At times, Reheil swore she was not alone in her own home.
There were moments when she would blink, only to realize entire hours had vanished. Sometimes even days. She would wake in her bed with no memory of laying down, her children crying, their needs unmet.
There were nights she felt eyes upon her—eyes that did not belong to any mortal.
The urge to report this torment gnawed at her, but fear bound her tongue. The church was merciless: anyone who dared confess to such visions was accused of being touched by the Abyss. And those touched by the Abyss were burned.
She could not die. Her children needed her.
But the truth was crueler.
Appolyth's fascination did not extend to the human world at large. She cared only for this home—for the fragile flame of life that flickered within it.
And so she pressed herself deeper into Reheil's soul. A subtle invasion, weakening the woman's consciousness, never enough to snuff it out entirely. To do so would stain her angelic essence, corrupt her divinity beyond return.
And yet, as days bled into nights, disgust festered.
Reheil was unworthy. She did not love her children as they deserved. She did not nurture them with the devotion only a pure being could give.
Her mortal negligence revolted the Seraph.
In Appolyth's silence, jealousy became judgment.
And judgment… was the seed of corruption.