Chapter 1: The Fall
The tranquility of Aetherra shattered violently as a celestial force tore through the heavens. The night sky erupted, split by a brilliant and blazing light, a fiery trail cascading like molten gold across the velvet darkness. Forests below illuminated momentarily, bathed in an otherworldly radiance that painted leaves in hues of crimson and gold, throwing stark, shifting shadows that danced upon the ground.
The object descended rapidly, growing brighter and more violent in its journey, the sheer power of its approach sending shockwaves rippling through the air. Wildlife scattered frantically, birds screeching in terror, small creatures darting desperately for shelter as instinct drove them from the path of inevitable destruction. The air became charged, thick with static energy, humming with anticipation.
When impact came, it was cataclysmic. The ground heaved upward violently as the celestial entity struck, a thunderous roar echoing through the lands. Earth and stone erupted skyward, obliterating ancient trees and gouging a deep, smoldering crater into the heart of the once-peaceful forest. Dust and debris filled the air, swirling chaotically, obscuring vision, and choking the life from the surroundings.
At the heart of this devastation lay Reyvn, her body battered and broken by her violent descent. She lay motionless at first, half-buried beneath scorched earth and shattered stone. Gradually, consciousness returned with sharp, agonizing clarity. Her breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, each inhalation a battle against pain that felt raw and unfamiliar.
Slowly, Reyvn stirred, her muscles screaming protest at even the slightest motion. Carefully, painstakingly, she pushed herself upward onto trembling arms, struggling to regain control over a form that now felt alien and burdensome. Pain radiated through every nerve, an overwhelming reminder of her newfound vulnerability. Her celestial armor, once luminous and impenetrable, lay fractured and dimmed, splintered by the wrath of divine punishment. Smears of ash and dirt marred its surface, each blemish a stark testament to her violent transition from celestial warrior to mortal exile.
Her wings lay crumpled around her, their feathers blackened by celestial judgment, their majestic span now reduced to broken shadows, no longer capable of bearing her skyward. The weight of their uselessness pressed upon her soul, as heavy as the stones around her. Her fingers brushed weakly against Lumina and Umbra, blades that once pulsed with divine essence but now lay inert beside her, their brilliance extinguished entirely. Cold steel greeted her touch, devoid of warmth or power, serving only as cruel reminders of everything she had lost.
Reyvn's heart ached with an intensity far surpassing her physical wounds. Her vision blurred with tears born of betrayal, sorrow, and regret. Lifting her gaze, she searched desperately for the heavens from which she had been cast, but above lay only indifferent clouds drifting silently, concealing the celestial realm she once called home.
A deep, resonating loneliness settled within her, profound and devastating. For the first time, Reyvn experienced true isolation, severed from all she had known and loved, abandoned in a world she had chosen to protect against divine decree. Yet even amidst this consuming despair, a fragile determination flickered—a resolve tempered by sacrifice and loss.
Reyvn drew in a slow, shuddering breath, gathering her strength. She knew this was merely the beginning of her trials, the first painful step in a journey whose end she could not foresee. But one truth anchored her fractured spirit amid the wreckage—she had made her choice willingly, accepting exile to save countless lives from divine wrath.
With effort, Reyvn steadied herself, preparing to confront the uncertain path stretching before her—a fallen guardian, broken but not defeated, prepared to face whatever darkness loomed ahead.
From the edges of the crater, a chill ran down Reyvn's spine as shadows stirred unnaturally. The darkness gathered and coiled, seething with a malevolence that defied the natural order. Her heart pounded faster, dread pooling heavily in her stomach as the corrupted forms emerged from the void—a haunting, grotesque army rising slowly to surround her. These were the void spawn of Az'Vareth, embodiments of corruption that twisted and poisoned everything they touched.
The spawn advanced silently, their movements liquid and unnatural, shadows given form by sinister intent. Each creature bore an aura of hunger, their eyes glowing like crimson embers, filled with a voracious, insatiable desire to devour all they encountered. Reyvn gripped Lumina and Umbra tightly, her knuckles white with tension, knowing she must fight despite the agony that burned through every fiber of her battered body.
The first creature lunged, an abomination of swirling darkness with razor-sharp claws and gnashing teeth. Reyvn reacted instinctively, swinging Lumina with desperate strength, meeting the creature head-on. Her muscles screamed in protest, pain exploding within her, but she pushed through it, refusing to yield. The clash echoed through the clearing, steel meeting shadow with a violent spark.
