For a long moment, Lucien couldn't breathe.
She stood before him Naeriel. Born from the wall like smoke and memory. Her features shimmered like flame seen through water, always on the edge of focus. Hair the color of deep space. Skin marked with ancient runes that pulsed softly beneath her collarbone.
But her eyes…
Silver and red.
Just like his.
She smirked faintly, stepping from the cracked wall like it had never held her.
> "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Lucien's voice caught in his throat. "You're like me."
Naeriel raised a brow. "Was that ever in question?"
He lowered his guard, just slightly. "They never told me there were others."
"They never tell us anything," she said. "That's the point."
They stood in silence, surrounded by the glowing wall of names.
Lucien glanced toward it. "The prophecy. The eight."
Naeriel nodded. "Eight born from the Rift. Pieces of something older. We were made to sleep. Buried beneath false histories, bound in stone and silence."
Her tone shifted, darker now.
> "Because if we all woke up…
the lie would fall apart."
Lucien's fists clenched. "What lie?"
Naeriel stepped closer. "The one that says Heaven brings order. That Hell brings chaos. That we are accidents of war."
She leaned in, eyes sharp. "But we're not. We were designed. Created. On purpose."
He frowned. "By who?"
She tilted her head slightly.
> "By what came before the throne and the pit.
By the architect that even God tried to forget."
Lucien looked away, his heart pounding. "I don't want to be a weapon."
Naeriel shrugged. "Then don't be one."
"It's not that simple."
"No," she said. "It isn't. But it is your choice."
Her hand touched the wall again. A new crack formed, small and pulsing.
"Another one's waking," she whispered. "We're all stirring. You woke us, Lucien."
He looked at her. "Why me?"
She smiled not cruelly, but with something like sorrow.
> "Because you were the last.
And the last is always the spark."
Suddenly, the chamber shook.
Dust fell from the ceiling. Runes across the walls flared to life, casting the room in crimson and gold light.
Lucien looked around. "What's happening?"
Naeriel turned, eyes narrowing.
> "They found us."
Aboveground, fire tore across the trees.
Not natural fire ,divine fire. Cold, white, and merciless.
A host descended. Angels. Not six like before sixty.
Lucien and Naeriel emerged from the crypt into a world already burning. The trees that once whispered now screamed. The air crackled. Wings beat overhead like thunder.
At the front of the angelic army stood a new figure.
Clad in golden armor veined with silver light.
Eyes covered by a crown of thorns.
Lucien felt the air leave his lungs.
> "That's not just an angel," he said.
Naeriel's voice dropped.
> "That's Saradin. The Choirbreaker."
Saradin stepped forward, voice echoing across the battlefield like a funeral bell.
> "By decree of the Seventh Light, the Riftborn shall not rise."
He raised his sword made of both halo and flame.
> "Fall, or be erased."
Lucien stepped in front of Naeriel.
"No," he said. "Not this time."
He raised his hand.
And the ground shattered.
From the trees, the roots lifted.
From the soil, the runes bled.
From the sky, thunder howled in his name.
Lucien didn't cast a spell.
He unleashed memory.
Power older than any sigil ,a surge of raw will, wild and unfiltered, erupted from his chest.
The sky split again.
And something began to descend.
Not angel.
Not demon.
Something else.
Watching.
Waiting.
Waking.
---
End of Chapter 6