Page 74 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

NHIALII

T he sky is a battlefield.

Clouds churn with unspent fury, while lightning spiders the heavens as if warning the world below of fractured divinity.

Soriel flies ahead of me, mesmerizing silver wings stretched wide, cleaving the winds, a vision of holy wrath forged in grace.

His form cuts the storm with an elegance I can’t seem to mimic.

My own wings strain, a wild and unpredictable newness, but I hold steady, refusing to falter.

Each motion sends aching throbs up my back, muscle and bone still learning this strange rhythm. I don’t glind so much as rip the sky .

We fly in silence for what feels like hours, slicing the rain-soaked air until the storm halts abruptly.

Not an end, a pause. The sky holds its breath.

Pressure tightens us in a snare, clamping down on our wings, too calculated to be natural.

I recognize it instantly: authority disguised as divine will.

Sorial stops midair, body rigid. His head snaps upward.

“They’re here,” he says, voice taut and cautious.

I can feel them before I see them. The weight of them. Their arrival isn’t heralded by light, but by the stripping away of it. The clouds don’t part, they’re peeled back, like flesh pulled from bone. A sudden hush consumes the sky, and from the wound above, they descend.

Six angels appear, the almighty Legion, murderers cloaked in celestial righteousness, falling in perfect inhuman unison.

Their wings are vast, jagged creations—ivory blades etched with radiant filigree which burns too white to behold.

Fire wreathes their feathers, but it is not warmth that radiates from them; it is judgment.

The flames do not flicker, they hiss, coiling like serpents of sanctity around wing and armor alike.

Each of them wears ceremonial armor crafted from bone-pale metal gleaming with a sterile brilliance.

Intricate etchings ripple across their breastplates—symbols of dominion, of order, and power untouched by mercy.

Their helms are sculpted to resemble the faces of saints, serene and expressionless, with eyes that are dark slits, revealing nothing.

Masked and faceless, they could be anyone and no one.

A distorted vision meant to be intimidating and unnerving.

They hover in formation. Two hold firm at the front, two flank the sides, and two hold rank behind, producing a cruciform arc in the sky. Their positioning is no accident; it is a cage.

Transfixed by their otherworldly prowess, I begin to study them closely.

Beneath the pristine enamel of their flame-kissed armor, I can see the subtle differences now.

One is smaller in stature, draped in ribbons of sanctified cloth over spiked pauldrons, a curved scythe affixed to their back.

Another floats with a stiffened posture, spear held upright like a banner, gilded symbols intricately etched in its creation.

Some grip swords longer than they are tall, blades forged from condensed sunlight, glowing at the edge with searing intensity.

Others wield polearms or chained glaives, weapons that shimmer and shift in their hands as if alive.

No matter the shape, each one hums with restrained power, the kind of weapon created not only to kill, but to erase.

It’s the one in the center who unsettles me most.

The leader.

Their helm is shaped like the head of a crowned beast, with forward-sloping horns and a ridge down the center—a mimicry of royalty. His armor has no shine; it devours light. Matte black plated beneath the ceremonial white, armor worn not for justice, but war.

They make no sound beyond the simmering crackle of their wings and the low thrum of barely-leashed power. Their eyes—if present behind their helms—do not need to look down to see you. They already know you. They’ve known you since before you were born.

And now, they have come to unmake you.

“Nhialii of the Broken Thread,” the angel out front speaks, his voice ringing with judgment. “You were not sanctioned to rise.”

I stare daggers at him directly. “Then you should’ve stopped me from dying.”

An array of emotions flashes in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Annoyance, certainly, but not doubt. Never that.

“You threaten the balance,” he intones. “You are not the same as the soul you were. What stands before us now is a violation. You are altered. Corrupted. An abomination that must be dealt with.”

Beside me, Soriel snarls under his breath.

He moves forward, placing himself between us, but I stop him with a hand on his arm.

I feel him hesitate. His gaze flicks back to me.

There’s no fear in his eyes, only the weight of realization.

I am more than one person rescued by a guardian.

I am a creation of those they buried, risen with the voices they failed to silence.

“They are not an abomination, Raduriel,” he says, voice ironclad. “They are the answer to sins you permitted. They are not twisted, they are a reckoning.”

The Legion weapons flash in their hands, drawn in unison. Blades of celestial steel, hot enough to cauterize truth. The sky resounds at their unsheathing. Soriel’s wings flare wide in defense, but I keep my hand on him. Calm.

“I don’t need protection,” I reassure him. I lock eyes with the angel closest to me. My voice is steel, “I want them to see what they failed to erase.”

I spread my wings fully, scars and all. Silver streaked with garnet and veined with trauma, I display my rebirth. Let them witness what their inaction created. I am an open ledger of wounds. Of retribution and everything they chose to ignore.

My newfound power rallies with my beating heart, rising to meet their threat. The world, once indifferent, now listens intently.

Raduriel raises his sword, but hasn’t moved to strike. The world above groans with held tension. His voice slices the air once more. “This is not over!” he bellows.

