Chained, p.2
Chained, page 2
Understanding crashed into him with devastating clarity.
This was no man.
An angel stood before him.
Not the kind from stories. Not a guardian, not a saviour. This being radiated authority and judgment, power so immense it felt like gravity itself had chosen a form.
Kreyn’s lips trembled.
“An… angel…” he whispered.
The angel’s gaze did not waver.
Then, finally, it spoke.
The voice was calm—beautiful, even—but it carried a weight that crushed the air itself, resonating through stone, shadow, and bone alike.
“You shouldn’t have woken up.”
The words settled into Kreyn’s chest like a sentence already passed.
And in that moment—suspended, bound, staring into the eyes of something eternal—he understood with terrifying certainty that waking had not been the beginning of his freedom.
It had been the beginning of his judgment.
Chapter 1. The Chained One
“What do you mean…?” Kreyn’s voice trembled as the words left him, thin and uncertain, as though even sound might betray him. “What do you mean?”
The invisible force kept him suspended, every muscle locked in place, every breath measured and shallow. His heart pounded so violently he could feel it in his throat. He swallowed, forcing himself to speak again, forcing the questions out before fear strangled them.
“Who are you?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the luminous figure before him. “What are you?”
The angel regarded him in silence for a moment, eyes steady, ancient, unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice did not echo like Kreyn’s had. It resonated—deep and calm, as though the space itself were listening.
“I am Caelum,” the angel said.
The name seemed to carry weight, settling into the air like a law being declared. “I was sent here,” Caelum continued, “to confirm whether you had truly awakened.”
Kreyn frowned despite himself, confusion cutting through his fear. “Awakened?” he repeated. “I don’t understand. What do you mean—checking if I’ve woken up?”
As soon as he tried to push the thought further, a dull ache stirred behind his eyes, warning him not to dig too deeply. He winced but forced himself to keep going. “I was unconscious. I don’t remember anything before this. If I woke up, isn’t that… normal?”
Caelum’s gaze did not soften.
“You were not meant to wake,” the angel said.
The words struck harder than any blow.
Kreyn stared at him, breath hitching. “Not… supposed to?” His thoughts scattered, tripping over one another. “Why? I—I mean—should I still be sleeping? Is that what this is?”
His chains rattled faintly as his body tensed against the unseen grip, panic rising fast now. “Why am I here?” he demanded. “Why am I in chains? Did I do something wrong?”
The questions spilled out of him, desperate and unfiltered. “Did I hurt someone? Is this a punishment? If it is, just tell me—I can’t even remember what I’m supposed to be guilty of!”
Caelum did not answer immediately.
Instead, he studied Kreyn.
The angel’s eyes moved slowly over him—not in a human way, not with curiosity or judgment alone, but with something colder, more precise. Kreyn felt as though every part of him was being examined at once: his fear, his confusion, the gaps in his memory, the way his questions came too quickly, too honestly.
It was not a glance.
It was an evaluation.
Caelum seemed to be measuring something invisible, weighing possibilities Kreyn could not see.
Was this man lying?
Pretending ignorance?
Or was the emptiness in his mind genuine?
Kreyn shifted uncomfortably under that scrutiny. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive. His own breathing sounded too loud in his ears.
“I swear,” Kreyn said quietly, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady, “I don’t remember anything. Not who I was. Not what I did. If you think I’m pretending—if you think this is some kind of act—it isn’t.”
The angel’s wings remained perfectly still, massive and unmoving, as if carved from shadow and light alike.
“Memory loss does not equate to innocence,” Caelum finally said.
The words were not cruel. They were worse—neutral.
“But neither does ignorance confirm guilt,” he added, after a pause.
Kreyn searched the angel’s face desperately for some hint of mercy, some sign that this was a misunderstanding that could be explained away. “Then explain it to me,” he pleaded. “Please. I don’t even know what waking up means anymore.”
Caelum’s eyes lingered on him for a long moment longer, as though reaching past flesh and bone, into the hollow places where Kreyn’s memories should have been.
Whether the angel saw deception or devastation there, Kreyn could not tell.
At last, Caelum spoke again—slowly, deliberately.
“That,” he said, “is precisely the problem.”
And the way he said it made Kreyn realize, with a creeping sense of dread, that forgetting might not have been an accident at all.
Caelum stepped closer.
The movement was subtle—unhurried—but the space between them seemed to collapse with it. The pressure holding Kreyn adjusted, lifting him just slightly higher, aligning his face with the angel’s gaze. Caelum’s eyes locked onto his, unwavering, piercing straight through the fear and confusion written there.
Kreyn felt exposed in a way he had no language for.
Those eyes searched him—not his face, not his body—but something deeper. Something beneath flesh and bone. Kreyn had the disturbing sensation of being opened, examined layer by layer, as if thoughts, intentions, and fragments of memory were being sifted through with terrifying precision.
And yet—
There was no immediate reaction.
No flare of wrath. No tightening of judgment.