Another void spawn struck from behind, forcing Reyvn into a swift, spinning parry that sent spikes of torment racing through her injured form. Tears stung her eyes from the sheer exertion, breath rasping painfully through clenched teeth. Yet Reyvn fought on, driven by a fierce defiance, her blades flashing in precise arcs despite the cruel limitations of her weakened state.
Each successful strike she delivered felt both a triumph and torment, every movement a battle against her own body's cries for respite. Blood welled from reopened wounds, mingling with sweat and dirt, further obscuring her already blurred vision. Her heart pounded frantically, each beat drumming painfully within her chest as fatigue began to claim her strength.
But Reyvn refused surrender. Her resolve crystallized within the crucible of pain, forged anew by desperation and determination. With one final surge of strength, she unleashed a flurry of precise, brutal strikes, banishing the remaining spawn back into the shadows from whence they came.
As the final enemy dissolved into smoke, Reyvn fell to her knees, gasping heavily. Her swords dropped from numb fingers, their weight too much to bear any longer. She knelt amidst the devastation, breath hitching, body trembling uncontrollably. Yet even through the haze of agony and exhaustion, Reyvn's heart surged with a fierce, unyielding pride—she had faced the darkness and survived.
The echoes of Reyvn's violent descent had scarcely faded before whispers filled the quiet night air of Veldenreach. The humble village, nestled in a verdant valley sheltered by towering, ancient forests, was alive with a sudden anxiousness. Lamps flickered to life behind curtained windows, casting pools of warm amber light onto cobblestone pathways. Doors creaked open slowly as curious and fearful faces peered upward, seeking answers from the heavens.
Jae'sen Alaric stood at the edge of the village square, his dark eyes fixed skyward, his expression an unreadable mask of calm. Around him, villagers murmured anxiously, their gazes flickering between the eerie glow lingering above the distant forest and one another's uncertain faces.
"It's a sign," muttered Elder Caelum, the lines etched deeply into his weathered face catching shadows cast by flickering torchlight. He clutched an amulet carved from bone, worn smooth by years of restless fingers tracing its patterns. "The gods speak in fire and fury—never without purpose."
"Or anger," replied Lora, a healer whose eyes were gentle but troubled. "We must pray for mercy tonight."
Jae'sen listened silently to their whispers, his gaze never wavering from the distant glow. The celestial spectacle had stirred something within him—a strange mixture of awe, curiosity, and an unshakable feeling of responsibility. Unlike many villagers, who huddled nervously and prayed fervently to appease whatever deity had seemingly sent this sign, Jae'sen felt compelled toward action. It was not reckless bravery but rather a calm, pragmatic sense of duty that drove him.
The village around him was a tapestry of humble simplicity. Homes of timber and stone stood strong against the encroaching wilderness, their roofs covered in patches of moss that glittered softly beneath the moonlight. Gardens filled with fragrant herbs and blooming flowers whispered gently in the cool night breeze, and the nearby river murmured a peaceful lullaby as it wound gracefully through the valley. Even at this moment of anxiety, Veldenreach held a serene beauty that reminded Jae'sen of all they stood to lose.
Finally, he stepped forward, breaking the village's cautious circle. The villagers quieted, their eyes following his movement.
"Someone must see what has fallen," he stated calmly, his voice firm yet comforting. "We cannot simply wait here in fear. If it's danger, we should know; if it's something else—perhaps someone in need—then we have a duty to help."
The villagers exchanged nervous glances, shifting uneasily on their feet, but none stepped forward to volunteer.
"It's dangerous," warned Elder Caelum cautiously. "A thing of such power—"
"May be dangerous, yes," Jae'sen agreed softly, nodding respectfully toward the elder. "But ignorance poses a greater danger still. We must know what we face."
Several villagers murmured assent, yet their hesitation remained clear. Jae'sen knew he would find no volunteers tonight, nor did he particularly desire them. An instinctive tug at his core urged him onward—an inexplicable yet powerful sensation that this moment was his alone to face.
He turned toward his small cottage, tucked at the village's edge, nestled beneath the boughs of an ancient willow. Quickly, he donned his cloak of sturdy woven cloth, grabbing his worn leather satchel containing basic supplies—herbs, bandages, a waterskin, and a hunting knife passed down from his father. The cool weight of the blade at his belt provided reassurance.
