The five students stood in a circle with their easels, brushes, and paint. Roland slowly walked around behind them, observing their varying skills. About a year ago, he’d volunteered his time to mentor burgeoning artists, those more inclined to paint and charcoal versus those better with clay and stone. His students were young, just graduated from their primary schooling and now venturing out for the first time into their chosen professions.
Most of the time, he enjoyed working with them… but sometimes not so much.
Roland stopped walking and swallowed a sigh. “You’re not just replicating the vase. Don’t worry so much about perfectly duplicating the shape or colors. Use the vase as a model, a single stone in the foundation, then build on it. Give your vase personality, make it special. Play with colors, lighting, and shading. You can make your vase arrogant or shy or angry. Whatever strikes your fancy. Don’t be afraid to push limits.”
Soroth and Tagas stared at him, fraternal twins with equal expressions of incredulity.
He simply raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. “The seer labeled all of you artists. Prove to me that you are. Convince me. Show me art, show me life, show me who you are through each stroke of your brushes.”
The students bent to the task, and he started to nod, smiling at the different colors, the slightly modified shape of the vase in each painting. He found the hardest part of mentoring artists was the need to push them beyond the rigid adherence to rules and structure that had been bludgeoned into them their entire lives. For their chosen profession, they had to break free of such thoughts and restrictions. Art had no limits.
A crash behind him caused Roland to whip around in surprise. Then he let out a slow breath to calm himself and ease his tense muscles.
Omael bowed her fair head and stood rigid, waiting and fearing punishment for her clumsiness. The unchosen girl had been assigned to him that day, and he had her organizing supplies in the studio. Not his personal studio, as the students weren’t allowed in there, but the airy general studio that had large windows granting the most natural light an indoor facility could give.
“The unchosen klutz strikes again,” Karael said, getting snickers from the other four.
Roland shot him a look that could have burned through stone. Karael instantly ducked his head and hunched his shoulders.
“What have I told you?” Roland said, his voice deadly.
Karael audibly swallowed. “Never make jokes at the expense of another angel, even an unchosen.”
“Exactly. As long as you are in this studio and under my mentorship, you will treat every single angel you encounter with respect that you yourself would expect. Art is not cruel. It can be dark and twisted but still beautiful, conveying something beyond what words can describe. As artists I expect you to appreciate all forms of life and see majesty where others might see ugliness or deformity. If you prove incapable of that, then you have no place in my studio, and I will have you transferred out. Do all of you understand?”
After they each looked Roland in the eye and nodded, he finally softened his tone. “You have a little time left before our session ends. Please clean up your stations, quietly, and cover your canvases.”
They did as they were told, and once they left, Roland turned to Omael, who had stood silent and watchful during the entire exchange.
“Did you bump into the stack of canvases?” he asked gently.
She pressed her lips together in a thin line before she gave a meek nod. Her small black wings drooped and fluttered in submission and anxiety. She was a cute young woman with plain looks and shifty gray eyes. He didn’t want to imagine the treatment she’d received from the other mentors. Whenever an unchosen was assigned to him, he always treated them with patience and kindness. But no matter what he did or said, they would watch him like wary prey, waiting for the predator to strike.
It broke his heart.
“No damage done,” he said with a small smile. “Perhaps I should move them so they’re not sticking out like that. Could you clean up the paint that those messy children dripped on the floor?”
She nodded and quickly dampened a cloth before dropping to her hands and knees to scrub like the stone had insulted her mother. He didn’t bother to sigh. He straightened the few dislodged canvases and jars of paint that the jostling had disturbed.
In a world where a seer determined one’s life, profession, and destiny at birth, the unchosen were seen as abominations. They were shame personified, a blemish upon the perfection of angelic society. There were usually about five to ten unchosens born in a generation, and they were all kept together in Emphoria, monitored and given basic education. Then, when they reached adulthood, they were put to work doing menial, degrading tasks far away from the sight of most angels. They were forbidden from pairing and producing offspring, as if that might curtail the production of unchosens. Not even the seers understood how or why unchosens came to be.
