Chained, p.23
Chained, page 23
Caelum reached for his wrist again.
Kreyn brushed his hand away.
That did it.
Caelum’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation cutting through his restraint.
I don’t have time for this, he thought. Not now.
His jaw clenched. He took a sharp breath, decision hardening inside him.
“I’m sorry,” Caelum said quietly, the words clipped and final. “I don’t have a choice.”
Before Kreyn could react, Caelum stepped forward and lifted him—swift, precise, leaving no room for resistance. Kreyn gasped, instinctively grabbing onto him as the ground vanished beneath his feet.
In the same instant, Caelum’s wings unfurled—vast, radiant, unseen by mortal eyes.
They ascended.
Air roared through the narrow alley, a sudden violent gust that rattled loose debris and sent cloaks fluttering on the street outside. A few passersby paused, startled by the sudden wind rushing out from between the buildings.
“Strange draft,” one muttered.
And then they moved on.
Above them, already hidden from sight, Caelum flew—holding Kreyn tightly, expression grim, knowing that whatever trust he had just fractured might cost him far more than time.
But hesitation now would cost them their lives.
Chapter 26. Another Memory
The two demons saw it clearly.
From the shadowed edge of the street, hidden behind layers of illusion and restraint, they watched as Caelum rose into the air—his wings unfolding only long enough to lift them beyond mortal sight. To human eyes, there was only a violent rush of wind tearing through the alley, a momentary disturbance easily dismissed.
But to demon eyes—
There was no mistaking it.
The angel ascended with the man held securely against him.
And that man… was wrong.
Their vision pierced illusion and disguise, peeling away the surface of the mortal realm. They saw the aura surrounding Kreyn—faint, unstable, yet unmistakably other. It did not resonate with Heaven’s structured radiance. It did not burn with Hell’s infernal signature. And it did not carry the fragile, fleeting imprint of mortal life.
It belonged nowhere.
One of the demons inhaled sharply.
“That aura,” he muttered. “It doesn’t belong to any realm.”
The other narrowed his eyes, tracking the fading trace left behind in the air. “Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not mortal.”
Silence followed—heavy, loaded.
They did not need to say it aloud.
They both knew what that meant.
Their decision was immediate.
They withdrew without pursuit, slipping fully into shadow, abandoning the mortal streets that no longer mattered. This was no longer a matter of curiosity or reward. This was something that required authority.
They returned to Hell.
The report was delivered without embellishment.
They stood before the elders of Hell, heads bowed—not in submission, but in acknowledgment of power. Their voices were calm, precise, stripped of speculation.
An angel.
High-ranking.
Disguised.
And a man with no realm-bound aura.
They spoke of the flight.
Of the protection.
Of the unmistakable absence surrounding the one carried.
When they finished, the elder before them said nothing at first. His eyes burned faintly, reflecting centuries of knowledge and secrets never meant to surface.
At last, he nodded once.
“You are dismissed.”
The demons did not argue. They turned and left, their task complete.
When the chamber emptied, two elders remained.
The first broke the silence.
“So,” he said slowly, “the one walking with the angel… may indeed be the escaped prisoner.”
The second elder inclined his head. “If he does not belong to Heaven, Hell, or the mortal realm, then there is only one conclusion.”
The first exhaled through his nose. “Yes. He may be the one.”
They stood in thought for a moment.
“And he is with an angel,” the first continued. “A high-ranking one.”
“Which suggests,” the second said calmly, “that Heaven has already secured him.”
The implication settled comfortably.
“Then we need not act,” the first concluded. “Let Heaven clean its own mess.”
They turned away from one another, beginning to walk in opposite directions, the matter seemingly resolved.
Then—
“Wait.”
The word cut through the chamber.
The second elder stopped. Slowly, he turned back. “What is it?”
The first elder hesitated, then spoke again. “The report mentioned something else.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The angel is not restraining him. No shackles. No bindings. They are moving freely—disguised, yes—but together. In the mortal realm.”
The second elder frowned. “And?”
“It was described as…” the first paused, searching for the right word. “Casual. Almost peaceful. Like travellers. Like they were hiding, not escorting.”
