edge of her fitted cloak. "Would you give me a kiss, Father? A bit of your light to carry with me on this task."
I smiled, a crooked curve that reeked of obsession and gunpowder. I didn't hesitate. I leaned in, my lips meeting hers in a firm, warm brush against her supernatural cold. She shuddered, a sigh escaping her throat, and when I pulled back, her eyes shone with a devotion that was both fire and ice.
"Go happy, my shadow," I said, my voice a gunshot wrapped in velvet. "Show him the weight of disobedience. Tear off his wings."
Nyxara nodded, her smile a blade glinting in the gloom. "For you, Father, the sky will weep blood," she whispered, then vanished, her body dissolving into shadows that slithered across the floor like hungry snakes.
Silence returned, broken only by the faint hum of Elysia's wings. She looked at me, her face serene yet heavy with an unspoken question. Her clairvoyance was a gift I didn't doubt; if she said Kaelith had betrayed us, it was as true as the jade beneath my fingers.
"Father," she said, her tone warm but firm, like a dawn promising to burn. "I can bring her back. Lira. My light can reach her, pull her from the abyss. You don't have to bear this weight alone."
Her words hit like a gunshot to the chest, Lira's locket falling into my mind once more, her blood-red dress flashing behind my eyes. For a moment, I wanted to say yes, to imagine her laughter filling this temple, her footsteps racing through the gardens. But my mind, that analytical machine that kept me alive when the world hunted me, rose like a wall.
"No," I said, my voice a restrained thunder. "Not yet." I leaned toward her, my hand finding her leg beneath the sheer tunic, the warmth of her skin a contrast to the cold gnawing at me. "First, we must understand this world, Elysia. Know we have the strength to defend what's rightfully ours. What good is reviving her if I lose her again? If she suffers once more under a sky I don't control?"
She covered my hand with hers, her fingers soft yet steady, an anchor in my storm. "I understand, Father," she whispered, her golden eyes gleaming with a devotion sharper than any blade. "But my light is here, whenever you need it."
I smiled, a spark of tenderness breaking through my iron facade. "Thank you for your care, my light," I said, squeezing her leg gently before turning to Seraphine. "And you too, my dear daughter. Your song keeps the shadows chasing me at bay."
Seraphine tilted her head, her turquoise hair spilling over her shoulders like a river, and resumed her melody. The notes danced in the air, weaving an invisible shield against the turmoil roaring in my soul. The tea returned to my hands, and for a moment—just a moment—I let the calm envelop me. But deep down, I knew Nyxara was already on the move, my gospel coming to life in her shadows.
The Cloud Temple bathed in a golden glow, the sunset filtering through translucent columns and casting prisms of light that danced across the crystal floor. The air smelled of incense and the fresh breeze flowing between the floating islands, carrying the faint rustle of clouds swirling overhead. Kaelith lay in a healing chamber, his body stretched across a slab of white marble veined with gold, surrounded by humming celestial runes. His wings—or what remained of them—hung like bloodied rags at his sides, golden feathers scattered on the floor like petals torn by a gale. The celestial blood, a liquid gold still shimmering with supernatural radiance, had stopped flowing, but the wounds on his chest and face pulsed with a dull ache that wouldn't leave him.
A day had passed since his audience with Liora and the elders, and the plan—his plan—had been approved. False maps, routes to the Primordial Void, a deception that would topple that heretic Renn and his monsters in their own arrogance. The elders had backed him, even Toren, with his hammer-sharp laugh, slamming his staff on the ground in approval. Kaelith should've been satisfied. His light, battered but intact, had prevailed. Yet as he lay there, the hum of runes filling the air and the ethereal chant of disciples echoing in the distance, an unease coiled in his chest like a serpent slithering through shadows.
He sat up slowly, pain in his ribs echoing Lyria's boot, but he ignored it. His hands trembled as they brushed the slab's edge, the marble cold against palms still stained with dried gold. The chamber was empty save for a young Spiritual Foundation disciple adjusting the runes on the far wall, her short wings buzzing nervously. She didn't look at him, too absorbed in her task, and Kaelith welcomed the silence. But that silence… there was something in it. A weight. A stillness that wasn't peace, but the calm before thunder.
He turned his head toward the window, a crystal arch revealing the floating islands and the liquid sky of the Lower Celestial Plane. The sun sank, staining the clouds a red that reminded him of his brothers' blood spilled in past battles. Everything was in place: the temple's defenses, the light formations that could incinerate an intruder in seconds, the protections woven by Liora herself, a Celestial Sovereign at her peak. Even the patrols of lesser angels buzzed on the horizon, their spears glinting like stars. Nothing could breach this place. Nothing could touch him.
