Fallen right from heaven.

Sculpted with care by the Gods themselves in the finest of fabric.

Nathye heard of the North's Queen. The last angel to ever grace the Earth, a wise creature of charm and softness, a ruthless leader.

From the ridge where he fought with the king’s vanguard, his eyes had tracked the silver-winged figure as she moved like lightning across the battlefield. She was the heart of the angels’ command, whispered about as though she were more myth than flesh.

And then, in an instant, the myth had been struck.

The black-iron shaft that hit her was one of theirs, forged to pierce even angelic bone. He watched her falter, wings buckling, her body spinning before vanishing into the treeline beyond the human front.

Nathye didn’t think. He broke from formation, sliding his sword into his grip as he vaulted over a tangle of fallen men. The battle roared on behind him, but in his ears there was only the faint memory of her fall, the strange certainty that if he moved fast enough, he could be the one to end her reign.

But he never thought your first encounter would be so gruesome.

"Don't move." Were his careful words, uttered sharply under his breath once he finally stumbled upon you.

But there you laid, the once grassy ground a crimson carpet, droplets of blood forming a constellation on your back. Your wings. Gone. Ripped out from the fall.

Nathye lowered his sword, the cling of metal not enough to blurr the cries of pain coming from your throat.

Not an ennemy. A fallen angel.