The second elder fell silent.
“That does not resemble a captor and prisoner,” the first said quietly. “Don’t you think?”
A long pause followed.
Finally, the second elder spoke. “Perhaps the prisoner escaped on his own… and the angel found him afterward.”
The first nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
Another silence.
Then the second elder added, “We will observe.”
“Yes,” the first agreed. “Let Heaven reveal its hand.”
They turned away once more, each walking toward separate corridors of the infernal realm.
Behind them, the truth remained suspended—unclaimed, unchallenged.
For now.
And somewhere in the mortal skies, an angel flew with a man who belonged nowhere, while both Heaven and Hell watched… and waited.
After the elders parted ways, the matter did not rest.
One of them slowed, his steps echoing faintly against the obsidian floor of the infernal hall. He did not turn back toward the other elder, but he raised a hand slightly—an unspoken command. The two demons who had delivered the report felt it immediately, the summons tugging at the core of their being.
“Return to the mortal realm,” the elder instructed, his voice calm, precise. “Observe more closely. Do not interfere. Do not reveal yourselves. I want certainty.”
The demons bowed and vanished without a word, their forms dissolving into shadow as they slipped between realms once more.
Far above the mortal world, Caelum descended.
He guided them down toward a stretch of land untouched by roads or settlements—a forest dense enough to hide movement, quiet enough to mask presence. Trees rose tall and close together, their canopies knitting into a ceiling of green and shadow. When his feet touched the earth, Caelum’s wings were still visible, feathers catching stray light between the leaves.
Before he could say anything, Kreyn shoved him.
“Let go of me!” Kreyn shouted, pushing hard against Caelum’s chest.
Caelum released him at once, lowering him to the ground without resistance.
Kreyn stumbled a step forward, then another, turning his back fully to Caelum. His breathing was uneven now—too fast, too sharp—as emotion surged through him all at once. Hurt tangled with anger. Confusion bled into resentment. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling despite his effort to stay still.
Behind him, Caelum did nothing.
He simply stood there, watching.
When Kreyn finally turned around, he expected something—an argument, a defence, an order. Instead, he found Caelum exactly as he always was: still, unreadable, eyes fixed on him with quiet intensity.
That was what finally broke him.
“I don’t understand,” Kreyn said, his voice rough. “I really don’t.”
He took a step closer, frustration spilling over. “You saved me. You risked your life for me. You said you needed answers—but you never explain why. You speak in fragments, in half-words. You tell me you need my memories, but those memories are locked. And still—still—you stay.”
His chest rose and fell hard.
“Why are you so interested in my memory?” he demanded. “What is it that you need to know so badly?”
For a moment, Caelum said nothing.
Then he exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The words alone stunned Kreyn into silence.
“The reason I can’t answer you,” Caelum continued, “is because I don’t have the answers myself.”
Kreyn blinked.
“I’m searching too,” Caelum admitted. “I have questions—ones that don’t align with what I was taught, with what I was ordered to believe. I need confirmation. Proof.”
He held Kreyn’s gaze now, steady and honest. “I’m sorry if it feels like I’ve been keeping you in the dark. That was never my intent. I just… need to be certain of who you really are.”
Kreyn stared at him, trying to process what he was hearing.
“You mean,” he said slowly, “you don’t know what I am?”
Caelum shook his head once. “No.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “You don’t belong to any realm.”
Kreyn’s lips parted, words failing him.
“We need to find out why,” Caelum went on. “Why you were chained in the abyss. Why Heaven and Hell would collaborate to erase you. Whether you truly committed something unforgivable—or whether you are the victim of two powerful realms protecting a secret.”
Kreyn was about to respond—about to ask more, to push further—
When something caught his eye.
He looked up sharply and pointed. “What… what is that?”
Caelum turned.
High above the forest canopy, two figures moved through the sky. They were distant, barely visible, their flight patterns wide and searching. They hadn’t found them—not yet—but they were close enough to be unmistakable.
Caelum’s eyes widened as recognition struck.
He turned back toward Kreyn—
And froze.
Kreyn’s gaze had locked onto Caelum’s wings, then flicked upward toward the distant figures, then back again. His face drained of colour as his pupils dilated.