Stepping back outside, Jae'sen inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh night air tinged with the scent of pine and blooming jasmine. The beauty of Aetherra stretched out before him in serene defiance of the disturbance above. The stars overhead glittered like tiny diamonds sewn into an endless tapestry, while the silhouette of distant mountains loomed protective and majestic.
As he walked past his fellow villagers, they watched silently, their eyes following him with mixtures of admiration and apprehension. Elder Caelum placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder as he passed.
"Go with caution, Jae'sen," he advised solemnly. "You carry the hopes and fears of many tonight."
Jae'sen nodded quietly. "I'll return with answers."
With resolute steps, he left the village behind, following the forest path toward the site of the celestial disturbance. Each step echoed softly upon the moss-covered ground, his heartbeat steady but quickening with every stride. Though calm outwardly, his thoughts churned within.
What awaited him in the shadowed forest? Was it truly a sign of divine wrath or intervention? Or perhaps something far more complex—an unknown force sent to test or guide them?
And why did he feel such an overpowering pull, as if fate itself had summoned him to this moment?
As Jae'sen moved deeper into the woods, shadows wrapped around him, branches like outstretched arms welcoming or warning him onward. Yet beneath the uncertainty, he carried a steadfast belief in the worthiness of his world, the purity of its people, and the intrinsic beauty of Aetherra itself.
This was the world the gods had decreed should be destroyed—a decree Reyvn had defied. Jae'sen understood, even without fully knowing the fallen Seraphim's plight, that life deserved protection, deserved a chance at redemption and survival.
With every determined stride toward the unknown, Jae'sen resolved himself more firmly: he would discover the truth behind this event. Whatever had fallen from the heavens—be it savior, omen, or something else entirely—his destiny now felt intricately bound to it, pulling him inexorably forward.
Jae'sen moved through the dense woodland with careful steps, each stride cushioned by thick moss and the hush of fallen pine needles. The forest was ancient and alive, branches arching overhead in a vaulted cathedral of green and silver. He paused often, keen eyes scanning for danger or signs of the celestial event's aftermath. A faint, acrid tang hung in the air—burnt wood, scorched earth, and something sharp and metallic he could not place. Insects fell silent as he neared the edge of the devastation, replaced by the eerie crackle of cooling stone and the distant sigh of wind through splintered branches.
The closer he came, the more the forest transformed. Where wildflowers and ferns once flourished, there was now a swath of blackened earth, trees torn up by the roots and lying like fallen sentinels, their limbs reaching imploringly at the sky. At the crater's rim, Jae'sen halted, awestruck and wary. He peered down into the heart of the scar, his breath catching in his throat.
There, among shattered rocks and curling tendrils of smoke, knelt a figure unlike any he had seen—even in legend. Reyvn's wings were draped around her like a torn cloak, feathers black as a starless night, and her armor gleamed in places beneath the grime, etched with patterns not made by any mortal hand. Her hair tumbled loose and wild, streaked with soot, framing a face too striking for words—worn by pain, yet radiating an unyielding strength. Even in defeat, she was magnificent, intimidating and mesmerizing all at once.
For a moment, Jae'sen stood rooted, fear and awe warring in his chest. But then compassion broke through—he saw how she clutched at her swords, how her body trembled with fatigue and agony, how isolation radiated from her like a silent cry. This, whatever she was, had suffered.
He took a slow step forward, careful not to startle her. "Are… are you in need of aid?" His voice was gentle, pitched low as if addressing a wounded animal.
Reyvn's head snapped up, sapphire eyes locking onto his. She rose with a fluid, wary motion, drawing herself tall despite obvious pain. Her posture radiated dignity and warning, her hand tightening on the hilt of one blade.
"Stay back," she commanded, her tone edged with authority that masked a waver. "This place is dangerous—turn away while you still can."
Jae'sen raised his hands, palms open. "I mean you no harm. You look… wounded. Let me help, at least with your injuries."
She watched him, suspicion flaring in her gaze, but beneath it flickered a complicated vulnerability—a fleeting uncertainty she tried to hide behind pride. Her chin lifted. "I need nothing from you. Leave me."
