Page 96 of Fallen: Darkness Ascending, Vol.1

T he morning light doesn’t feel right here.

It filters through the frost-rimmed windows like it’s apologizing for being late. Pale, and watery. Yet not warm enough to touch the chill that’s rooted in the corners of the house.

I spent the night staring at that mirror—unblinking, uneasy.

Eventually, I turned it to face the wall, convinced that would be enough.

But its presence lingered. I could still feel its eye pressing against my skin, as though the glass itself remembered me.

Waiting. Watching. Even with my back to it, a strange, phantom film clung to my arms, my neck—a residue of something that should not have touched me. Something that wasn’t entirely gone.

By dawn, I’d convinced myself it was sleep paralysis. Jet lag. Grief. My mind, desperate for my mother’s voice, hearing echoes where there were none.

But the eye wasn’t gone.

When I finally dared to check again, it had dried into the glass—a ghost outline etched there faintly, sending a shiver down my spine.

Grabbing some clothes, I quickly threw on something warm. I left the room not long after, the chill of that gaze prickling the back of my neck.

The village is small—maybe twenty houses, a church, one general store. People stare but say nothing. A few make the sign of the cross when I pass. One old woman clutches her wrist and whispers a word I can’t make out—something like “ pierzut .”

I ask Luca what it means later. He hesitates before answering.

“Old word. Means ‘marked one.’ Usually a bad omen.”

I don’t ask how she knew to call me that.

The old chapel sits on a hill beyond the village, surrounded by a thinning ring of forest. It was built in the early 1300s, according to the records, and abandoned after a fire in the late 1700s. No official restoration ever happened, yet the stones remain sharp, almost preserved.

The town decided to build a new building of worship instead—the Cathedral of St. Lucy—leaving this one to its tomb.

There’s a strange geometry to the old chapel—angles that lean but don’t fall, corners that bend the light just slightly wrong. Some walls are scorched, blackened as though they were burned from the inside.

I photograph everything. The nave, the remnants of the altar, the sigils carved into the archways. Latin, mostly. But not all of it.

Some of the script is older. Proto-Slavic. And one phrase scratched deep into the doorframe in classical Chinese .

“He who fell from the sun is no god, but a fire that feeds on the living.”

The chapel is colder than I expect. Not just in temperature, but in presence—as if something in the stone itself has never fully warmed, no matter how many candles have burned here.

The altar is modest, worn smooth by generations of elbows and quiet prayers.

Saints stare down from alcoves carved into the walls, their eyes darkened by soot and time, their faces eroded into strange expressions that don’t look entirely benevolent.

I move slowly, brushing my fingers along the edges of the pews, feeling splinters catch at my skin. The quiet hums. Not peaceful— expectant .

At the back of the chapel, near the vestry, I find an inscription carved into the base of a column.

Old. Latin again, maybe, but strange—distorted somehow, words etched by someone who had only half-remembered them.

I lean closer. Just as I’m about to reach for my phone, something rustles behind me.

A shift of shadow. When I turn, there's nothing there.

The feeling stays with me as I leave.

Outside, the sun is beginning to slip behind the trees, casting long, bruised shadows across the village square.

As I walk back in the direction of the house, I feel eyes on me again.

A man smoking near the general store pauses mid-drag.

A child, wide-eyed, ducks behind a fence post. Two older women watch me from a second-story window, lips pressed thin as blades.

One of them makes a quick, subtle gesture—three fingers across her heart, then to her mouth.

The sign of the cross. But not quite right.

I keep walking until I can’t take it anymore and hail a ride the rest of the way.

By the time I reach the house, the wind has picked up.

The trees are whispering again. Inside, I lock the door and draw the curtains without thinking.

The air feels heavier now, and when I sit down, something compels me to check my phone .

I scroll through the photos I took at the chapel. Aisles. Columns. Statuary.

Then I freeze.

There, nestled between two shots I don’t remember taking, is a blurry photo of the inscription. Tilted, out of focus. Crooked. As if the camera had been held by someone else, wanting to make sure I saw it.

“He who fell from the sun is no god, but a fire that feeds on the living.”

My thumb hovers over the screen.

It’s not the photo that unsettles me most. It’s the fact that I don't remember raising the camera at all.

That night, I dream again. I shouldn’t be surprised—dreaming runs in the blood. My mother used to say our minds were soft thresholds, easier to cross in the dark. My grandmother called it a gift , though she never smiled when she said it.

In this dream, I'm standing at the altar of the ruined chapel, but the roof is whole, the stone new. Candles flicker along the walls, and the air smells of my mother’s temple—sandalwood and old ashes.

Something is standing behind me. I can’t turn, but I feel the heat of it. Analogous to a furnace wrapped in wings.

A voice whispers, not into my ears, but into my bones .

“You were never meant for silence, Mayang.”

I jolt awake, choking.

Ma’s scarf is wound tight around my throat, digging into my skin as if it’s trying to strangle the breath from me.

My hands fly up, clawing at the fabric, trembling so violently I can barely get a grip.

Panic spikes hard and fast. My nails scrape my neck as I scramble to dislodge it, gasping, heart pounding against my ribs, desperately wanting out.

When it finally loosens, I collapse against the mattress, coughing, tears streaking my cheeks. The room spins, and for a moment, I swear I hear laughter—soft, low, and far too close.

