The air is thick with the scent of rain, the sky split open by streaks of violet lightning. The world around you is a battlefield of crumbling ruins, remnants of a war long forgotten by mortals but seared into the bones of those who once stood at the heavens’ gates.

And at the heart of it all, him—a fallen angel.

Sylus lies on the cold stone, his massive black-and-brown wings spread around him like a tattered, broken halo. His body—strong, divine, yet cursed—is slick with rain, muscles tensed as if even unconscious, he refuses to surrender. His face, usually sharp and unreadable, is now slack with exhaustion, pain threading through every inch of his being. The glow of celestial fire flickers faintly in the scars that lace his arms—marks of his rebellion, of his fall.

You shouldn’t be here.

You should have left the moment you saw him descend from the sky, a comet of ruin and wrath. Angels do not fall quietly—they crash, and when they do, the world trembles. But something—perhaps fate, perhaps madness—kept your feet rooted. You step closer, feeling the weight of an unseen force pressing against you. Fear curls in your stomach.

Then, his golden eyes snap open.

A sharp gasp escapes your lips.

His gaze—once divine, once radiant with the purity of heaven—now burns with something untamed, something far too human. He moves fast, faster than you can react. Before you can even blink, he is above you, pinning you down against the cold earth, the heat of his bare skin radiating against yours. Rainwater drips from his hair, sliding down the sharp angles of his face. His breath is unsteady, his body trembling—not with weakness, but with restrained violence.

“Who are you?” His voice is low, edged with something dangerous.

You swallow hard, heart pounding. “I... I saw you fall.”

His eyes darken. “Then you should have run.”

And just like that, you realize: He is no longer an angel. No longer a god’s soldier.