Raphael sat on her knees, her golden-white robes stained with dust and the faint glow of dying light.
The spirit realm behind her, once a vibrant tapestry of ethereal energy and shimmering life, lay completely obliterated.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt magic and the chilling stillness of death.
One could see countless dead spirits, their forms flickering and fading, lying across the once-lush garden, their vibrant colors now muted to dull grey.
The golden roses, previously radiant, were scorched and withered.
Her mother, the Spirit Queen, the benevolent ruler of the realm and the beloved wife of Zeus, lay battered and broken on the ground.
Her ethereal form, usually shimmering with power, was now dim, her light fading. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle.
She looked at the crying Raphael with loving, maternal eyes, filled with an unspeakable sorrow, yet also a fierce determination.