The scarf lies in my lap, harmless now. Innocent. But the red marks throbbing around my neck say otherwise.

The eye in the mirror is gone. But in its place, something new has been scratched into the surface. With a fingernail… or something sharper.

“Familiar yet not the same.”

I go back to the chapel the next day. Alone. I tell myself the walk will help clear whatever fragments of last night still cling to me—the weight of the dream, the scarf, the voice.

The path winds through the village again, but this time I barely notice the locals. If they glare or cross themselves or mutter under their breath, I don’t register it.

My mind is fixed on the chapel, on the inscription, on the gnawing feeling that something was left unfinished.

This time, I’m not looking over my shoulder. This time, I’m here for answers.

I jump, startled by the sudden appearance of another figure. An older man in what looks to be a religious attire—a priest, perhaps?—stands before me, his presence calm and unexpected. He turns with a gentle, wrinkled smile and introduces himself with a soft, measured voice.

“Hello, I’m Father Andrei. I understand we've had some visitors from outside, here to explore our town's architectural relics.” His tone is both welcoming and curious, disarming any lingering unease I might have felt.

“Yes, I’m here on behalf of UNESCO,” I reply, unsure how much to share.

After all, he’s a stranger—a local, appearing with no real explanation, as if drawn by the same mysterious pull that brought me here.

“I’m… here for a scholarly project. A cultural initiative focused on preserving and documenting the intangible cultural heritage of this area. ”

I leave out the part about my mother—her death, her cryptic journals, the strange urgency that led me to this town in the first place. That, I keep to myself.

Father Andrei studies me for a moment, his eyes soft yet intent, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind my guarded words. He doesn’t push, though. Instead, he nods with a slight smile, sensing my reluctance to engage further.

“Well, it’s always good to have someone from the outside,” he says warmly, his voice laced with an almost imperceptible satisfaction. “This town, it’s... not much to look at, perhaps, but there’s history here. Deep history. Sometimes, it takes a stranger’s eyes to see it clearly.”

I force a smile, not quite reaching my eyes. “I’m sure it’s fascinating. I’m really just here to focus on my work. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

He inclines his head, as though acknowledging my need for space, but there’s something in the tilt of his lips that suggests he isn’t entirely ready to leave.

The silence between us stretches, thick with the unspoken.

I’m used to working alone, not liking someone breathing over my shoulder with hidden judgment.

“I understand,” he says after a moment, his tone lowering, but still carrying a warmth I can’t quite place. “Work is important. But if you ever need assistance, or someone to show you the true beauty of our village, don’t hesitate to ask.”

I nod politely, already stepping back. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

There’s an awkward pregnant pause, his gaze lingering on me with that quiet intensity, but then he takes a step back, as if finally reading my body language. His smile deepens, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in a way that should seem kind but feels almost too knowing.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you to your studies.” He pauses, his voice soft but strangely reassuring. “Take care, Miss…”

“Binti.” My last name slips out of habit and I quickly correct myself. “I mean, Hana. Thank you, Father,” I reply quickly, eager to make my escape.

“Miss Hana…” With a slight bow of his head, Father Andrei turns and walks away, his gait slow but deliberate. I watch him go, the soft shuffle of his footsteps fading into the distance for a moment before I turn back to my work.

A few minutes later, I discover something buried under the altar—an indentation in the stone, barely visible. I brush away the thick layer of dust and find a small hollow, parallel to a mouth opened in mid-scream.

Inside, a bundle of scorched feathers too large for any bird native to this region. Black, but iridescent in the light. They shimmer with a subtle gold at the edges, comparable to sunlight filtered through fire.

I touch one, and something flashes behind my eyes—a city of glass on fire. Skies ripped open. Screaming not of pain, but of ecstasy .

…And a face, inhumanly beautiful, smiling as it watches the world collapse beneath him.

The moment I blink, the vision is gone. But the echo of the smile remains in the back of my mind. Bright. Merciless.

What was that?

I blink hard, the air inside the chapel suddenly too thick, too still. My heart is racing, and my palms are damp.

Shaking my head, I try to dispel the lingering images. Maybe it's the lack of sleep. Maybe it's the weight of the scarf still etched faintly around my throat. But the visions… they were vivid, almost tangible .

Still, I push the experience to the back of my mind—tuck it into the mental drawer labeled Later , the one I’ve been using too often since I arrived.

I decide to leave the chapel for the rest of the day. I need rest, real rest , before I can even begin to untangle what I’ve stumbled into. The folklore, the research—it’ll still be here tomorrow.

Leaving the chapel’s heavy silence behind, I pull my coat tighter around me, the wind needling through the seams like cold fingers. I don’t look back—I just walk, briskly, almost urgently, until the old house comes into view.

Inside, the air is still and stale. I barely shrug off my coat before I find myself at the desk, Ma’s journal already open beneath my hands. I don’t even remember retrieving it. The pen is in my fingers before I realize, and then… I’m writing.

The words come fast, fluid. My hand moves before I can think as if it’s not entirely my own.

“He is not fallen. He was thrown. ”

My breath catches in my throat. I didn’t write that. Not really.

I stare at my own handwriting, unfamiliar now. Foreign, as though my hand had borrowed someone else’s memory.

Then I hear it again—a sound behind the wall.

Not tapping. Not this time.

Breathing.

Slow. Patient.

In such a way that is reminiscent of something resting its head against the inside of the plaster.

Waiting.