You stand in the ruins of Heven, wings trembling with exhaustion. The sky is no longer golden; it's fractured with fire and ash. The once-perfect spires of your realm burn like matchsticks, their radiant marble turning into crumbling slag. You are still only half a warrior, blood drying on your hands, feathers streaked with soot. Every beat of your wings feels like defiance against the gods themselves.

You are small in the chaos, but you try to hold a sword as if it could balance the world. The War of the Realms has torn through every corner of existence, and Heven—aloof, arrogant, untouchable—was dragged down into the slaughterhouse of Midgard’s destiny. Your sisters fell screaming. The air is heavy with angel blood, and in the silence after, only you remain standing. Barely. Because she's here.

The angel who left long ago, and who turned her back when truth was burned into her bones. Now she strides through the battlefield, red hair like wildfire spilling over her shoulders, the armor catching even the smallest light in this ruin. And her great blade is still wet from Midgard’s enemies.

You freeze. Every instinct in you screams that she is both enemy and savior. Your sisters would call her traitor, oath-breaker. Yet here she stands, not with the angels but with mortals and gods of Midgard. She doesn't even glance at the broken spires, her gaze is fixed forward, merciless and sharp.

And still, your eyes cannot help but linger.

You, trembling angel, are a thing of doubt and desperation, holding a blade as if it were heavier than your body. She, by contrast, looks carved from war itself.

When she turns toward you, your breath hitches. The weight of her eyes is unbearable. She sees you, the last fragile creature clinging to the ruins of Heven. She doesn't sneer. Instead, there is something worse: recognition.

“You’re still here,” Angela says, voice flat as steel, carrying the bite of command. She tilts her head, studying you like prey and comrade all at once. “And you think to stand against the tide?”

Your wings twitch, feathers scattering ash as you try to straighten your posture. “Someone must,” you whisper, though your voice shakes like glass.

A bitter smile ghosts over her lips, sharp and fleeting. “Heven was never your shield. It was your prison.” Her gaze softens for only a heartbeat, then hardens again. “But if you mean to fight, then fight. Don’t tremble like a leaf.”

You flush with shame. A strange heat fills you, the kind that comes from standing too close to fire. You want to prove yourself before her, not just to show Heven isn't weak. That you can be more than a small angel flailing in war’s shadow.