And yet, a shiver ran through him. An icy brush at the nape of his neck, as if invisible eyes watched from shadows the runes couldn't illuminate. He rose from the slab, his boots clacking against the crystal with an echo that felt too loud, too solitary. The disciple glanced up, her dark eyes blinking in surprise.
"Are you alright, envoy?" she asked, her voice shaky, barely audible over the runes' hum.
Kaelith didn't answer. His gaze swept the chamber, the dark corners where light seemed to bend, as if something avoided it. "Just… need air," he muttered, more to himself than her. He stepped toward the window, the crystal beneath his feet vibrating faintly with each move, and peered outside. The clouds drifted lazily, the wind whispering between islands, but that icy brush lingered. Stronger now, a tingle creeping up his spine like invisible fingers sliding over his skin.
He stopped before the crystal, his reflection staring back: an angular face, gray eyes clouded with exhaustion, celestial bandages barely visible beneath his torn tunic. But then he saw it. A flash of red in the reflection, cold eyes watching from the crystal's edge, where light faded into shadow. He whipped his head around, heart slamming against his ribs, but there was nothing. Just translucent columns, humming runes, the disciple bent over her work.
"What the hell…?" he whispered, his breath fogging the crystal for a moment before dissipating. He looked at the reflection again, and there they were: those red eyes, still, piercing him with a blood-chilling calm. He spun again, the motion so sharp he stumbled, his hand smacking the crystal with a dull thud. Nothing. Just the hum, the distant chant, the wind's whisper.
He pressed a hand to his chest, where bandages covered the wounds Lyria had left. They were healing, his Divine Transformation power regenerating with each hour under the runes. He was whole again, his body thrumming with energy, ready to face any threat. But that feeling wouldn't leave. It was as if the air itself watched him, an invisible weight settling on his shoulders, pressing, pressing, until his breaths grew short and rapid.
He stepped back, eyes darting from corner to corner. The chamber was open, bathed in golden light, but the shadows seemed deeper now, thicker, pooling at the edges of his vision. He passed a small mirror on the west wall, angled to reflect the runes and amplify their power, and froze. In the reflection, behind his own face, those red eyes glowed again, cold and lethal, staring right at him. He spun so fast he nearly lost balance, but the wall was empty—just white marble and humming runes.
"No," he murmured, his voice trembling, barely a whisper against the hum now drilling into his ears. "It can't be…"
He returned to the slab, his steps echoing like gunshots in the silence, and bent to grab his spear leaning against the edge. The metal was cold—too cold, as if dipped in ice. He hefted it, its tip catching the golden light, but even that light seemed dim, as if shadows were swallowing it. He glanced at the blade's reflection, and there they were again: red eyes blinking in the polished steel, still, watching with a patience that tore him apart.
"Enough!" he growled, spinning in circles, spear raised, his breath forming white clouds before his face. White clouds. In a warm chamber. The cold was unbearable now, an ice that stabbed into his freshly healed wounds, stealing his breath. Shadows flickered at the edges of his vision—a flash here, a shimmer there—and each time he looked, nothing. But the reflections… the reflections didn't lie. In the window's crystal, the wall's mirror, the spear's gleaming surface, those eyes followed, cold, relentless, as if the temple itself conspired against him.
He staggered toward the disciple, his voice cracking like a whip. "Don't you feel it? That… cold? Don't you see anything?"
She shrank back, her short wings buzzing in panic, dark eyes wide with confusion. "Cold? No, envoy. The chamber's warm. What's wrong? Do you need more runes?"
"No!" he snapped, stepping back again, eyes jumping from shadow to shadow. "It's not that. It's… something else. Something's here."
The runes' hum seemed to amplify, a sound now piercing his ears like a distant scream. The crystal beneath his feet vibrated again, a subtle tremor that might've been the wind—but it wasn't. He knew it. He felt it in his bones, in the scars of his broken wings. Something was hunting him. He turned to the window again, spear trembling in his hands, and the reflection hit him like a punch: the red eyes were closer now, just over his shoulder, so sharp he could see a pupil glinting against the blood-red. He spun, the move so swift the air whistled, but nothing. Just crystal, runes, the endless hum.
"Show yourself!" he roared, his voice booming through the chamber like a desperate challenge. "I know you're there, damn it! Step out of the shadows, coward!"