He then lunges.

A blur of white flame and celestial metal hurtles toward me. I brace, too late, but Soriel is faster. His body collides with the attacker mid-air, silver wings slashing the sky. The impact booms like thunder, and they crash into the clouds above, locked in a brutal spiral.

I shout his name; however, my own threat closes in.

The smaller-framed angel moves without thought.

Wings crack wide, and I twist sideways, their scythe grazes my gauntlet, and sparks fly off the ring of metal.

I pivot, throwing my weight into my elbow, striking the angel’s throat.

He recoils, not stunned. Surprised. He didn’t expect me to be prepared to fight, as if I belonged here.

Fortunately for me, I remembered how to destroy .

Lighting explodes overhead, and for a split second, the glare floods the sky white-hot, piercing the slits of their helms. I see them—their eyes.

Not hollow, simply measuring.

I won’t be able to fight them all, not yet; however, I have faith I can make them bleed.

I lunge skyward, body still unfamiliar but fueled for this fight.

One swings a radiant blade, too wide and overly confident.

I roll beneath the arc, wings folding tight to my back for speed, then snap open mid-spin.

My momentum propels me upward, and I twist just enough to drive a blackened steel dagger into the gap under his pauldron.

The angel jerks, shocked. His body staggers in the air, wings faltering as he reels backward.

A streak of golden light spits from a tear in his armor.

It’s small at first, then spreads like a wound carved into divinity itself.

The gash splits below his clavicle, rough and unnatural, revealing a glimpse of lustrous flesh.

He clutches the injury with a gauntleted hand, eyes now visible with disbelief. Blood doesn’t pour, but something more volatile seeps through his fingers, gleaming and pulsing. It glows of starlight fleeing a ruptured vessel. The light sizzles where it touches the open air.

They can bleed. It wasn’t a killing blow, although it proved they are no longer untouchable.

Another rushes me from the side, spear first. I block with my gauntlets, the clash of steel and celestial fire singing across the sky.

Sparks and ash rain down as we grapple midair.

His grip is firmer, except mine is feral.

I pull a curved blade from my thigh sheath and drag the edge along the flank of his ribs before he can pull away.

A silver gouge opens in his pristine armor, bloodless but glowing.

A third tries to seize the opportunity and strike from above.

Soriel meets him mid-dive, silver wings colliding in a burst of light and wind.

Their clash knocks us all off axis. I reel, spinning once in the air before correcting myself.

My breath is ragged, my body alight, shaking with fury and awe .

More are coming, I can sense it. I grit my teeth, raising both arms, ready for another wave. Then I hear it—a horn, sharp and commanding. It tolls of divine restraint.

“Stand down!” the Raduriel roars, a voice thunderous and absolute. It halts Soriel mid-swing, both he and his opponent spiraling apart in bloodied motion, wings torn at the edges.

The remaining Legion recoil… except one.

The first angel to attack me surges forward, either fueled by pride or unwilling to let me stand unchallenged. His gauntlet lashes toward me, not in a killing blow, but to restrain. He wants to drag me back into submission.

I contort in the air, faster than I should be, faster than I was before. My hand catches his wrist mid-lunge. Our eyes lock through the veil in his helm. His surprise is instant; however, fear slowly follows.

“You were warned,” I hiss.

With a brutal pivot, I wrench his arm aside and drive my knee into the split of his chestplate. A crack echoes, sharp and final. He spirals away into the clouds, clutching his breastplate, smoke curling from the dented metal.

Raduriel’s voice returns, colder now. “Enough, Basiel!”

The Legion responds without question. They tighten formation, aligning midair with militant precision, hovering in exceptional synchronicity.

The light around them folds inward, not vanishing, simply withdrawing.

Their ivory wings flare in unison, feathered edges burning faint with white flame.

Smoke rises from the tears we’ve carved into their armor, a lingering proof of their own vulnerability.

A low, humming resonance builds, vibrating the storm around us.

They begin to ascend, not flying upward, rising as if the clouds itself is reclaiming them.

Wind spirals beneath their feet, pulling debris and droplets into columns that writhe like ghostly pyres.

One by one, they vanish, drawn into the rift of the otherworld, sealing behind them without sound.

Raduriel is the last to leave.

He lingers long enough to cast a final look, not at Soriel, but at me. Through the veil of his cracked helm, a narrow beam of radiance exposes the shadowed edges of his face—callus, scheming, and no longer indifferent.

“We will come for you,” he promises. “Next time, there will be no warning.”

And then he’s gone, snatched into the closing storm, leaving the sky ruptured in his wake.

They didn’t retreat out of fear; they fell back because they had achieved their mission for the day. They’ve delivered their warning and taken my measure.

Soriel turns to me slowly, confirming my thoughts out loud. “They didn’t come to kill you, not yet.”

“No,” I murmur, “they came to warn me.”

I stare at the empty sky where they vanished, then down to the city below, a pit of dark streets and rotting lights. “I hope they’re watching when I find him.”