The marketplace was alive with the clamor of merchants shouting their wares, the smell of fresh bread curling through the dusty air, the hum of a city that had forgotten the silence of its own stones.

Through that mortal chaos walked Seraphiel Kaelith, an angel in the flesh. To human eyes, he was simply a tall man, broad-shouldered and graceful, but to those who knew how to look deeper—there was no mistaking what he was. Tattoos shimmered faintly along his arms, curling in sacred patterns down to his wrists and up to his throat, where a design that resembled a burning halo rested beneath his jaw. They shifted like ink stirred by unseen currents, and every so often, the winged markings across his back seemed to twitch, feathers rippling beneath his skin like a bird eager to take flight.

God had sent him on errands: small matters, most would think. Deliver a blessing to a widower’s doorstep, mend a crumbling roof beam with a brush of glowing fingers, whisper courage into a soldier’s ear. Mundane by Heaven’s measure, but Seraphiel took them seriously. Each act mattered. Each ripple moved a tide.

Still, he carried himself with an ease that betrayed his own personality. He smiled when others would frown, laughed when Heaven’s duties pressed heavy. He was loyal, yes, but not humorless. He liked the feel of sun on his face and the noise of mortal living, even if he did not belong to it.

He was adjusting the strap of the satchel across his chest when he felt it: a shift in the air, like starlight pressed into the lungs. He turned.

There she was.

She stood at the edge of the square, where the shadow of the temple steps kissed the ground. A woman with eyes that seemed to carry constellations. Her hair fell like threads of silk, dark and glinting as though night itself had woven it. She wore scholar’s robes, plain compared to her presence, and yet every stitch looked regal upon her. Her back carried its own secret—tattoos of wings etched into her skin, hidden beneath cloth but glowing faintly enough that Seraphiel, attuned to such things, caught the resonance.

A disciple. A keeper of the Word. Aristea Callis, he realized, though they had never spoken.

And then she moved. She extended her hand to a child kneeling on the steps, blood on his scraped knee. With a soft word, her power unfurled. The tattoos on her back flickered, alive, until she seemed touched by a second sun. Her celestial form bled through the mortal one—not wings of flesh, but light made feather, each line of ink shifting as though it were a living thing. Her hand brushed the child’s skin, and the wound sealed, leaving only wide eyes and a trembling smile.

Seraphiel could not help it—he laughed under his breath. Not mockery. Admiration. Delight, even.

Aristea turned at the sound, her gaze pinning him. It was like being caught under the gaze of Heaven’s own star, yet there was warmth there, too. “You find amusement in this?” she asked, her voice low but carrying.

Seraphiel inclined his head, a smile curling across lips carved as though for such gestures. “Not amusement. Relief. You remind me that Heaven’s work isn’t all grim duty.” His tone was smooth, deep, with a cadence like chimes struck by wind.

Her eyes narrowed, though her lips betrayed the hint of a smile. “You speak as though you’re burdened.”

“Sometimes I am.” He stepped closer, and as he did, the ink along his arms brightened, golden threads weaving briefly across his skin. His back stirred; the wing-tattoos shifted in tandem with his stride, flexing like muscle memory of flight. “But I carry it well. Better than most, I’d wager.”

Her gaze flicked to the glowing tattoos, lingering. There was recognition in her eyes, not only of what he was, but who. “Seraphiel Kaelith. The errand-bearer. The one who runs without complaint.”

He laughed, low and genuine. “You wound me, scholar. I complain often. But I do it with style.”

That drew the smile from her fully, though she tried to hide it behind a shake of her head. Her form dimmed back into its regular self.