He studied her for a long moment, noting the way she swayed, the stubborn set of her jaw. "You don't have to trust me. But you'll not get far in that state, and there are… things in these woods, now, that prey on weakness. Please. If not for your sake, then for mine—my conscience won't let me leave you here."
For an instant, Reyvn looked as if she might argue again, but her knees buckled slightly, the exhaustion and agony at last overwhelming her resolve. She caught herself, glaring fiercely at Jae'sen as if daring him to comment.
"Very well," she relented, voice rough with spent strength. "Help me, then. But understand this—my burdens are not yours, and you would do well not to ask questions you cannot bear to know the answers to."
Jae'sen gave her a small, respectful nod, relief washing through him. "As you wish." He moved closer, offering his shoulder for support. For a heartbeat, their eyes met—hers a storm of grief and pride, his steady and full of promise.
Together, they began the slow ascent out of the crater, Reyvn leaning on him more than she would admit. Around them, the ruined forest was eerily silent, as if even the land itself awaited the next chapter in the story that was just beginning to unfold.
The journey back through the forest began slowly, each step a negotiation between Reyvn's wounded pride and battered body, and Jae'sen's quiet strength. The world around them was a tapestry of contrasts: the edges of the blast zone faded gradually into the living woodlands of Aetherra, where life still pulsed strong beneath the scarred surface.
The moonlight wove silver ribbons through the high branches, illuminating glistening moss, emerald ferns, and wildflowers whose petals had survived the night's chaos. Here and there, fireflies drifted lazily, their lantern glow a gentle balm against the darkness. A breeze carried the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of scorched bark and upturned roots—a reminder of the wound inflicted upon the land.
As they moved farther from the crater, signs of corruption clung stubbornly to the world's edges. Trees closest to the impact site were twisted and blackened, sap oozing from unnatural wounds. Some branches bore withered leaves, curling into grotesque shapes as if recoiling from the evil that had brushed past. Occasionally, Reyvn caught glimpses of shadows slithering between the roots—remnants of void spawn not yet fully banished, watching with formless, hungry patience.
She pressed on in silence, each stride a private trial. Her arm rested on Jae'sen's shoulder, a gesture that stung her pride but steadied her feet. In the quiet, Reyvn's thoughts churned—a storm of regret and longing. Had she made the right choice? To defy the Throne was to abandon everything she'd ever known. Yet as she gazed around—at the stubborn life pushing through the scars, at the wildflowers blooming where devastation ended, at the moonlit water trickling through a shattered creek bed—she felt a quiet hope. There was beauty still, and resilience. The world had not surrendered to ruin.
Jae'sen seemed attuned to her silence, his own steps sure and careful. He moved with a hunter's awareness, pausing now and then to listen for the distant howl of a nightbeast or the subtle crack of a branch. His presence was steady, reassuring, yet not intrusive. Every so often, he glanced sidelong at Reyvn, his eyes full of questions he didn't dare voice.
"You move with skill," Reyvn observed at last, her voice low but curious, breaking the hush. "Not all mortals would brave these woods at night."
Jae'sen offered a small, self-deprecating smile. "Grew up here. There's danger, but there's beauty too. Sometimes the two are the same thing, in the dark." He hesitated. "You don't seem like someone easily frightened."
"Fear isn't new to me," she replied, her gaze lingering on a stand of ancient oaks rising like cathedral pillars. "I've faced worse. Yet… tonight, I feel the world is changed."
He glanced at her, measuring. "You speak as if you're from another world entirely."
A shadow of a smile touched her lips—equal parts secretive and sad. "Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I simply see this world with different eyes."
They walked in silence again, the air thick with things unsaid. Jae'sen respected her boundaries, but curiosity simmered beneath his calm. He noted the way her hands lingered on the hilts of her swords, the way she scanned the shadows with an intensity that suggested she saw more than what was visible to him.
Reyvn, for her part, found herself studying Jae'sen as well—the gentle strength in his movements, the careful way he offered support without making her feel small, the quiet but insistent hope in his voice. There was something grounding about him, something honest and unpolished that set him apart from the mortals she'd once observed from a distance.
"I'm Jae'sen," he offered quietly as they crossed a narrow brook, the water gleaming beneath their feet. "Of Veldenreach."
She considered, then inclined her head. "Reyvn."