“No…” Kreyn whispered.
Flashes erupted in his mind.
Angels—dozens of them—descending in blinding light.
Demons rising from shadow, claws reaching.
Hands grabbing him.
Chains forming.
Pain.
More flashes followed, faster, sharper.
Angels striking him.
Demons tearing into him.
Both sides trying to seize him.
Both sides hurting him.
“Stop—!” Kreyn gasped, clutching his head.
His knees buckled as agony ripped through him, sharper than before, deeper. He screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat as he collapsed inward, unable to hold himself upright.
“Kreyn!” Caelum shouted, sprinting forward.
But he was too late.
Kreyn’s body hit the ground hard, his scream cutting off as consciousness slipped away, leaving only the echo of pain in the quiet forest.
Caelum dropped to his knees beside him, heart pounding, dread coiling tight in his chest.
Whatever Kreyn was beginning to remember—
Both Heaven and Hell had fought to claim him.
And that meant the truth was far worse than either of them had imagined.
Chapter 27. Remembering the Worse
Kreyn lay motionless on the bed, blankets half-drawn around him, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His eyes were closed, yet beneath his lids they moved rapidly, darting from side to side as though he were watching something unfold too quickly to escape.
His fingers twitched.
A faint sound escaped his throat—soft, strained.
Sleep had claimed him, but not gently.
In his dream, he was walking through a place that was impossibly white.
Not bright.
Not radiant.
Pure.
The kind of white that erased depth and distance, that made it difficult to tell where one surface ended, and another began. It was more than Heaven’s light—cleaner, colder, more absolute. There were no shadows here, no warmth, no softness. Even the air felt refined, stripped of weight and scent, as though life itself had been filtered out.
He walked forward with steady steps.
Not fleeing.
Not searching.
Walking the way one does when returning from a long journey—tired, quiet, already expecting rest at the end. There was a sense of after clinging to him, a lingering certainty that something had just concluded, something important.
Ahead of him stood two gigantic doors.
They were enormous, seamless, rising far beyond his line of sight. Their surface reflected the whiteness around them so perfectly that they almost disappeared into the world itself.
And they had just closed.
The echo of their sealing still lingered, a deep, final hush that pressed into his chest. Whatever lay beyond those doors—whatever he had come from—was no longer accessible.
“Wait—”
The word never reached the air.
He broke into a faster pace, urgency blooming too late, his hand lifting as he approached the doors. He didn’t know what he expected—recognition, permission, mercy—but his body moved as though the doors should open for him.
Before he could reach them—
The ground trembled.
At first it was subtle, like a breath drawn beneath the surface. Then thin fractures spread from beneath his feet, racing silently across the white floor.
Kreyn stopped.
The cracks widened.
The pristine surface began to collapse inward, breaking apart in massive, deliberate sections, revealing a darkness beneath so deep it swallowed light itself. Cold air rushed upward from the void, pulling at his clothes, stealing his balance.
The white world remained untouched beyond the collapse—perfect, indifferent—while the ground beneath him failed.
He turned and ran.
His feet pounded against the remaining solid surface as the floor continued to give way behind him. His breath came sharp and fast, panic tightening his chest as the soundless abyss chased him forward.
Then he stopped.
Ahead of him stood a group of angels.
They were gathered together, backs partially turned, as if in discussion. Their wings were folded neatly, their presence structured, controlled, luminous. For a split second, relief surged through him so fiercely it almost hurt.
“Help me!” he called, his voice echoing unnaturally through the white expanse. “Please—help!”
The angels paused.
Slowly, they turned.
Their expressions shifted—not to concern, not to compassion—but to surprise. Alarm. Recognition.
They stared at him as if he were something that should not exist.
One of them stepped forward.
Hope flared again—brief, fragile.
Then light struck him.
Pain exploded across his body, sharp and searing, tearing the breath from his lungs. He staggered, crying out, unable to understand why the hands reaching for him carried no comfort.
“Stop—please!” he tried to say, but another strike landed. Then another.
Their faces were calm. Their movements precise.
This was not anger.
