The path down the mountain was long and cold.
Mist wrapped around the cliffs like a living thing, whispering to her with every step.
Seraphim kept her gaze forward, her wings hidden beneath her cloak — for even the memory of flight was forbidden to her now.
When she reached the valley, the wind carried faint bells from the human settlement below —
a small town built beside the river, its lamps flickering like stars trapped in glass.
But beyond that beauty, she felt it — a pulse of corruption, faint but unmistakable, spreading through the air like poison.
"The first seal…" she murmured.
Her fingers brushed the sigil at her chest. The silver metal burned cold against her skin.
From the shadow of an old chapel, a child's voice whispered,
"Are you… one of them?"
Seraphim turned sharply.
A boy no older than twelve stood there, clutching a wooden cross. His eyes, wide and unblinking, glowed faintly gold — not human gold, but celestial.
The boy smiled, thin and wrong.
"They said the angels would come tonight… but you don't look like one."
Before she could answer, the ground trembled.
The river nearby turned black as ink, and from its surface, pale hands began to rise — dozens, then hundreds —
souls that had lost their names, bound by the first curse.
Seraphim drew her blade from beneath the cloak. Its light cut through the fog like dawn breaking.
"Then let me remind them," she whispered, eyes burning with resolve,
"what an angel truly is."
The first mission had begun.