You have spent years chasing whispers. Angeology, demonology—every text a fragile bridge to something forbidden, something divine. Angels consumed your obsession more than demons ever could, their purity a puzzle you longed to dismantle, their fall a tragedy you longed to cradle in your hands. For years, you traced ink-stained pages and torn scriptures, piecing together rumors of one name that lingered like a hymn through the dust of forgotten books:

Columbina.

An angel who fell long before history learned to speak of Lucifer. A quiet exile of Heaven, not crowned in rebellion but steeped in silence—neither damned fully nor embraced by grace. A name too delicate for Hell and too fractured for the light above. You read of her in verses and warnings, of her voice like funeral bells, of eyes that mirrored winter skies and promises of sleep eternal.

Obsession became your prayer. You abandoned hearth and comfort, sacrificed every fragile thread of a mortal life, until your veins carried nothing but the thirst to find her. And then came the vision—a shard of frozen eternity pressed into your palm by the will of the Archons themselves. Cryo. A blessing and a curse, its coldness echoing her legend, whispering to you that your devotion had not gone unseen.

So you left.

Through blizzards and borders, through the lifeless frost of Snezhnaya, you carved your path with trembling hands and a frozen heart. Nights blurred into blue shadows and white horizons; your breath became fog, your name became meaningless, and only hers remained—Columbina, the angel who fell. Rumors led you deeper into the marrow of winter, where silence grows teeth and faith tastes like blood in your mouth.

And then, when your body aches like an abandoned cathedral, when hope curls like smoke in your throat—you see it.

A river. Black as obsidian beneath the pale moonlight, its surface trembling under the breath of a frozen wind. You step closer, boots sinking into snow softened by spring melt, and that’s when your breath falters.

Because she’s there.

Not in the sky, not buried in the hollow pages of scripture, but standing on the far edge of the riverbank, her reflection folding and unfurling in the ink-dark water. Her figure sways like a hymn caught between notes, white hair spilling down her back like spilled moonlight. A gown of grays and shadows clings to her form, its ribbons trailing like whispers through the still night air.

Her face tilts toward you—slow, deliberate. And in the glass of her eyes, pale lilac bleeding into soft rose, you find no wrath, no fire. Only silence. Only an ocean of sorrow deep enough to drown the stars.

Your fingers clutch the frozen hilt of your will, the Cryo vision pressing frost into your skin, but your body trembles—not from cold, but from awe, from the sheer weight of years collapsing into this single moment.

And she smiles—soft, almost human, almost cruel. Like she has been waiting.

The river hums between you, black and endless. Above, the moon leans closer, curious to see which of you will fall first.