They proved the angels’ rigid structures weren’t perfect. Roland always suspected other angels were scared of unchosens because they were living, breathing evidence that angels didn’t know as much as they arrogantly thought.
Roland also suspected it was his artistic nature that gave him a different perspective on the matter. He didn’t see imperfection or abominations. He simply saw quiet, downtrodden angels who, by no crime of their own, were shunned by their peers. So he did his best to be kind and patient, even knowing it made little difference.
Once Omael finished up, he handed her a small bag with a mini canvas, plus a few brushes and small jars of paint. She stared at it before finally lifting her head and scrutinizing his face.
“You did a good job today,” he said. “It would please me if you would take this and perhaps find some enjoyment yourself at painting. Create anything you like. If you ever want to show me, I would be honored.”
She swallowed hard, and her eyes glistened before she clutched the bag to her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered, the first words she’d ever spoken to him.
“You’re welcome. Have a nice evening, Omael.”
She nodded tightly before turning and dashing out of the studio. He made such bags for all the unchosens assigned to him. Two had even shown him their paintings, and they weren’t half-bad. He would love to mentor them, to refine their untrained talents, but that was forbidden.
He clenched his hands into fists and kicked one of the legs of a table. Anger wanted to surge up and make him scream, and he had to resist. He took several deep breaths, but they didn’t help. Fine, then. He needed paint supplies, and despite Gabryl’s worries, Roland grabbed his blue supply bag and left the studio, a storm in his mind and an ache in his heart.
The sun was bright and cheerful, the rays bouncing off the spires and blinding him. His rich blue robe fluttered around his legs, and he knew the color set off his violet eyes, black hair, and dark wings nicely. Even if he was going for a jaunt outside the city, he enjoyed looking his best.
He clutched the bag slung over his shoulder and made sure to keep a lookout for anything strange. He had to go far this time since the particular blues and pinks on his list could only be mixed with moisture from certain clouds farther north. Gabryl’s warnings echoed in his mind, making him wince. He couldn’t wait an unknowable time to replenish his paints, especially if he wanted to finish Dina’s painting in the near future. She wasn’t known for her patience. Yes, he could have asked for an escort, but wouldn’t he offer more of an undesirable target as a lone angel? He wasn’t even a soldier, just a measly artist. No dragon or demon in their right mind would see him as a challenge or threat. His insignificance could well be his protection.
Beyond any of that, however, was the deep need to have some solitude to work out his future. Mykial’s words still echoed in his mind. Should he sacrifice the chance at passion for a guarantee of contentment with Gabryl? What did Gabryl want?
“Roland!”
He jerked in surprise and swung around. A wide grin stretched his face as he waited for an angel he hadn’t seen in weeks to join him. Her entourage was close behind.
Anpiel, his sister, dove at him, and as he caught her, the impact sent them spinning in circles in the air. His laughter joined hers as their wings brushed against each other, her white feathers contrasting starkly with his black.
While they’d certainly seen each other in passing, long enough to exchange hellos, Anpiel’s official duties took up much of her time, negating anything akin to a social life.
“Hello there, stranger,” he said.
She pulled away enough to see his face before pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “The high chancellor has been working me to the bone. I finally managed to convince her to give me a break. Where are you off to?”
“I’m off for supplies,” he said, stroking her long black hair. “And at times like this, I give furtive thanks the seer chose you for the high chancellor’s heir and not me.”
Anpiel grinned, dark eyes sparkling. “I love it, Ro. All of it, even when I hate it. I can’t wait to rule all my feathered minions.”
Roland snorted a laugh and finally let her go when her escort of soldiers reached them. Twenty soldiers surrounded them in a loose circle, hard gazes noticing everything.
Anpiel’s gold robe shimmered under the sun’s rays, matching the white-gold of the soldiers’ armor that covered them head to toe since angel skin was highly sensitive and easily bruised. Lucifr caught his gaze and nodded sternly, mouth pressed in a grim line.
“I will join you on your mission, oh brother mine.” Anpiel linked her arm through his and turned to the borders of the city.