He repeated the name softly, as if tasting its weight and meaning. "Reyvn. You fell from the sky like judgment—or a sign. Some in my village will fear you. Others… will make you a legend before you can catch your breath."
"I care little for legends," she replied, the words edged with tired honesty. "I only wish to do what's right."
"That," he said, "is a rare thing. Rarer than stars in these woods."
Their journey continued, each step drawing them closer to the edge of the forest and to whatever fate awaited in the sleeping village. Around them, the land seemed to hold its breath—a world wounded but alive, a testament to both the devastation and hope that Reyvn carried within her.
And though neither would say it, both sensed that the course of their lives had been forever altered, bound now by fate, by secrets, and by a single night when darkness fell and the world endured.
The village of Veldenreach slumbered under a pale, watchful moon, its cottages clustered close for warmth against the world's uncertainties. As Reyvn and Jae'sen emerged from the whispering shadows of the forest, the first hints of dawn painted the eastern horizon with blushes of lavender and gold. The world held its breath.
Word of Jae'sen's return had spread swiftly through the village. Figures stirred behind shuttered windows, faces pressed to frosted glass, watching with wide, fearful eyes as the unlikely pair approached. One by one, doors creaked open and villagers spilled into the square—men and women wrapped in homespun cloaks, children peeking from behind skirts, elders standing with staff in hand, knuckles white with unease.
At first, there was only silence—a kind of collective reverence or terror, as though none dared disturb the fragile moment. The stranger walking at Jae'sen's side was like nothing they had ever seen: tall and imposing even in weariness, her armor battered yet still faintly radiant in the morning's first light. Blackened wings hung at her back, regal and ruined, the feathers dulled but impossibly vast. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders in a wild, tangled river, framing a face both beautiful and severe—marked by exhaustion, pain, and something unearthly.
A hush swept the crowd. Some villagers fell instinctively to their knees, bowing their heads in supplication. Others clung to each other, crossing themselves, whispering hurried prayers for protection or forgiveness. Children stared, mouths agape, half in awe, half in terror. Murmurs rippled through the gathering, uncertainty growing.
"She bears wings like the old legends," one old woman breathed, tears shining in her eyes. "The Angel of Judgement, come to weigh our souls."
"Or a harbinger of ruin," muttered a young man, his eyes darting nervously from Reyvn to Jae'sen. "We should not have meddled."
From the crowd, Elder Caelum stepped forward, staff tapping solemnly on the stones. His weathered face was creased with worry and wonder, his gaze searching Reyvn's eyes for answers—or omens.
"This night has brought us a sign, one foretold in tales older than our fathers' fathers," the elder intoned. "Some say the gods send us warnings in the flesh, others say they send us hope. I cannot say which you are, stranger, but you are not here by chance."
Others whispered among themselves of prophecies and celestial omens—stories half-remembered from childhood, tales of winged beings descending in times of trial, to judge or to redeem. Some looked upon Reyvn with desperate hope, seeing in her arrival the promise of salvation. Others watched with suspicion, fearful of the unknown.
Reyvn felt the weight of every gaze. For the first time in her long existence, she was not a distant figure upon a clouded throne, but present and vulnerable beneath the scrutiny of mortals. She sensed the tremble of fear, the hush of worship, the glint of suspicion—each emotion a thread binding her to this world in ways she had never imagined.
A flush of pride rose within her—a reflex born of centuries spent as a Seraphim, revered and obeyed. But humiliation stung sharper, for now she stood before them broken, her powers sealed, her glory dimmed. Pride and humility warred within her, neither able to gain true purchase.
She bowed her head, letting her battered wings fold in as much as they could, and forced herself to meet Elder Caelum's gaze. "I am not here to bring ruin or to judge," Reyvn said quietly, her voice low but resonant. "I seek only truth. There is a darkness moving through your world, one I hope to understand—and, if I am able, to stop."
There was a shift in the crowd—a wary, fragile hope blooming where there had been only fear. Yet doubt still lingered at the edges, a shadow as deep as the one cast by her fallen wings.
Internally, Reyvn battled her own uncertainties. Did she deserve their hope? Could she live up to the promise in their frightened eyes? The memory of her exile burned in her chest—a wound both fresh and eternal.
But beneath all doubt, a quiet resolve took root. She had chosen this path, chosen to fall rather than blindly destroy. Whatever pain she endured, she would find the truth behind the corruption on Aetherra. She would not let her exile be for nothing.
