The atmosphere in the Hall of Light was not peaceful — it was suffocating.
Three winged figures stood beneath the towering pillars of white stone. Their wings were folded, their gazes lowered. None dared to speak louder than a whisper.
"It's been three years," one murmured, his voice thin with dread. "Three years… and still no sign of the hybrid. The sin… that must die."
Another shifted nervously. "Are we to tell His Grace we've failed again…?"
The third didn't answer. He clenched his jaw, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold glow around them.
The great doors groaned open behind them. Golden light poured across the polished floor as they were summoned.
The Emperor was waiting.
They entered slowly, kneeling before the high throne. The hall stretched wide and high, carved into the very heavens. At the center, beneath the wide arch of light, sat the Emperor of the angelic realm.
He wore no armor, no flowing robes. His attire was simple — regal white with intricate embroidery. But the way the air twisted around him… the unnatural stillness of his presence… made it clear: power resided here.
A golden crown sat on his head — not made of light, not blessed by flame, just metal. Heavy. Stern.
His eyes — dull gold and lifeless — looked down upon them.
"I hope you've found the child," he said calmly, but the weight of his voice cracked through the silence. "I assume you value your heads."
"Y-Your Grace," one of the angels stammered. "We searched every corner of the human realm, but… there is no trace of the hybrid! No wings, no halo, no light signature! If it exists, it's hidden too well."
Another added, "The child may already be dead. We found dozens of infants, but none bore the mark of heaven."
A long pause.
Then, with an audible breath, the Emperor spoke again. "Failures. All of you."
The three angels flinched.
He leaned slightly to the side and said to the guard beside him, "Summon Seraphian."
The air shifted.
They froze. One of them gasped.
"Seraphian…? But… Your Grace… he's—"
"I know who he is," the Emperor said, voice laced with disdain. "My youngest. A bastard… but not a failure."
⸻
The sound of boots echoed through the throne room.
Seraphian entered, unhurried, unimpressed.
He didn't kneel.
His hair — golden like firelight — flowed loosely behind him. His wings were partially unfurled, as if daring the guards to stop him. A faint smirk curled his lips.
"You called?" he said lazily, eyes flicking across the room.
The Emperor didn't blink. "The hybrid must be found. You'll take over the task."
"That child! Hah, and you still haven't found him? How pathetic," he said mockingly.
Silence filled the hall after his words… then he yawned. "Ugh. Humans. I hate their world. It stinks of weakness and noise."
"That's an order," the Emperor said sharply.
A long silence.
Then Seraphian shrugged. "Fine. Whatever. But don't expect much. The child's probably dead anyway."
He turned to leave.
But before the door closed behind him, he heard the Emperor speak again:
"Execute them."
The sound of swords being drawn filled the hall. The three angels screamed — but Seraphian didn't look back. His expression didn't change. He simply walked away.
⸻
The barrier between realms loomed ahead: a massive wall of black stone etched with glowing blue runes — old magic, human magic. A foolish attempt to keep the divine at bay.
Seraphian stood before it, exhaling slowly.
Then, with a flash of golden light, his form dissolved into pure brilliance.
⸻
When he appeared on the other side, he looked… human.
His golden hair now brown. His radiant eyes a dull grey. His wings gone, hidden, erased. His robe replaced by a simple outfit — common, humble — like a traveling student.
He adjusted the strap on his leather bag, straightened his shirt, and adopted a polite, soft smile.
"The child is probably dead," he thought, "but if I must look… I'll start from the beginning. From this pathetic edge of the human realm."
⸻
The village was poor.
Mud-brick homes. Weather-worn fences. The scent of animals and firewood.
He saw old women limping with buckets, children throwing stones, loud laughter, sudden crying — it was all so… human.
"Disgusting," Seraphian thought, watching a toddler smear mud on his face. "Greedy, loud, flawed creatures. Driven by hunger and lust and ignorance."
Then, like a switch, his face brightened.
He smiled kindly and waved to the villagers.
"Good morning!" he called out, cheerful. "I'm a student from the city. I'm researching the behavioral development of rural children!"
The change was immediate. Faces turned to him. Smiles returned. An old man patted his back.
"A student, eh? Well, welcome! We don't get many scholars here."
They shared bread and stories, seated under the crooked tree in the center of the village.
One villager, between bites of roasted potato, leaned closer.
"Study the children all you want, son. But steer clear of the cursed witch."
Seraphian — now Azial — tilted his head curiously. "Cursed witch?"
"Aye. Lives in a little house by the woods. Her whole family died because of her. She's a plague. We only keep her alive 'cause we need proof she still uses black magic before we… deal with her."
Seraphian narrowed his eyes slightly. "You said her whole family died… because of her?"
Another man added . "Not all of them, somehow. We don't know how the curse spared her siblings . Maybe she's got 'em under her spell."
Seraphian smiled softly. "I see… Well, of course I won't go near her."
But inside, his mind was racing.
"A curse that kills the family… but spares a few? And they still live with her? That's not how curses work. Something doesn't add up."
He rose to his feet.
"I'd like to explore a little, if that's alright?"
"Want someone to show you around?" one asked.
Azial waved a hand kindly. "No need, sir. I enjoy wandering on my own."
⸻
He followed his instincts straight to the edge of the village — to the cursed house.
It wasn't as eerie as the villagers described. A small wooden cottage, a simple garden, and silence.
From a distance, he stood — watching.
A girl stood by the flowers, watering them with care. Her black hair was tied up, swaying gently with the wind. Her eyes were bright green — calm, warm, unaware of the world's cruelty.
Seraphian furrowed his brows.
"There's no magic. No curse. Not even a trace of spiritual energy. Just… flowers."
Then another girl stepped out of the house, taller, older, with golden eyes and darker hair. She held a small boy with tousled brown hair in her arms.
"Dinner's ready, Rosiela," she called softly.
Rosiela turned — and noticed him.
She didn't scream. She didn't flinch.
She smiled.
"Hello there! You're not from the village, are you?"
Seraphian blinked.
"That smile… is she really the one they all fear?"
He smiled back, playing his role.
"Ah, no. I'm just passing through. My name is Azial."
The older girl stepped forward.
"I'm Elanor Valeryan."
Rosiela beamed beside her. "And I'm Rosiela!"
Then Elanor pointed to the child. "This is our younger brother… Arian."
Arian.
Seraphian looked at the boy.
"Their brother. So he can't be the hybrid… right?"
But something tugged at his core.
And for the first time in years…
Seraphian stayed longer than he needed to.