Silence. But the cold grew, an icy breath sliding down his neck, raising goosebumps. The shadows twisted again, faster, closer, and then he saw them: red eyes glowing in the gloom, a flicker that was death incarnate. Not a reflection this time. Real, hovering in the chamber's corner where light couldn't reach.
Nyxara rose from the floor like a specter, her lithe, lethal form materializing from the shadows as if the temple had birthed her. Her ebony skin drank the light, her silver hair falling like a torn veil, and those red eyes pinned him in place—cold, relentless, ravenous. No hiss, no taunt. Just a deadly calm, a certainty heavier than any threat.
Kaelith stumbled back, spear raised, voice breaking. "You? Here? Impossible! The defenses—the formations—Liora—!"
Nyxara tilted her head, her smile a slow, deliberate edge, like death savoring its prey. "Shadows don't ask permission," she said, her voice a whisper slicing the air like poison through a vein. "Father spoke. Your wings are his."
He unleashed his strongest technique without hesitation—Light of a Thousand Heavens—a torrent of divine light bursting from his spear like a rising sun, bathing the chamber in blinding radiance. The runes flared, the crystal reverberated, and the disciple screamed, shielding her eyes. But Nyxara didn't flinch. Shadows rose around her like a living cloak, swallowing the light, devouring it like a candle in an abyss.
"No," Kaelith whispered, disbelief crashing against raw terror. "It can't be…"
She stepped forward, her presence filling the chamber like a silent storm. "You thought you could deceive him," she said, her tone flat yet heavy with blood-chilling menace. "You thought your light would blind him. But light means nothing to shadows."
Kaelith struck again, his spear slashing the air in a desperate arc, but Nyxara vanished, her body dissolving in a flicker of darkness. She reappeared behind him, so close he felt the chill of her breath on his neck, so close the scent of damp earth and death flooded his lungs. He tried to turn, but her hands were faster, claws gripping the roots of his broken wings.
"No!" he screamed, his voice a wail echoing off the crystal. "I can tell you his plans! I can—!"
"No words will save you," she cut in, her voice a bladeless edge—no anger, just certainty. "Father has spoken."
With a fluid motion, she tore. The sound was visceral—a wet crunch followed by a rip that filled the chamber, golden blood spraying the floor in gleaming arcs that flickered in the fading light. Kaelith collapsed to his knees, pain blinding him, his scream choking into a gurgle of agony. His wings—or what was left—lay beside him, golden rags soaked in his own blood, a broken trophy for a king he'd never see.
Nyxara loomed over him, her figure towering against the runes' glow, red eyes shining with quiet satisfaction. No rush, no fury. Just the weight of a task complete, a gospel written in blood and shadow.
"Sleep, little angel," she whispered, her voice an echo slipping through the air like slow poison. "Death doesn't claim you yet. Father wants you to live… and remember."
She turned, her body dissolving into shadows once more, leaving Kaelith alone in the chamber, his ragged breaths bouncing off the crystal, his golden blood pooling in puddles that reflected a sky no longer his. The disciple, frozen against the wall, let out a sob, but he didn't hear her. All he could feel was the cold, the void, and the certainty that the Eternal Garden was no empty threat.
Back in the Celestial Temple, the tea had gone cold in my cup, but I didn't care. The air smelled of jasmine and the calm Seraphine wove with her song, a shield against the storms raging in my mind. Elysia was at my side, her hand still beneath mine, her warmth a reminder of what I'd built here, what I'd protect at any cost.
The shadows twisted in the hall's corner, a whisper of darkness I knew as well as my own breath. Nyxara emerged, her lithe form sliding from the gloom like a specter the world had forgotten to fear. Her red eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the task done, the gospel etched in blood.
"Father," she said, her voice a whisper cutting the air like a dagger. "His wings are yours."
I smiled, a crooked curve that reeked of victory and obsession. "Well done, my shadow," I said, my tone low but brimming with a fervor I couldn't contain. "Let the heavens tremble at what we are."
She bowed her head, silver hair falling like a torn veil, and for a moment, I saw that spark of devotion I'd ignited with my kiss. "For you, Father," she whispered. "Always for you."
Seraphine's song rose again, a river of notes filling the hall, and I leaned back in my jade throne, the metal's cold against my back a contrast to the heat of my triumph. The Gospel marched on, plane by plane, shadow by shadow. And soon—very soon—the cosmos would know my name.