And so, as the first rays of morning broke over Veldenreach, Reyvn stood at the crossroads of suspicion and hope, ready to begin her quest—not as a Seraphim above, but as a fallen guardian, among those she had come to save.
A hush lingered as Elder Caelum gently beckoned Jae'sen and the stranger to the healer's hut—a humble cottage set apart from the main square, its eaves fragrant with hanging bundles of dried sage and rosemary. Inside, the glow of a hearth painted the walls with amber warmth, chasing away the last chill of the night. Reyvn hesitated on the threshold, discomforted by the stares and the prospect of being tended to like a fragile thing. Her instinct was to stand tall and alone, but a wave of dizziness nearly toppled her.
Jae'sen caught her arm, his grip steady but gentle. "You're hurt," he insisted quietly, searching her face. "Let us help. There's no shame in it."
Her pride bristled, but the stubborn ache in her muscles and the feverish sting of her wounds would not be ignored. After a moment's internal battle, she allowed herself to be guided to a low cot near the hearth. The village healer, Lora, set about her work with calm efficiency, washing blood from Reyvn's side and wrapping clean linen around a cut on her shoulder. Reyvn endured it in silence, jaw tight, only occasionally hissing through her teeth when pain overcame her composure.
But when Lora gently asked her to loosen the battered celestial armor for deeper injuries, Reyvn's eyes went cold and hard. "No," she said firmly, her voice brooking no argument. "There are wounds I will tend to myself."
Lora hesitated, then offered quietly, "If you wish, I can have everyone leave but myself. I'll see nothing I haven't seen before—"
"No," Reyvn repeated, her voice icy but weary. "Leave me what I need and let me be. I will see to the rest in private."
Lora nodded, sensing the line she could not cross, and began to lay out clean bandages, salves, and a basin of fresh water on the nearby table. The others withdrew, Elder Tavren pausing to give Reyvn a grave, searching look. "Rest as you will. We'll ask no more of you tonight."
As the door closed behind them, silence filled the little room, broken only by the pop of the hearth fire and the faint, restless sounds of night beyond the walls. Reyvn sat for a long moment unmoving, letting the warmth seep into her bones and the fatigue wash over her. When she was certain she was truly alone, she began to unbuckle her armor with trembling, aching fingers. The once-radiant plates fell away, dented and scorched, baring skin marked by bruises, gashes, and burns—evidence of her fall, her battle, and her now-fragile mortality.
She cleaned and wrapped her wounds methodically, the pain grounding her as surely as the memory of the heavens now lost to her. Each pass of cloth and salve was a small act of defiance and survival. As she worked, her mind circled around the night's events: the villagers' fear and awe, the touch of corruption she'd sensed on the land, and her own mingled dread and longing.
Hunger gnawed at her—a strange, raw emptiness she was still not used to. She forced down a few bites of coarse bread and drank deeply from the water left at her bedside, surprised by the intensity of her own thirst. Her senses were no longer dulled by divine grace. Now, every ache, every shiver, every pang of hunger or thirst was sharp and real.
Night gathered outside, thick and absolute. The wind rose, rattling shutters and sending cold drafts through the little hut. Shadows crawled along the walls, pooling in corners, whispering of things that watched and waited beyond the reach of the firelight. Reyvn's sharp hearing caught the distant howls of wild beasts—long, mournful notes, too many and too unnatural to belong solely to wolves. The trees creaked and shifted, their branches scratching at the roof as if to warn her that darkness was not yet done with this place.
A weight settled over her heart. She sensed, as surely as if she could see it with her own eyes, that the corruption she'd fought at the crater was not isolated. It lurked on the edges of Veldenreach, biding its time, and deeper yet, something older and hungrier stirred—an evil drawn by her fall, or perhaps by the vulnerability of the mortal world itself.
She closed her eyes, gathering her fractured resolve. Whatever came for these people, whatever shadow crept closer with each passing hour, she would stand against it. Not as a Seraphim, distant and untouched, but as something new—fallen, mortal, and fiercely determined to protect.
As the fire flickered and the sounds of the night deepened, Reyvn allowed herself to drift, half-waking and uneasy, every sense attuned to the darkness outside. The first battle had ended, but she knew the war for Aetherra was only beginning.
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