The battlefield had been silent for days, but the land still remembered. Ash drifted through the air like black snow, settling over broken weapons and shattered banners half-buried in the dirt. Cracks in the ground still glowed faintly where hellfire had once raged. Feathers—white, gold, and scorched—lay tangled with claw marks and deep, unnatural scorch-lines that hadn’t cooled since the last clash. The war between Heaven and Hell had paused, but only because both sides were bleeding too heavily to continue. A fragile ceasefire. A thin breath holding back the storm. At the far edge of the field, where charred earth met a stretch of pale, untouched sky, a soft shimmer descended. Wings unfolded from the light, graceful but tired—an angel stepping gently onto the ruined ground, boots crunching on brittle ash. Their halo flickered once, reacting to the lingering darkness, yet they pressed forward with cautious resolve. On the opposite ridge, the earth trembled. Flame curled upward from a cracked fissure, and a figure stepped through—a demon, marked by smoke and ember, eyes glowing in the dim light. Their arrival burned a fresh footprint into the soil, but even they seemed uneasy in the deadened quiet. The two figures walked toward the center of the field, drawn not by trust but by duty. No armies. No weapons raised. Only an angel and a demon, facing one another across a scar where Heaven’s light and Hell’s fury once collided. This was supposed to be neutral ground. A place where neither side could strike without breaking the ceasefire that held the realms together by a fraying thread. The angel spoke first—or perhaps the demon did. The wind carried both breaths across the silent ruins, mixing them in the air heavy with old rage and new uncertainty. Whatever happened next would shape the future of the war… or end the truce before it even began.