It was procedure.
He turned and ran again.
But this time, darkness rose to meet him.
Figures emerged ahead—demons, their forms twisted by shadows, smiles stretched wide with cruel amusement. They watched him approach like predators savouring the moment before the kill.
“Well, well,” their presence seemed to whisper.
Hands seized him.
Pain followed—different from the angels’ light, more intimate, more mocking. The demons hurt him slowly, deliberately, savouring every gasp, every attempt to pull away.
Then wings beat the air behind him.
The angels had caught up.
He was trapped between light and dark.
They lunged together.
Power collided through him—burning, tearing, crushing—as if both sides were trying to claim him at once.
His scream tore through the dream—
On the bed in the inn, Kreyn’s body jerked violently.
His hands clenched the sheets, arms shaking. A broken cry escaped his throat as sweat beaded along his skin. His breathing was ragged, desperate, as if he were still running—still falling.
The nightmare clung to him.
Not like a dream.
But like a memory that refused to stay buried.
Kreyn’s eyes snapped open.
A raw scream tore from his throat as his body surged upright, hands scrambling against the bed as if he were clawing his way back from somewhere far deeper than sleep. His chest heaved violently, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps that burned his lungs. For a moment, he could not tell where he was—only that his heart was racing as though he were still running, still being chased.
“Hey—Kreyn!”
Caelum was at his side instantly.
The angel moved with a quiet urgency, one hand gripping Kreyn’s shoulder to steady him, the other hovering as if uncertain whether to touch him again. His voice was firm but controlled, anchoring.
“Look at me. You’re safe,” Caelum said. “Are you alright?”
Kreyn didn’t respond.
His gaze was fixed forward, unfocused, eyes wide but seeing nothing. It was as if part of him was still trapped in that blinding white place, still feeling the impact of wings and claws and light colliding through his body.
Caelum straightened slightly, assessing him, then turned and reached for the table. He poured a glass of water with steady hands and brought it back.
“Here,” he said, pressing it gently into Kreyn’s grasp.
Kreyn brushed his hand away.
That did it.
Caelum’s eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation cutting through his restraint.
I don’t have time for this, he thought. Not now.
His jaw clenched. He took a sharp breath, decision hardening inside him.
“I’m sorry,” Caelum said quietly, the words clipped and final. “I don’t have a choice.”
Before Kreyn could react, Caelum stepped forward and lifted him—swift, precise, leaving no room for resistance. Kreyn gasped, instinctively grabbing onto him as the ground vanished beneath his feet.
In the same instant, Caelum’s wings unfurled—vast, radiant, unseen by mortal eyes.
They ascended.
Air roared through the narrow alley, a sudden violent gust that rattled loose debris and sent cloaks fluttering on the street outside. A few passersby paused, startled by the sudden wind rushing out from between the buildings.
“Strange draft,” one muttered.
And then they moved on.
Above them, already hidden from sight, Caelum flew—holding Kreyn tightly, expression grim, knowing that whatever trust he had just fractured might cost him far more than time.
But hesitation now would cost them their lives.
Chapter 26. Another Memory
The two demons saw it clearly.
From the shadowed edge of the street, hidden behind layers of illusion and restraint, they watched as Caelum rose into the air—his wings unfolding only long enough to lift them beyond mortal sight. To human eyes, there was only a violent rush of wind tearing through the alley, a momentary disturbance easily dismissed.
But to demon eyes—
There was no mistaking it.
The angel ascended with the man held securely against him.
And that man… was wrong.
Their vision pierced illusion and disguise, peeling away the surface of the mortal realm. They saw the aura surrounding Kreyn—faint, unstable, yet unmistakably other. It did not resonate with Heaven’s structured radiance. It did not burn with Hell’s infernal signature. And it did not carry the fragile, fleeting imprint of mortal life.
It belonged nowhere.
One of the demons inhaled sharply.
“That aura,” he muttered. “It doesn’t belong to any realm.”
The other narrowed his eyes, tracking the fading trace left behind in the air. “Not Heaven. Not Hell. Not mortal.”
Silence followed—heavy, loaded.
They did not need to say it aloud.
