Chapter eight:Shadows of the Past
The sun burned hot in the rose garden as Angelina practiced the spell for the fifth time. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool breeze.
"Again," Astra commanded, her purple eyes watchful.
Angelina closed her eyes, centering herself as Astra had taught her. She felt the magic stirring within—like a sleeping beast slowly awakening. "Anthos antheros," she whispered.
The withered roses in her palm bloomed, their petals unfurling in deep crimson.
"Good," Astra said. "Now, try something harder."
She placed a dead branch in Angelina's hands. "This requires more power. More focus. Remember—magic isn't about force. It's about balance."
Angelina took a deep breath. She could feel something different today, something deeper stirring inside her. "Anazoogonisi."
The branch trembled. Green shoots emerged, then leaves, then…
Black flames erupted from the wood.
"Ah!" Angelina dropped it, stumbling backward. The flames consumed the branch in seconds, leaving only ash.
"What was that?!" Her hands shook as she stared at them. "That wasn't—angels don't have black fire!"
Astra's expression remained calm, almost satisfied. "No. They don't."
"Then what—"
"You accessed infernal magic, Angelina. Demonic power."
The words hit her like a physical blow. "That's impossible. I'm an angel. I can't—"
"Can't you?" Astra gestured to the ash. "You just did. Sit down. We need to talk."
Angelina sank onto the stone bench, her mind reeling. Astra sat beside her, her voice taking on a teaching tone.
"There are three types of magic in existence," Astra began. "Divine magic—what angels use. Clean, bright, powered by faith and righteousness. Infernal magic—what demons use. Raw, powerful, fueled by will and desire. And Primordial magic—the oldest kind, predating both heaven and hell. It's wild, unpredictable, and extremely rare."
"Which one am I using?"
"All three."
Angelina's head snapped up. "What?"
"You bloomed the roses using divine magic. Basic angelic ability. But those black flames? Pure infernal power. And yesterday, when you restored Lothaire's vase? That was Primordial magic—creation magic, the rarest form."
"How is that possible?"
Astra's gaze was intense. "That's what we need to figure out. No being should be able to access all three types. Angels are bound to divine magic. Demons to infernal. Only the ancient ones—beings from before the Great Division—could use all forms."
"The Great Division?"
"When the Almighty split the cosmos into three realms: Heaven, Hell, and the mortal world. Before that, all magic was one. All beings could access it freely." Astra paused. "But those beings are long extinct. Or so we thought."
Angelina felt cold despite the sunlight. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying you're not just an angel, Angelina. You're something the realms have never seen before. Something they might fear."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence. Fear. Her father had feared her enough to suppress her powers. What would he do if he knew she could wield demonic magic?
"This is why they want me dead," she whispered.
"Possibly. Or it's why they need you alive." Astra stood. "Come. Let's try again. This time, I want you to consciously choose which magic to use. Don't let it control you. You control it."
For the next hour, Angelina practiced. Divine magic came easiest—it felt natural, warm, like sunlight. Infernal magic was harder, requiring her to tap into darker emotions. Anger. Fear. Desire. When she did, black flames danced across her palms.
Primordial magic remained elusive. She could only access it accidentally, in moments of intense need.
"Enough for today," Astra finally said. "You're exhausted. Rest. We'll continue tomorrow."
As Angelina turned to leave, she caught movement at a window high above. Lothaire stood there, watching her. Their eyes met across the distance.
He'd seen the black flames.
***
In the palace archives, Lothaire slammed another book shut in frustration.
"Nothing," he growled. "Hours of searching and nothing useful."
Logan looked up from his own stack of texts. "What exactly are we looking for?"
"Anything about the Melione prophecy. Anything about mating bonds with angels. Anything that explains why I feel like—" He stopped, jaw clenching.
"Like what?" Logan prompted.
"Like I'm incomplete when she's not near," Lothaire admitted darkly. "Like there's a string tied around my heart, pulling me toward her constantly. It's infuriating."
Logan's eyebrows rose. "The bond's getting stronger."
"It shouldn't be. It was unintentional. Incomplete. It should be weak, easy to ignore."
"Unless it wasn't as unintentional as you think."
Lothaire shot him a dangerous look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Mating bonds don't form randomly, Lothaire. They require recognition at a soul level. Even in your skeletal state, some part of you recognized her."
"Impossible. I'd never met her before that night."
"Maybe not in this life."
Lothaire went still. "What are you suggesting?"
Logan pulled out an ancient tome, its pages yellowed with age. "I've been researching too. Look at this passage."
He read aloud: "'Mating bonds transcend time and form. They are written in the fabric of fate itself, connecting souls that are destined to meet, life after life, until their purpose is fulfilled.'"
"That's romantic poetry, not fact."
"Is it?" Logan challenged. "Then explain why your bond formed instantly when it usually requires a conscious choice from both parties. Explain why you can sense her emotions, why you're drawn to her, why—" he gestured at Lothaire's disheveled appearance, "—why you've spent the entire morning watching her practice magic instead of planning your revenge."
Lothaire had no answer.
Logan continued, flipping pages. "And then there's this." He pointed to an illuminated manuscript. "The Melione prophecy. The complete version."
Lothaire leaned forward, reading:
"Born of light but touched by dark,
Melione shall bear the ancient mark.
Two paths before her, clearly laid:
Become the destroyer, or be the blade
That cuts the chains of old decree—
But freedom comes with a price, you see.
To save the realms, she must choose her fate:
Love or duty, mercy or hate."
"Two paths," Lothaire murmured. "Destroyer or savior."
"And notice that last line. Love or duty. Mercy or hate." Logan looked at him meaningfully. "The prophecy isn't just about her, Lothaire. It's about whoever stands beside her when she makes that choice."
"You think I'm part of this prophecy."
"I think fate doesn't make mistakes. You mating with Michael's daughter, the one prophesied to either save or destroy the realms? That's not coincidence."
Lothaire stood abruptly, pacing. Everything in him rebelled against the idea of fate, of destiny. He'd fought his entire existence to control his own path.
"I don't care about prophecies," he said coldly. "I care about revenge. Michael imprisoned me for twenty-two years. The archangels betrayed me. They'll pay for that."
"Even if it means destroying Angelina in the process?"
The question hung in the air.
Lothaire didn't answer.