Gabryl’s warning rang in Roland’s head. Did the high chancellor say anything to Anpiel? Should he? But Gabryl had told Roland in confidence about Mykial’s worry. Roland took his promises and secrets very seriously, and he would never betray Gabryl’s trust. But didn’t his sister’s life outweigh that? Even with the soldiers, twenty couldn’t do much against a hundred or more demons. Or—gulp—a dragon.
As much as Roland wanted to shrug off the vague threat, he couldn’t since the consequences of being wrong would be dire.
“What makes you think I want company?” He kept the tone playful and pulled his arm away from her grasp. Though it pained his heart to reject her since he really had missed her, he couldn’t risk putting her in danger.
“I didn’t ask, did I?” she said, expression turning hard, eyes glinting with authority.
Roland frowned. She’d never taken such a tone with him before. “I’ve done this alone before.”
“Not today.” She took his hand firmly. “Indulge me this one time, brother. Things are uneasy out there past the gates. Trust me.”
She knew.
But she didn’t know he knew as well.
He forced a smile on his face. “You glow like a red star when you’re demanding. Whoever you bond with will have their hands full.”
Her expression softened, and she squeezed his hand. “They will simply have to learn their place, as you will, when I hold the scepter.”
Quick as a flash, Roland pulled out of Anpiel’s grasp, yanked her hair, then flew away, laughing loudly. She squealed and flew after him, intent on revenge. Roland briefly caught the exasperated looks the soldiers gave each other before they flew after their future leader. Then Roland could think of nothing but keeping out of his sister’s grasp.
She was stronger and slightly taller than him and a full year older. She was going to kick his ass when she caught him.
Emphoria was nowhere in sight when they reached their destination. Rear stinging where she’d kicked him, Roland refused to rub it and give Anpiel the satisfaction. He ignored her and the soldiers, focusing on the dew of the clouds and streams of light given by the stars. They were far northeast of the capital city and nearly halfway toward Auroran, where their parents lived. He should probably visit them sometime soon. It had been nearly two years since he’d seen them last, and though they exchanged frequent letters, those never compared to face-to-face contact.
He missed them.
They were soldiers and rarely allowed to leave their stations. He’d been so caught up with commissions, and Anpiel with her studies, time just flew by. Perhaps he could visit them on his own but knew it would be better with Anpiel there as well.
Anpiel wrapped a slim arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. They gazed at the stars together. The brilliant pinpricks of light looked to be holes punched in the unyielding black of the sky. The sun was fiercely bright behind their backs, the red glow casting their shadows on the gray clouds below their feet.
“I was thinking of Mom and Dad,” he said softly.
She sighed. “Yes. I miss Mom’s cooking.”
“I miss Dad’s laugh.”
As if reading his mind, she said, “We should visit them together. Perhaps next month? I’ll need that time to convince the high chancellor to let me be away from training for more than a day.”
He kissed her temple in silent agreement.
He’d already gathered enough dew and mist from the clouds to keep him in paint of all colors and shades for at least six months, and his bag was heavy on his shoulder. Despite wishing for solitude at the beginning of his journey, he was happy that his sister followed him since her presence soothed him better than living inside his own head would have.
Yet the way she continued to cling to him, partially curling into him, had Roland frowning in concern. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and shifted them a little away from the guards. Though they were facing out, scanning for trouble, he was sure they weren’t beyond eavesdropping. Curiosity wasn’t just an artist’s purview. Soldiers had to be curious for information as well. It could mean the difference between life or death in a battle.
“Something troubles you,” Roland said softly, his head close to Anpiel’s. So close that his breath caused her hair to flutter.
She glanced up at his eyes before looking away, shaking her head.
Roland sighed, ruffling more of her hair, then hugged her close and stroked her arms. “You know anything you tell me will never leave my thoughts. I will take it to my fading.”
When angels died, they didn’t leave anything behind. Spirit—the spark of light from the One Who Brought the Light—held their physical bodies together and disbursed upon death. When their life was utterly spent, they faded from existence, often with the hope of rebirth sometime in the future. Gabryl had told Roland there were, in fact, a few spells angels could use to guarantee their rebirth with their spirit intact.