They both knew what that meant.
Their decision was immediate.
They withdrew without pursuit, slipping fully into shadow, abandoning the mortal streets that no longer mattered. This was no longer a matter of curiosity or reward. This was something that required authority.
They returned to Hell.
The report was delivered without embellishment.
They stood before the elders of Hell, heads bowed—not in submission, but in acknowledgment of power. Their voices were calm, precise, stripped of speculation.
An angel.
High-ranking.
Disguised.
And a man with no realm-bound aura.
They spoke of the flight.
Of the protection.
Of the unmistakable absence surrounding the one carried.
When they finished, the elder before them said nothing at first. His eyes burned faintly, reflecting centuries of knowledge and secrets never meant to surface.
At last, he nodded once.
“You are dismissed.”
The demons did not argue. They turned and left, their task complete.
When the chamber emptied, two elders remained.
The first broke the silence.
“So,” he said slowly, “the one walking with the angel… may indeed be the escaped prisoner.”
The second elder inclined his head. “If he does not belong to Heaven, Hell, or the mortal realm, then there is only one conclusion.”
The first exhaled through his nose. “Yes. He may be the one.”
They stood in thought for a moment.
“And he is with an angel,” the first continued. “A high-ranking one.”
“Which suggests,” the second said calmly, “that Heaven has already secured him.”
The implication settled comfortably.
“Then we need not act,” the first concluded. “Let Heaven clean its own mess.”
They turned away from one another, beginning to walk in opposite directions, the matter seemingly resolved.
Then—
“Wait.”
The word cut through the chamber.
The second elder stopped. Slowly, he turned back. “What is it?”
The first elder hesitated, then spoke again. “The report mentioned something else.”
He narrowed his eyes. “The angel is not restraining him. No shackles. No bindings. They are moving freely—disguised, yes—but together. In the mortal realm.”
The second elder frowned. “And?”
“It was described as…” the first paused, searching for the right word. “Casual. Almost peaceful. Like travellers. Like they were hiding, not escorting.”
The second elder fell silent.
“That does not resemble a captor and prisoner,” the first said quietly. “Don’t you think?”
A long pause followed.
Finally, the second elder spoke. “Perhaps the prisoner escaped on his own… and the angel found him afterward.”
The first nodded slowly. “Perhaps.”
Another silence.
Then the second elder added, “We will observe.”
“Yes,” the first agreed. “Let Heaven reveal its hand.”
They turned away once more, each walking toward separate corridors of the infernal realm.
Behind them, the truth remained suspended—unclaimed, unchallenged.
For now.
And somewhere in the mortal skies, an angel flew with a man who belonged nowhere, while both Heaven and Hell watched… and waited.
After the elders parted ways, the matter did not rest.
One of them slowed, his steps echoing faintly against the obsidian floor of the infernal hall. He did not turn back toward the other elder, but he raised a hand slightly—an unspoken command. The two demons who had delivered the report felt it immediately, the summons tugging at the core of their being.
“Return to the mortal realm,” the elder instructed, his voice calm, precise. “Observe more closely. Do not interfere. Do not reveal yourselves. I want certainty.”
The demons bowed and vanished without a word, their forms dissolving into shadow as they slipped between realms once more.
Far above the mortal world, Caelum descended.
He guided them down toward a stretch of land untouched by roads or settlements—a forest dense enough to hide movement, quiet enough to mask presence. Trees rose tall and close together, their canopies knitting into a ceiling of green and shadow. When his feet touched the earth, Caelum’s wings were still visible, feathers catching stray light between the leaves.
Before he could say anything, Kreyn shoved him.
“Let go of me!” Kreyn shouted, pushing hard against Caelum’s chest.
Caelum released him at once, lowering him to the ground without resistance.
Kreyn stumbled a step forward, then another, turning his back fully to Caelum. His breathing was uneven now—too fast, too sharp—as emotion surged through him all at once. Hurt tangled with anger. Confusion bled into resentment. His hands curled into fists at his sides, trembling despite his effort to stay still.
Behind him, Caelum did nothing.
He simply stood there, watching.