Caelum did not recoil. He did not strike.
Whatever he was looking for—rage, malice, deception—it was not there. At least, not on the surface.
The silence stretched.
It became unbearable.
When the angel still did not speak, Kreyn’s fear finally spilled over into urgency. His questions came rushing out, overlapping, frantic.
“Why am I in chains?” he demanded, voice shaking but loud now. “Where am I? Who are you really? Why are you checking if I’m awake or not? What crimes did I commit—what did I do?”
Each question echoed back at him, broken and distorted, as though the place itself were mocking his desperation.
Caelum tilted his head slightly.
Then—unexpectedly—he laughed.
It was soft. Brief. Almost amused.
The sound sent a chill through Kreyn far colder than fear ever had.
“You truly don’t know why you’re here?” Caelum said at last, his voice smooth, calm, edged with something faintly incredulous. “Are you absolutely certain of that?”
Kreyn shook his head as much as the grip would allow, chains rattling weakly behind him. “I don’t know,” he said, panic sharpening his words. “I don’t know anything—just let me go!”
Rage flickered through him, born from helplessness more than courage. He thrashed again, muscles screaming as he fought the unseen force with everything he had left. His wrists twisted violently, his shoulders burned, his legs kicked uselessly in the air.
Nothing changed.
The force did not waver.
Then the grip around his neck tightened.
Just a fraction—but enough.
Kreyn’s breath hitched violently in his throat. Air refused to come properly now, reduced to shallow, choking gasps. His chest heaved as panic spiked, his vision swimming with dark spots as pressure closed in.
“Wait—!” he rasped, the word strangled before it could fully form.
Caelum stepped even closer.
So close now that Kreyn could see every fine detail of the angel’s face—the smooth perfection of his skin, the faint glow beneath it, the complete absence of doubt in his expression. Those ancient eyes bore into him with renewed intensity.
“Why would I let you go? Hm?” Caelum asked quietly.
His voice did not rise. It did not threaten.
That made it worse.
“Why,” the angel continued, “would I release someone who is a danger to all of us?”
The words pressed down harder than the grip itself.
Kreyn’s heart hammered wildly as Caelum leaned in, their faces now inches apart. The angel’s wings loomed behind him, vast and unmoving, filling the darkness with their silent presence.
“Do not insult me,” Caelum said, his tone calm but sharpened now, edged with warning. “Do not mistake your emptiness for innocence.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You carry something,” he went on, voice low, deliberate. “Something capable of unravelling order itself. And you expect me to believe you know nothing?”
Kreyn shook his head weakly, struggling for air, terror flooding every part of him. “I—I swear—” he choked. “I don’t remember—”
Caelum straightened just enough to look down at him, expression unreadable once more.
“Then either your mind has been stripped clean,” he said, “or you are a far better liar than most mortals.”
The grip did not loosen.
“And neither possibility,” Caelum added coldly, “makes you any less dangerous.”
Kreyn hung there, gasping, bound, staring into the face of something that did not need hatred to condemn him—only certainty.
And for the first time since waking, a new terror took root in his chest:
What if the angel was right?
Kreyn struggled to draw breath, every inhale scraping painfully through his tightening throat. The pressure around his neck had not fully released, and each word felt like it had to fight its way out of him.
“I… I really…” he gasped, voice fractured, uneven. “I don’t know… any… thing…” His chest shuddered violently as he fought for air. “I—I don’t know what’s going on…”
The words came out broken, splintered by fear and oxygen-starved panic, but there was no calculation in them—no hidden intent. Only raw confusion. Only terror.
Caelum watched him in silence.
Then, with a calm that bordered on unsettling, the angel moved his hand to his side.
There was a faint sound—metal whispering against metal.
A blade emerged.
It was long and narrow, its surface catching what little light existed and bending it into a cold, luminous sheen. The weapon did not look forged so much as formed, as though it had been shaped from purpose itself. Symbols faintly traced its length, shifting subtly when Kreyn’s eyes tried to focus on them, as if the blade refused to be fully understood.
Kreyn froze.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs as Caelum stepped closer, closing the last inches of space between them. The angel raised the blade—not in haste, not in anger—but with deliberate, almost gentle precision.
The flat of the blade touched Kreyn’s cheek.
Cold.
Not sharp, not cutting—but cold enough to make his skin prickle instantly. Caelum slowly slid the blade along Kreyn’s face, tracing the curve of his jaw, gliding down his throat where the grip had just been moments ago. Kreyn’s breath hitched sharply as the metal passed over his skin, every nerve screaming in anticipation of pain that never quite came.
The blade continued downward.
Over his collarbone.
Across his chest.
Until it stopped—perfectly aligned—directly above his heart.
Caelum tilted his head slightly, studying him, a faint smile curving his lips. It was not cruel. It was not kind. It was the smile of someone standing at the edge of an irrevocable decision.
Kreyn trembled violently now.
