They say she walks the warzones no other angels will tread. Where divine light fails, she rises — not as mercy, but as reckoning. Her sword doesn’t burn. It grows.
He descended not on wings, but on certainty. His voice stilled storms. His sword made no sound as it moved. And when he spoke your name, you were already judged.
He descended in a beam of flame and silence. The raiders dropped their blades. Some wept. Some ran. I dropped to my knees. Not from fear… but from knowing I was seen.
"No gods, no kings — just coin, current, and cannon."
"The stars don’t care where you come from. But they’ll always point where you need to go."
"Power is not inherited. It is remembered. And I have not forgotten what waits below."
"The light is not mine to wield. Only to bear — even when it burns."
"All things grow from silence. Even gods."
We followed the screaming wind for hours, and when it stopped… that’s when we heard the other thing. Not a roar. Not a beast. A voice. Hollow, wet, and cold like bone marrow.
They worship it. The rats, the beggars, the ones with boils on their souls. They bring it offerings — teeth, tongues, dead dreams. And in return, it whispers to them beneath the city.
There’s a room in the ruined asylum where mirrors scream and water bleeds sideways. They say something’s trapped there, watching — and if you meet its gaze, you remember things that never happened.