When Kreyn finally turned around, he expected something—an argument, a defence, an order. Instead, he found Caelum exactly as he always was: still, unreadable, eyes fixed on him with quiet intensity.
That was what finally broke him.
“I don’t understand,” Kreyn said, his voice rough. “I really don’t.”
He took a step closer, frustration spilling over. “You saved me. You risked your life for me. You said you needed answers—but you never explain why. You speak in fragments, in half-words. You tell me you need my memories, but those memories are locked. And still—still—you stay.”
His chest rose and fell hard.
“Why are you so interested in my memory?” he demanded. “What is it that you need to know so badly?”
For a moment, Caelum said nothing.
Then he exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The words alone stunned Kreyn into silence.
“The reason I can’t answer you,” Caelum continued, “is because I don’t have the answers myself.”
Kreyn blinked.
“I’m searching too,” Caelum admitted. “I have questions—ones that don’t align with what I was taught, with what I was ordered to believe. I need confirmation. Proof.”
He held Kreyn’s gaze now, steady and honest. “I’m sorry if it feels like I’ve been keeping you in the dark. That was never my intent. I just… need to be certain of who you really are.”
Kreyn stared at him, trying to process what he was hearing.
“You mean,” he said slowly, “you don’t know what I am?”
Caelum shook his head once. “No.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “You don’t belong to any realm.”
Kreyn’s lips parted, words failing him.
“We need to find out why,” Caelum went on. “Why you were chained in the abyss. Why Heaven and Hell would collaborate to erase you. Whether you truly committed something unforgivable—or whether you are the victim of two powerful realms protecting a secret.”
Kreyn was about to respond—about to ask more, to push further—
When something caught his eye.
He looked up sharply and pointed. “What… what is that?”
Caelum turned.
High above the forest canopy, two figures moved through the sky. They were distant, barely visible, their flight patterns wide and searching. They hadn’t found them—not yet—but they were close enough to be unmistakable.
Caelum’s eyes widened as recognition struck.
He turned back toward Kreyn—
And froze.
Kreyn’s gaze had locked onto Caelum’s wings, then flicked upward toward the distant figures, then back again. His face drained of colour as his pupils dilated.
“No…” Kreyn whispered.
Flashes erupted in his mind.
Angels—dozens of them—descending in blinding light.
Demons rising from shadow, claws reaching.
Hands grabbing him.
Chains forming.
Pain.
More flashes followed, faster, sharper.
Angels striking him.
Demons tearing into him.
Both sides trying to seize him.
Both sides hurting him.
“Stop—!” Kreyn gasped, clutching his head.
His knees buckled as agony ripped through him, sharper than before, deeper. He screamed, the sound tearing out of his throat as he collapsed inward, unable to hold himself upright.
“Kreyn!” Caelum shouted, sprinting forward.
But he was too late.
Kreyn’s body hit the ground hard, his scream cutting off as consciousness slipped away, leaving only the echo of pain in the quiet forest.
Caelum dropped to his knees beside him, heart pounding, dread coiling tight in his chest.
Whatever Kreyn was beginning to remember—
Both Heaven and Hell had fought to claim him.
And that meant the truth was far worse than either of them had imagined.
Chapter 27. Remembering the Worse
Kreyn lay motionless on the bed, blankets half-drawn around him, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. His eyes were closed, yet beneath his lids they moved rapidly, darting from side to side as though he were watching something unfold too quickly to escape.
His fingers twitched.
A faint sound escaped his throat—soft, strained.
Sleep had claimed him, but not gently.
In his dream, he was walking through a place that was impossibly white.
Not bright.
Not radiant.
Pure.
The kind of white that erased depth and distance, that made it difficult to tell where one surface ended, and another began. It was more than Heaven’s light—cleaner, colder, more absolute. There were no shadows here, no warmth, no softness. Even the air felt refined, stripped of weight and scent, as though life itself had been filtered out.
He walked forward with steady steps.
Not fleeing.
Not searching.
Walking the way one does when returning from a long journey—tired, quiet, already expecting rest at the end. There was a sense of after clinging to him, a lingering certainty that something had just concluded, something important.
Ahead of him stood two gigantic doors.
