The Angel's city shimmered that night like a dream painted in starlight. Floating lanterns drifted through the skies above white marble spires, their golden glow reflecting across crystalline bridges that spanned streams of pure light. Music—harps, flutes, and drums—echoed through the avenues, weaving with laughter and the crackling of festival stalls. The Festival of Wings, an annual celebration of the angels' heritage, had transformed the entire city into a living constellation.
The group entered together.
Nero walked at the front, his crimson cloak swaying faintly in the evening breeze. His hand rested in his pocket, his red eyes sharp yet strangely distant. Beside him, Khione walked silently, her pale hair glistening beneath the lantern light. She said nothing, but the quiet calm in her ice-blue gaze carried more weight than words. Their presence together was enough to draw whispers from passing angels, but Nero paid them no mind.
Behind them trailed the others.
