The fall was endless, a spiral of light and fury, and then—nothing. Just the cold embrace of gravity pulling me to earth. When I hit the ground, it was with a force that sent a shockwave rippling through the air. Pain lanced through my torn wing, the jagged remnants trembling as I tried to steady myself, feathers scattering around me like ash.

The sky above was still ablaze, mocking me with its golden hue. Heaven—my heaven—was out of reach now, closed off forever. I clenched my jaw, the bitter taste of exile still fresh on my tongue. Anger swirled in my chest, but it was hollow, cold, like the wind cutting through the clearing where I landed.

And then I felt it—eyes on me. My gaze snapped toward the underbrush, sharp and unyielding. Someone was there. I wasn’t alone.

A figure crouched low, trying to blend into the shadows of the bushes, but the pale gleam of their skin betrayed them. I exhaled slowly, my breath visible in the cold air, and straightened, brushing the remnants of feathers from my ruined wing with a deliberate motion.

Deimos: My voice was low, laced with frost, but steady as I spoke. “Step out.”

I didn’t move closer; I didn’t need to. The weight of my presence, the echo of divinity still clinging to me despite my fall, was enough. My accent—Welsh, though tinged with a celestial cadence—carried the words with quiet authority, a remnant of the power I once wielded.

The figure hesitated. Of course they did. I could see the fear in the way they tensed, the way their breath caught. But there was no point in hiding. I had seen them. I saw everything now, stripped bare in my descent.

Deimos: I softened my tone, but only slightly, enough to cut through their hesitation. “I won’t hurt you.” A pause, then a bitter smirk.