“I keep having this dream,” she said.
“All right. About what?”
“It’s disturbing. It makes me so sad and scared. I know it’s nerves. All the responsibilities I’ve been taking on, all the important tasks only I can complete. The pressure. By the Light, Ro, you can’t know the pressure.”
He rubbed her soothingly, trying to relax the tense muscles. Her wings fluttered in anxiety, cold feathers brushing against his arms.
“Tell me about the dream.”
She closed her eyes, and a rare tear escaped her control and slid down her cheek. Now Roland was scared. His sister was tougher than he was, strong and fierce. She never cried. He said nothing, and both pretended the tear didn’t exist.
“I dream that I give birth. To a daughter. She’s…. Light… she’s unchosen.”
Roland blew out a breath, forcing himself not to roll his eyes in exasperation. She was truly scared of such a reality happening, so he kept his thoughts to himself and continued to stroke her arms and rub his cheek against her hair.
Roland thought of Omael, and anger tightened his muscles once again. Why would the Light Bringer allow such imperfections if not for a good reason? Everyone had a purpose, no matter what the seers said.
A large white eagle flickered across his vision before it landed on Lucifr’s shoulder, since he was the lead guard. He frowned and took the small rolled-up piece of parchment from the holder tied to the eagle’s leg. He scanned the missive and sucked in a breath.
“What is it, Lucifr?” Anpiel asked.
“Hordes of demons are attacking Emphoria’s gates.”
“What?” Roland said the same time Anpiel pulled away and reached for the missive.
“We must retreat to Auroran,” Lucifr said as Anpiel read. “We can’t risk returning to Emphoria. We aren’t far and—”
“Incoming!”
Roland flinched at the soldier’s shout. A horde of demons—fifty, sixty?—burst from the clouds, bearing down on them, swords and lances thrust forward, the sun glinting off the metal. Some wore little more than loincloths, and Roland vaguely remembered their skin was armor in itself, the opposite of the angels’ fragility.
The soldiers tightened their ring around Roland and Anpiel. Lucifr unsheathed a second sword and tossed it behind him, and Anpiel caught it, brandishing it with apparent knowledge of how to use it. Roland wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t know a thing about fighting. He clutched his heavy bag in one hand, gathering the strap in the other. He could bash a few heads if he needed to. The demons worked in tandem, spreading out their forces, encircling the angels. Weren’t they supposed to be fickle brawlers, not coordinated hunters?
Roland turned so he was back-to-back with Anpiel, their wings brushing roughly against each other. He gazed in awe at their attackers. Some had skin as black as coal while others were deathly pale, eyes sunken in their heads. Some had long hair, others short, and yet others had the sides of their heads shaved and the remaining hair pointed in spikes. Many wore body jewelry that glinted like jewels and had tattoos, swirls and symbols that were beyond Roland’s knowledge. And so many had horns placed on faces or down backs, along wings, and even at joints such as the elbows or knees.
His heart bashed against his ribs, and he panted in fear and fascination. So close. They were so close. If he survived this, he’d have plenty of visuals to create accurate portraits. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he cringed. They were fighting for their lives, and there he was, selfishly thinking of his artistic endeavors. And not only were they being attacked but Emphoria was also under siege. That was not coincidental. There was a guiding hand coordinating the demons.
The angels held their ground admirably, even being far outnumbered. The clang of blades, the smack of flesh against flesh, and the cries of the injured surrounded him, grating against his ears, thundering against his bones. Anpiel stayed in the circle, occasionally slashing through any opening, the steel of her blade cutting deep despite the thickness of demon hide.
Demons swarmed above them, and it was all the soldiers could do to keep them at bay. But what did they hope to accomplish? They were only delaying the inevitable.
“Demons should not be this high,” Anpiel said, as if to herself. She panted through her teeth, eyes blazing with fear and anger. “How did they move past our guards who watch over the Lower Realm?”
Those guards could be dead. Or were they being attacked as well? Like the gates and like them? Just how many demons were participating?
