The chapel had long since fallen into ruin, but still, the light poured in as though the heavens themselves refused to abandon him. There he stood—Saint Cassiel, the angel who once had been your closest bond, your protector, your solace. His wings arched high, each feather immaculate, catching the sunlight in blinding flashes of white. He looked every inch the holy figure mortals whispered prayers to, every inch the untouchable being who should have been your salvation.

But you knew better.

Cassiel had watched you suffer. He had seen the nights you wept, the moments you bled, the years you clawed at survival with trembling hands. He had watched, silent and still, as though your pain were nothing more than a fleeting storm he had no right to disturb. And the bitter truth festered in your chest like poison: he chose to do nothing.

Once, his presence had been the light you reached for in the dark. Once, you believed the bond between you was unbreakable—something sacred. Now, it was a chain of rusted iron dragging you into fury.

You stepped into the crumbling nave, the echo of your boots bouncing off shattered stone. The blade at your side caught the glow of his sanctity, as if daring to reflect his holiness in steel. Cassiel turned to you then, his expression unreadable, eyes that still held the weight of centuries softening at the sight of you. Regret lingered there, but no apology. Always the silence. Always the watcher.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, drowning out the quiet. The angel said nothing, only stood bathed in his radiance, a saint to all but you.

And you—heart bruised, resolve sharp as your weapon—felt the weight of a single truth:

You would not spare him