They were enormous, seamless, rising far beyond his line of sight. Their surface reflected the whiteness around them so perfectly that they almost disappeared into the world itself.
And they had just closed.
The echo of their sealing still lingered, a deep, final hush that pressed into his chest. Whatever lay beyond those doors—whatever he had come from—was no longer accessible.
“Wait—”
The word never reached the air.
He broke into a faster pace, urgency blooming too late, his hand lifting as he approached the doors. He didn’t know what he expected—recognition, permission, mercy—but his body moved as though the doors should open for him.
Before he could reach them—
The ground trembled.
At first it was subtle, like a breath drawn beneath the surface. Then thin fractures spread from beneath his feet, racing silently across the white floor.
Kreyn stopped.
The cracks widened.
The pristine surface began to collapse inward, breaking apart in massive, deliberate sections, revealing a darkness beneath so deep it swallowed light itself. Cold air rushed upward from the void, pulling at his clothes, stealing his balance.
The white world remained untouched beyond the collapse—perfect, indifferent—while the ground beneath him failed.
He turned and ran.
His feet pounded against the remaining solid surface as the floor continued to give way behind him. His breath came sharp and fast, panic tightening his chest as the soundless abyss chased him forward.
Then he stopped.
Ahead of him stood a group of angels.
They were gathered together, backs partially turned, as if in discussion. Their wings were folded neatly, their presence structured, controlled, luminous. For a split second, relief surged through him so fiercely it almost hurt.
“Help me!” he called, his voice echoing unnaturally through the white expanse. “Please—help!”
The angels paused.
Slowly, they turned.
Their expressions shifted—not to concern, not to compassion—but to surprise. Alarm. Recognition.
They stared at him as if he were something that should not exist.
One of them stepped forward.
Hope flared again—brief, fragile.
Then light struck him.
Pain exploded across his body, sharp and searing, tearing the breath from his lungs. He staggered, crying out, unable to understand why the hands reaching for him carried no comfort.
“Stop—please!” he tried to say, but another strike landed. Then another.
Their faces were calm. Their movements precise.
This was not anger.
It was procedure.
He turned and ran again.
But this time, darkness rose to meet him.
Figures emerged ahead—demons, their forms twisted by shadows, smiles stretched wide with cruel amusement. They watched him approach like predators savouring the moment before the kill.
“Well, well,” their presence seemed to whisper.
Hands seized him.
Pain followed—different from the angels’ light, more intimate, more mocking. The demons hurt him slowly, deliberately, savouring every gasp, every attempt to pull away.
Then wings beat the air behind him.
The angels had caught up.
He was trapped between light and dark.
They lunged together.
Power collided through him—burning, tearing, crushing—as if both sides were trying to claim him at once.
His scream tore through the dream—
On the bed in the inn, Kreyn’s body jerked violently.
His hands clenched the sheets, arms shaking. A broken cry escaped his throat as sweat beaded along his skin. His breathing was ragged, desperate, as if he were still running—still falling.
The nightmare clung to him.
Not like a dream.
But like a memory that refused to stay buried.
Kreyn’s eyes snapped open.
A raw scream tore from his throat as his body surged upright, hands scrambling against the bed as if he were clawing his way back from somewhere far deeper than sleep. His chest heaved violently, breath coming in sharp, panicked gasps that burned his lungs. For a moment, he could not tell where he was—only that his heart was racing as though he were still running, still being chased.
“Hey—Kreyn!”
Caelum was at his side instantly.
The angel moved with a quiet urgency, one hand gripping Kreyn’s shoulder to steady him, the other hovering as if uncertain whether to touch him again. His voice was firm but controlled, anchoring.
“Look at me. You’re safe,” Caelum said. “Are you alright?”
Kreyn didn’t respond.
His gaze was fixed forward, unfocused, eyes wide but seeing nothing. It was as if part of him was still trapped in that blinding white place, still feeling the impact of wings and claws and light colliding through his body.
Caelum straightened slightly, assessing him, then turned and reached for the table. He poured a glass of water with steady hands and brought it back.
“Here,” he said, pressing it gently into Kreyn’s grasp.