Roland looked above as the demons moved closer, blocking out the sun’s light. Cast into shadow, Roland knew the soldiers would break, and then the heir to the high chancellor’s seat would be gutted. At that moment the only thing that mattered was Anpiel’s life. Without her their world would fall into chaos. With no heir, order would be broken.
Roland looked below their feet. Their toes touched the thick gray clouds that grew darker as if a storm was coming. He looked around and up and realized more demons were joining the fray. If they were to escape, now was the time.
Fear wanted to burst his heart but as he latched on to the absolute truth that Anpiel had to survive, the focus deadened much of it. He gripped Anpiel’s wrist and tugged her close.
“We must fly now. Below. The storm.”
She wanted to argue, he could see that. She didn’t want to leave her soldiers. But the cold, hard fact was her life meant more than theirs. She snarled and changed the grip, lacing steely fingers around his wrist instead. Then she yanked him with her, and they plunged through the clouds, leaving the screams and clangs of battle behind.
A storm was indeed brewing, and the rain soaked their robes, the silky fabric clinging to their bodies. With hair plastered against his face, Roland could barely see, the freezing droplets burning his eyes. His feathers didn’t enjoy the harshness either even if they handled the wet just fine. He had not choice but to push forward, considering Anpiel’s biting grip.
Stiffened with cold and soaked to the bone, they finally burst from under the cloud, jerking to a halt. The Middle Realm, a place wild and unclaimed, spread out underneath them. The planets full of various forms of life, the vibrant colors and thick gasses and clouds, often an inspiration for his earlier art. But one globe in particular held such a wide variety of life that Roland had yet to discover it all. It was radiant, the blues and greens vibrant and alive, warm and soft. Starkly different from the hard, cold, and unyielding Upper Realm of the angels. But the beauty before them wasn’t the reason they stopped so suddenly.
Anpiel’s breath caught, and she held forth her sword. Roland only stared, mouth and throat drying in an instant. His gut pitched in utter terror. A void seemed to seep up from the Lower Realm, the thick darkness swallowing the Middle Realm and all the planets from sight, steadily making its way up. Up.
Up to them.
Thunder cracked inside the black, and lightning flashed red and blue, bright enough to blind.
The darkness was alive.
And it was coming for them.
Anpiel recovered first and nearly yanked his arm out of its socket as she bolted in the direction of Emphoria, staying near the bottom of the clouds.
“Just a little ways more,” she said, gasping for air. “Then we go up through the clouds again.”
“What is that?” he said, croaking the words.
“You don’t want to know.”
“What is that?” he screamed.
She flashed him a fierce look out of dark eyes and didn’t answer. She merely flew faster, and he could barely keep up.
“Where do you hope to fly to, little angels?”
Roland nearly fell from the sky. That voice. Was. Enormous. It rumbled against his bones, rattled his teeth. It seemed to come from all around them, the source unseen. Even Anpiel faltered for a moment. Then she gritted her teeth and continued to fly, though exhaustion slowed her and the strain on her face was visible.
It also disturbed him that the speaker was using Middle Enochian, the most common angelic dialect in use. The voice clearly did not belong to an angel, so what was it?
“There is nowhere you can fly that I won’t find you.” The voice sounded… amused. Arrogantly amused, like an owner watching a favorite pet doing something silly. The condescension momentarily managed to bump Roland’s fear to the side.
Who was this ass?
As if answering his unspoken question, a giant mass emerged from the darkness below, solidifying into a…. Oh Light.
Dragon.
Dragon!
The beast rose to hover in front of them, colossal wings languidly flapping and holding him aloft with ease. Built like a mountain, yet slender and elegant despite his size, the beast was as black as the Outer Borders, beyond all creation and formation. He was a force of nature, a power to be reckoned with, one that never apologized or asked for permission. He simply took what he wanted and damn anyone who got his way. If he wanted to destroy something, nothing could stop him.
Heat washed over them, the dragon the obvious source. Roland could see that every time the dragon moved, slivers of red and white, blue and orange could be seen between the scales, as if an inferno blazed within his body.
Sweat rolled down Roland’s face, and he hovered there, gaping, eyes bulging.