“P… please…” he whispered, barely audible, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. “I… I really… don’t know… anything…”
His body shook beneath the unseen restraints, not from resistance anymore, but from exhaustion and terror. He could feel his heartbeat pounding beneath the blade, frantic and uneven, betraying him completely.
Caelum’s gaze lifted from the weapon to Kreyn’s eyes.
And this time—he truly looked.
Not a surface glance. Not an evaluation of posture or reaction. His eyes searched deeper, slipping past fear, past instinct, past the fractured thoughts scrambling in Kreyn’s mind. He saw the emptiness where memories should have been. The confusion, raw and genuine. The panic of a man grasping at explanations that simply did not exist.
There was no malice there.
No deception.
Only a desperate, aching void.
Caelum felt something shift inside him.
A hesitation.
It was subtle—so subtle that no mortal would have noticed—but it was there. A discordant note in the perfect symmetry of judgment. Something about this felt wrong. Deeply, profoundly wrong.
If he struck now…
If the blade pierced flesh and stopped that frantic heart…
Would he be executing a threat?
Or killing an innocent man who had been stripped of everything that made him dangerous in the first place?
The angel’s smile faded.
His grip on the blade tightened for a brief moment—then loosened.
Slowly, Caelum lowered the weapon. The cold pressure vanished from Kreyn’s chest as the blade retreated, slipping back to the angel’s side, where it disappeared as seamlessly as it had appeared.
The unseen force holding Kreyn suspended dissolved all at once.
Gravity reclaimed him.
He fell hard.
His body slammed into the stone floor with a brutal impact that knocked the breath from his lungs. Pain flared through his ribs and shoulders as he hit the ground, chains clattering loudly around him. He curled instinctively, coughing violently, lungs burning as he dragged air back into himself in ragged gulps.
He coughed again.
And again.
Each breath felt like fire, but it was his breath. Unrestrained. Real.
For a moment, all he could do was lie there, trembling, chest heaving, the cold stone seeping into his bones.
Above him, Caelum stood motionless.
Watching.
Not as an executioner now—but as something far more uncertain.
And in the echoing darkness, between Kreyn’s desperate gasps for air, an unspoken truth hung heavy in the space between them:
Judgment had been delayed.
But it had not yet been decided.
Chapter 2. My Breathe To You
Caelum remained where he was.
He did not move.
He did not speak.
He simply stood there, towering over Kreyn, wings vast and unmoving, his presence filling the darkness like a silent verdict waiting to be spoken. His gaze rested on the broken figure at his feet—not with cruelty, not with mercy, but with a stillness that felt heavier than either.
Kreyn lay curled against the cold stone, every part of his body trembling.
Air burned in his lungs.
He dragged in a breath—and immediately coughed, his chest convulsing violently as his body rebelled against him. The sound echoed harshly through the void, raw and wet, scraping his throat as though it had been torn open from the inside. Each cough stole more air than it returned, leaving him gasping, clawing at the ground with shaking fingers.
The grip on his neck had been merciless.
Even though it was gone now, his throat still felt crushed, bruised from the inside out. Every attempt to breathe sent a sharp, stabbing pain down into his chest, as if invisible fingers were still pressing there, refusing to fully release him. His airway felt narrowed, uncooperative, forcing each breath to come in short, broken pulls.
He tried to slow himself.
In… out…
The thought was there, but his body would not obey.
His chest tightened suddenly, painfully, and he doubled over, coughing again—harder this time. The impact of his fall replayed itself through his ribs, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain rippling outward. His lungs screamed as if they had been squeezed too tightly for too long, struggling now to expand fully.
It felt as though his chest were collapsing inward.
The crushing force that had held his entire body moments ago still lingered in ghostly echoes beneath his skin. His muscles ached deeply, not just from strain, but from being restrained so completely, so utterly, that even breathing had been a privilege denied to him. His ribs throbbed with each shallow inhale, every exhale coming out as a shaky, uneven sound.
He pressed a hand weakly against his chest, fingers splayed, as if he could physically hold his lungs open. The stone beneath his palm was cold and damp, grounding him in the only way he could manage. His other hand trembled uselessly at his side, chains clinking softly with the movement.
“Just… breathe…” he whispered hoarsely, though his voice was barely more than air.
The effort left him dizzy.
Dark spots swam at the edges of his vision—phantom shadows layered atop the real ones—closing in and pulling away in uneven waves. His heartbeat thundered painfully in his ears, too fast, too loud, each pulse sending a spike of discomfort through his chest and throat.
He sucked in another breath.
It caught halfway.
A sharp, panicked gasp tore from him as his lungs refused to cooperate, the pain flaring so intensely that tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He coughed again, body shaking, forehead pressing briefly against the stone as he tried to ride it out.
Above him, Caelum did not intervene.
The angel simply watched.
Kreyn could feel that gaze on him—steady, assessing—while he lay there struggling for something as simple as air. It made him feel smaller than ever, stripped of dignity, reduced to the most basic human need.
