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Archer

Istood at the edge of the old cottage, my fingers finding the familiar ridges of my daggers as I shifted from one foot to the other. The small house was exactly as I remembered it. Stone walls covered with climbing ivy, a thatched roof showing signs of expert repair, and an explosion of flowers everywhere. The air smelled of rich soil, herbs, and something sweeter that I couldn't quite place. Honeysuckle, maybe. Or perhaps it was just her. The soft scent of heaven still clinging to her skin even after all these centuries.

It had been over a hundred years since I'd last seen her. A hundred years of wondering if I should have stayed away longer, if my presence only reminded her of everything she'd lost.

I twirled my dagger faster, the familiar motion soothing my frayed nerves. It wasn't fear that gripped me, not exactly. I'd faced demons from the lowest levels of hell without blinking. But this.

This uncertainty of how she'd receive me was something different entirely.

A slight movement drew my attention to the garden that wrapped around the side of the cottage. She was there, kneeling among the flowers, her back to me. Even from this distance,I could see the gray wings folded neatly against her back, the once-luminous feathers now the color of storm clouds.

Gray because of him. Gray because of me.

The anger that never truly left me flared hot in my chest. My demonic father, the creature who'd tricked her, trapped her, used her for his own gain, then handed over their child as payment to his king. The demon who'd caused an angel to fall.

My mother.

I moved silently, a habit born of centuries serving as Rowen's shadow. It wasn't intentional, approaching her this way, but the nearly soundless placement of my feet came as naturally to me as breathing. I was almost to the garden's edge when I deliberately scuffed my boot against a stone, giving her warning of my presence.

She looked up, and the shock on her face made my chest tighten. Her hand flew to her mouth as she rose to her feet in one graceful motion, the basket of herbs she'd been gathering tipping over, forgotten.

"Archer," she breathed, my name on her lips like a prayer.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. A hundred years, and she looked exactly the same. Long blonde hair, so unlike my raven black, cascaded down her back in gentle waves. Her eyes, the exact shade of ice blue as mine, were wide with surprise and something that might have been joy, or might have been pain. It was always hard to tell with her.

"I... hope I'm not intruding," I said finally, flexing my fingers to keep them from returning to my daggers.

She shook her head quickly. "No. No, you could never intrude." She took a step forward, then hesitated, as if unsure of her welcome. "It's been so long."

"Too long," I admitted. The words felt rough in my throat. "I should have come sooner."

"You're here now." Her smile was gentle, forgiving in a way I'd never deserved. She gestured to a small table and chairs nestled among the flowers. "Will you sit? I can make tea."

I nodded, moving to take a seat while she disappeared into the cottage. Being here felt strange. Simultaneously foreign and familiar. I'd visited this place only a handful of times over the centuries, and yet there was a rightness to it, as if some part of me recognized this as a place I should have known from birth.

But I hadn't. I'd been ripped from her arms hours after my birth, taken to serve the throne of hell while she was cast out of heaven, neither fully angelic nor fully human, to live in the mortal realm alone.

She emerged from the cottage a few minutes later carrying a tray with an earthenware teapot and two mismatched cups. The domestic simplicity of it struck me—this being who had once walked the halls of heaven, now making tea in a cottage garden.

"You look well," she observed as she set the tray down, her eyes moving over my face in a way that suggested she was memorizing every detail. "But troubled."

I gave a short laugh. "Is it that obvious?"

"To a mother, yes." She poured the tea, the steam rising between us. "Even one who never got the chance to raise her child."

The quiet pain in her voice made me wince. "I'm sorry. I didn't come here to reopen old wounds."

"They never fully closed, Archer." Her hands were steady as she passed me a cup. "But that doesn't mean I'm not happy to see you. Tell me, what brings you here after all this time? It must be important."

I wrapped my fingers around the warm cup, letting the heat seep into my skin. "It's... complicated."

"It always is, with demons." There was no bitterness in her tone, just acceptance.

"It's about a woman.” The words came out before I could reconsider them. "Her name is Sierra."

Something flickered in my mother's eyes. Interest, certainly, but also a knowing that made me uncomfortable. "A woman. Human?"