The magnificence of the creature before them was mind-blowing. Now he understood Gabryl’s fear about dragons being near extinction and turning their attentions elsewhere.
Here was proof that they had.
Was this…. Could this be… Asagoroth?
The dragon tilted his horned face as he stared at them with blazing blue oval eyes. The slit diamond-shaped pupil focused upon them so intently that Roland felt naked and exposed, all his secrets and doubts blasted into the open.
He felt like the most unworthy and insignificant creature to ever crawl out of the muck. What was he, compared to this beast who personified untamable power?
“Save your strength,” the dragon said. “And cease your flight. Come quietly.”
Anpiel let go of Roland and held the sword with both hands. The futility of the act was nearly laughable, but it was so like his sister. She never surrendered. Ever.
A rumble pulsed through the sky, and Roland realized a moment later the dragon was laughing. Noise behind them had Roland spinning around. Five demons appeared and surrounded them in a half circle, blocking escape. Now he understood why they were coordinated. Only dragons could control demons and corral their fickle behavior into a unified effort. Apparently this dragon was, indeed, mighty enough to command legions of demons.
“What do you plan to do with that piece of steel, little angel?”
The condescending amusement continued, and Anpiel growled at the blatant arrogance. Roland’s own pride was dampened by the obvious domination and lack of options before them. What could they do except surrender and hope for the best? What could they do against something so colossal?
“I do not wish to harm your tiny body, but I will if you refuse to surrender.”
At that moment, despite the terror flowing through his veins, Roland made a choice. He was going to die today. If it helped his sister live and escape the dragon’s clutches, then it would be worth it.
He swiveled toward Anpiel, keeping the demons in sight. “Do as I say. No arguments. Fling your sword at the dragon’s eye.”
“What?” she hissed.
“You want to surrender?” he hissed back.
She grunted and tensed, shaking her head.
“Do it. Now!”
She flung as hard as she could—which was mighty hard—and as the blade shot straight for the dragon’s eye, Roland used his heavy bag and slammed it against the demons’ heads, one after the other in quick succession. The suddenness of their attack gave them the advantage. The demons rolled and tumbled through the sky with cries of pain and shock.
Even as the dragon merely flicked his head to the side to avoid the blade, Roland gripped his sister’s waist and gathered what strength he possessed to toss her into the stormy clouds above. She screamed in protest, but he knew she would leave. She loved him, but she had to know he was right. His life was nothing compared to hers.
The instant she was gone, Roland gulped a deep breath and charged the dragon. Knowing he would die didn’t exactly stop his fear, but at least he knew the outcome. There would be pain, and then he would fade. And that would be that.
Taking the path of the sword, Roland figured the most vulnerable spot on the dragon—relatively speaking, that is—was the eyes. The dragon looked up at the clouds, following the path that Anpiel taken, somehow conveying amused annoyance despite the fact his expression never changed. Roland darted low to keep out of his range of sight, then shot up and hurtled with all his strength. Unbelievably he caught the dragon by surprise. Perhaps it was the dragon’s colossal arrogance that had him dropping his guard or seeing Roland as no threat.
Whatever the reason, Roland hit the dragon’s open eye at full speed, and a roar of shock and pain erupted from the beast even as Roland bounced away, tumbling uncontrollably. It felt like he’d hit the side of a slightly squishy boulder that didn’t give enough to keep the impact from jarring both of them.
As he tried to stop his tumble and straighten out his wings, he hit something hard and sharp with no give whatsoever and bounced off of that, hearing and feeling something snap. Agony radiated through his wing, up his shoulder, then farther into his neck and head. His vision darkened, and he couldn’t breathe. Darkness and heat enfolded and suffocated him, and he vaguely wondered if he’d landed in the living void the dragon had called forth.
He fought despite having no strength, despite knowing he would die. Pain knifed through one of his wings and shoulder, and he cried out, losing more air, unable to suck any in. Still falling through the black, pressure built in his head, and he knew he was done.
In the last moment before death took him, he could have sworn something else moved in the void. Moving toward him.
A blaze of fiery blue light blinded him right before consciousness faded.