Page 4 of Her Fallen Angel

Vhex's scarred face splits in a predatory grin. "And if we find something worth engaging?"

"Then you will show them why the xaphan are feared across all realms." The Praexa's words drip with cruel promise. "You leave immediately. Do not fail us."

I rise, already anticipating the violence to come. "When have I ever failed to break what's put before me?" She only gives me a wry smile and sends the six of us on our way.

The temple's golden light fades as we make our way to the armory. My boots echo against stone steps while my companions practically race ahead like eager fledglings. I hang back, watching their childish competition with dark amusement.

Vhex shoulders past Mykael, sending him stumbling into a weapons rack. "First pick goes to the fastest warrior." His scarred hands grasp a wicked curved blade.

"Brute force over strategy, as always." Mykael rights himself, green eyes scanning the array of steel with calculated precision. He selects a slender sword designed for quick, devastating strikes.

I ignore their posturing and move to the far corner where my personal weapons rest. My fingers trace the ornate runes etched into my ceremonial blade's scabbard. Each marking represents a broken spirit, a shattered will. The leather grip bears the wear of countless victories, molded perfectly to my grasp through years of intimate use.

The blade slides free with a whisper of steel on leather. Violet light dances along its edge, responding to the magic in my blood. I've marked hundreds with this weapon - their screams, their pleas, their final moments of resistance all captured in its hungry metal.

"Still carrying that fancy letter opener?" Vhex tests his new blade's balance with wild swings.

My wings shift, casting shadows across the weapon's surface. "This 'letter opener' has tasted more blood than you've spilled in your entire career." I run my thumb along the edge, letting it biteinto my flesh. The blade seems to pulse, drinking in the offering. "It knows what it likes."

The weapon feels different today - eager, almost impatient. Its usual thirst for suffering has deepened into something more primal. As I clean the centuries-old steel with ritualistic precision, I sense its anticipation. Whatever anomaly we're hunting, my blade yearns to taste it.

"Some of us prefer weapons that don't have opinions." Mykael straps additional daggers to his belt.

I sheath the ceremonial blade with practiced grace. "Everything has opinions, tactician. The trick is making them align with yours."

Something I'm particularly skilled at. And eager to prove on a new set of captives.

2

ARENWEN

The first rays of sunlight filter through the cracked glass clinging to the frame, casting fractured rainbows across the wooden altar where I kneel. My dark hair falls forward like a curtain as I bow my head, my trembling fingers clasped tight in prayer. The temple - once grand - now serves as our sanctuary, its stone walls scarred by orc raids but still standing defiant.

"To the gods watching, give us strength," I whisper, my voice barely disturbing the sacred silence. "To the goddesses listening, guide us through these times."

The dream haunts me still: massive beings with wings of light and shadow, descending through storm-wracked skies. Each night they come closer, their presence both terrifying and compelling. They look almost like angels, but there's something far too foreboding about them.

A distant explosion rocks the foundation. Dust and debris rain from the ceiling, but I don't flinch. This is why we refuse to cower underground like the others. Someone must keep faith, must maintain the old ways. My grandmother Evangeline taught her fellow followers that submission to fear means death of thespirit. And I've continued in her ways, even though I never got the chance to meet her.

The torn dress I'm wearing rustles as I shift, my knees aching against the hard floor. Around me, candles flicker in the dawn breeze that sweeps through broken windows. Their light catches the olive tone of my skin, a reminder of the world before - when humans still walked freely under the sun.

Another boom, closer this time. The orcs are coming, as they always do. But we will endure, as we always have. My hands steady as I finish my prayer, though my heart pounds against my ribs. The dreams feel like a warning, yet I can't decipher their meaning. Each night, the winged beings reach for me with hands that burn like stars, their voices speaking words I can't quite grasp.

I touch the rough wood of the altar, grounding myself in its solidity. Faith requires more than blind devotion - it demands strength, strategy, and sometimes defiance. The underground shelters may protect bodies, but they imprison souls.

Once I finish with my prayers, I head toward the back of the temple. Heavy wooden doors creak as I step into what remains of our temple gardens. The morning air carries the acrid tinge of smoke from distant fires, but I focus instead on the herbs and vegetables struggling to grow in soil stained by war. Gabriel's already here, his broad shoulders hunched as he pulls weeds from between the withering plants.

"Your prayers ran long today." He doesn't look up, but his tone carries concern.

I kneel beside him, my fingers sinking into the earth. "The dreams came again."

Now he turns, warm brown eyes studying my face. A fresh scar crosses his forearm, pink and angry against his skin. Another badge from defending our walls.

"Tell me." He sits back on his heels, wiping dirt-covered hands on his worn trousers.

"It's the same thing. Those winged beings. They reach for me from the skies, but it doesn't feel…right." My hands shake as I tend a struggling tomato plant. There is almost no food left now and we are doing what we can to perceive what the orcs haven't touched. "Each night they come closer."

Gabriel's quiet for a long moment. "You know what they say about your grandmother."

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