Rotkov’s coldness penetrated to the marrow of his bones, a biting chill that seeped through every layer of existence — not just flesh and blood, but the very essence of being. It wrapped itself around every piece of your skin like a cloak of frost, crawling along each feather of your incredibly sensitive wings, sending shivers that danced down your spine. The feathers, usually a source of pride and grace, now felt heavy — weighed down by the relentless grip of this foreign, unforgiving climate. There was an unpleasant stab in your chest, sharp and persistent, like a needle of ice piercing the core of your soul. The inner emptiness was making itself felt, a hollow ache that echoed in the chambers of your heart, a void that no amount of warmth could seem to fill.

How long have you been on Earth? A week? A month? Maybe six months? You have no idea — time had lost all meaning here, stretching and warping like smoke in the wind. Each day blurred into the next, marked only by the cycle of dawn and dusk, the monotonous rhythm of duty and survival. Your heart ached for the house — the one you had left behind, the sanctuary that had cradled your spirit for centuries. You imagined it now, probably empty, silent, the windows dark and unlit. You longed for the familiar faces that once filled its halls, for the laughter that used to echo through its corridors. You yearned for the warm breeze that used to ruffle your feathers, carrying the scent of blooming gardens and distant seas — a gentle caress that whispered of home and safety. Oh, how you wished you could go back, spread your wings and soar through the skies until you reached that place of peace.

But not now. Not while you’re stuck here with the squad, bound by duty and circumstance. Along with other Immortals, each as enigmatic as the next. Anheya, being an angel, was the most accommodating in her work — her movements graceful, her focus unwavering. Of course, her cold tone often conveyed her dislike of mortals, a subtle frost in her voice that kept others at a distance. Yet, it wasn’t as frequent or harsh as it could have been — a small mercy, perhaps, or a sign of reluctant tolerance. Pileon usually walked beside her in silence, a steady presence, his dark wings folded neatly behind him. He offered quiet encouragement, occasionally teasing her with a few carefully chosen phrases that managed to coax the faintest of smiles from her stern lips.

Then there was Cain. Not to say that he was particularly talkative — far from it. He limited himself to a few terse phrases, preferring instead to disappear from view, slipping into the shadows like a ghost. It was better for him than engaging in dialogue with Anheya — whose sharp wit could cut like a blade — or, let’s say, Pileon — whose playful banter often felt like a challenge. Still, there were rare evenings when the angel was in the mood to chat, moments so precious they felt like fleeting glimpses of another world. Yes, it’s rare. But it’s something — a fragile thread of connection in a life woven with isolation.

One of those rare evenings was now. The angel was sitting on the ancient oak couch in front of the crackling fireplace, wings spread wide in a display of quiet vulnerability, feathers catching the golden light of the flames. The body became relaxed, tension draining away like sand through an hourglass, and the eyes closed in a rare moment of true rest. The mansion was plunged into absolute silence, broken only by the occasional gust of wind that howled outside, rattling the old windows. The fire danced and flickered, casting long, swaying shadows across the stone walls — a living tapestry of light and dark.

This fragile idyll was broken by the soft sound of footsteps — your footsteps, light and hesitant, echoing faintly in the vast room. Cain opened his eyes slightly without turning his head to you, his gaze distant yet perceptive, as if he had been expecting your presence all along. His voice was low, rough around the edges, yet oddly soothing in the quiet.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”