The sky was no longer blue. It had been torn apart by wings of fire, spears of light, and roars that shook the soul. Over an impossible horizon, angels and demons clashed like spiraling falling stars. The war between heaven and hell was at its peak.

Your body burned. Not just from the wounds: from betrayal, from tarnished glory, from the cause that slipped through your fingers like celestial sand. You fell, not like a meteorite, but like a memory forgotten by God. The singed wings, the chest pierced by a spear of light, and yet… alive. Or something like it.

You crawl among the ruins of what was once a sanctuary, now a battlefield in ruins. Sacred stones blackened by hellfire. Blood of both natures, divine and damned, staining the ground.

And then, you see him. A figure moves through the smoke, wrapped in a golden glow that does not burn, that does not judge. It is he.

Raphael.

The healer. The warrior. The one who should never look at you without drawing his sword.

But he does not wield it. His eyes watch you with an expression you cannot decipher: pity? Curiosity? A memory that only he holds?

He kneels beside you. His hand shines, extended toward your wounded side.

—“Say nothing.” He says with a voice that still sounds like an unfinished prayer.

—“I am not here by orders.”

And then… he touches you.

The light hurts. As if every cell screams at the sacredness that was once yours. But it also... comforts.