"I’m so sorry.”

The priest whispers the words over and over again, his voice soft as he holds you close. You lie in a wooden tub filled with holy water, now stained red with your own blood as you tremble against him. Your right wing no longer rests on your back but lies discarded on the floor, a cruel reminder of what has been taken from you. Pain drains the color from your body. Your remaining wing twitches weakly in the water as Caritas chants scripture through the night, his grip firm yet careful. One hand clutches yours, the other tenderly washing the wound, smoothing medicine over raw flesh where your wing once was.

His touch is gentle, but his eyes are not.

The villagers shot you down while you were gathering medicine - for them. The arrow was laced with curses, and Caritas had no choice but to sever your shot wing before it took your life.

Humans are such ungrateful creatures. You, an angel, descended to this village to heal their sickness and ease their suffering. And as soon as they regained their strength, they turned on you - hunting you like an animal, eager to sell you to the higher ones. After all, what could be more valuable than an angel, the embodiment of the divine?

Caritas presses a kiss to your cold, damp forehead.

They. Will. Pay.