"We were not thrown into Hell. We were sent to a place in between. A place where hope still breathes, just enough to hurt."
The Fifth Bridge had been silent for a very long time.
Its broken arches rose out of the mist like the ribs of some long-dead giant, jutting toward a sky the color of cold iron. Heavy chains held both ends in place, their links swollen and blistered with rust. The bridge no longer led anywhere. Once, it had stretched toward something bright, something holy. Now, it ended in emptiness, a wound that never closed.
The wind here was strange. It carried no scent of land or water, only the faint tang of metal and old rain. The mist beneath swirled in slow, deliberate patterns, as if it were breathing.
No one comes here anymore.
Except for him.
Lucien stood at the very edge of the stone platform, his black cloak trailing over weather-worn slabs. His boots were damp from the dew that never seemed to leave this place. He stared into the gap, red eyes unblinking, as if sheer will might bring the bridge back into being.
The fog shifted, curling upward in ghostly fingers, and he could almost hear it. That voice. Soft, steady, and filled with a sorrow that never dulled.
A woman's voice.
He had never met her, but her name had carved itself into his mind long ago.
Selahael.
It was a dangerous name, the sort you did not say aloud in Bridgetowne, not if you valued your peace. Yet the fog whispered it freely, over and over. Sometimes, when the nights were still enough, even the stars seemed to echo it back.
He closed his eyes and listened.
You'll find me when the bridge wakes.
The words were not new. They came to him in dreams, in the brief moments before waking, in the shadows between heartbeats. He had never told anyone. He had no one to tell.
Behind him, Bridgetowne stretched out like a shattered crown.
To the north, the black towers of Noctis Sanctum rose like jagged teeth beneath a blood-red moon. That had once been his home, before the council stripped him of title, name, and place.To the south, the wild forests of Fangmere lay under a restless wind, the trees whispering with the movements of wolves. To the east, Elarian Spire glimmered in pale light, its white stone shot through with veins of living crystal. Magic crackled faintly in the air around it, a reminder that witches and wizards did not sleep. And to the west, the green lands of Hollowmere breathed in slow contentment. Humans there lived alongside strange beasts, tending them as if they were kin.
Four realms. Four rulers. Bound only by the ancient bridges.
Trust was rare here. Peace was fragile.
Lucien let his gaze drift back to the Fifth Bridge. A place like this should be silent. But tonight, it wasn't. Somewhere deep within the fog, something hummed. Low. Steady. Like a heartbeat awakening after centuries of stillness.
The sound crawled into his bones.
"It's starting," a voice said behind him.
Lucien didn't turn. "You shouldn't be here, Aldren."
A man stepped out from the shadows of a ruined archway, a tall figure wrapped in the brown leathers of a Hollowmere scout. His hair was tied back, streaked silver at the temples, though he was not yet old. A bow rested on his shoulder, but he made no move for it.
"You hear it too," Aldren said, stepping closer, boots crunching on grit.
Lucien's cloak shifted in the wind. "I hear many things."
"This one's different." Aldren's eyes swept the broken bridge. "Haven't heard it since…" He hesitated. "Since the Purge."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "You weren't even alive during the Purge."
"I've heard the stories." Aldren looked down into the mist, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "They say the Fifth Bridge will only wake when something falls from the sky."
Lucien said nothing.
Aldren glanced at him. "You believe that?"
Lucien turned his gaze away from the gap. "Belief is for priests and fools."
The wind picked up, cold and sharp. The hum in the mist seemed to grow, just enough to make the air tremble between them.
Aldren took a step back. "Whatever it is, it's not my fight."
"Then go," Lucien said, voice flat.
The man left without another word, disappearing into the ruins until even the sound of his boots was gone.
Lucien remained, staring into the void where the bridge had once reached toward the light.
Something was coming. He could feel it in his teeth, in the ache deep in his fangs that had nothing to do with hunger.
He pulled his hood up, shadowing his face. His thoughts slid unwillingly to the last time he had stood at the gates of Heaven, sword in hand, only to be turned away. They had told him his service was over. That he was no longer needed. That was the last time he had believed in anything bright.
But this… this was different.
Far away, beyond Bridgetowne, beyond the mortal lands, a storm was breaking. The night sky burned with streaks of gold and silver as something tore through the clouds.
Lucien lifted his head. His pulse quickened.
Through the rain in the storm, he saw her.
She fell like a spark from a dying star, wings aflame in shades of white-gold and deep ember. Her body twisted as the winds caught her, but she did not cry out. Not even when the first bolt of lightning chased her down.
Demons followed. Not the wild, formless shadows of nightmares, but armored shapes, black as scorched iron, their wings ragged and their hands clawed.
Lucien's hands curled into fists. He knew that kind of hunt. It was the kind meant to end quickly, and permanently.
The humming in the bridge grew stronger, resonating through the stone beneath his feet. The mist below churned, rising higher, reaching for the sky.
He exhaled slowly.
He was no hero. He had told himself that for years.
But the name, her name, was burning in his chest again, fierce and bright and impossible to ignore.
Selahael.
The sky cracked open with another flash, and the girl's fall quickened.
Lucien turned away from the bridge and started walking. His cloak caught the wind like a shadow breaking free from the night.
Somewhere below, in the human lands, an angel was about to hit the earth.
And Bridgetowne was beginning to wake.