They dragged him in chains through the Hall of Grace.
The air reeked of incense and iron — a holy stench that burned the back of my throat as the crowd of disciples pressed closer, craning for a glimpse of the monster.
A fallen.
The first I'd ever seen alive.
His wrists bled where the runic manacles bit into skin — if you could call that skin. It shimmered faintly, like starlight drowned in oil. His eyes, silver and cruel, flicked once toward me as he passed, and for an instant the noise of the hall collapsed into silence.
Every whisper, every prayer, every heartbeat vanished.
It was just him — and me.
Then the Seraph's voice cut through the hush.
"Let all who dwell in the Light witness the corruption that would taint our world."
The congregation murmured approval. I lowered my gaze, pretending reverence, though my pulse roared in my ears. Because beneath the veil of my lashes, I could see what others couldn't — the aura bleeding off him in black flame, coiling through the air like living smoke.
That power called to something deep inside me. Something I'd spent years smothering under prayers and ritual.
Something that whispered, mine.
"Lyra," a soft voice hissed beside me. It was Celenne, my roommate in the dormitories. "Stop staring. You'll draw the High Seraph's attention."
Too late. The High Seraph already stood at the dais, his alabaster robes gleaming, his jeweled staff raised toward the chained man.
"This creature," he declared, "once bore wings of grace. Now, he is bound to serve until penance is complete. The Citadel claims him as Guardian to the novice Seer."
The crowd gasped. My breath caught.
A Guardian? For a novice? That hadn't happened in a century.
Celenne gripped my sleeve. "Whose Seer?" she whispered.
The High Seraph's gaze swept the ranks of trainees — and stopped on me.
"The Seer Lyra Veyne."
The hall tilted. I forgot how to breathe.
Chains clinked as guards dragged the fallen to his knees before me. He didn't bow. Didn't even look up. His hair — black as ravens' wings, tangled from battle — fell forward, hiding half his face. But I could feel his attention like a blade against my skin.
The Seraph's smile was almost gentle. "Kneel, child."
I knelt because defiance wasn't an option.
He laid his hand on my head, and light flared through the sigils on his palm. "By divine decree, you are bound to this creature until your sight is complete. You will guide him, and he will guard you. Should he fail, his soul will be unmade. Should you falter…" His smile thinned. "…you will share his fate."
The crowd murmured blessings that sounded like curses.
The chains between us tightened. And in that instant — as our skin brushed for the first time — I saw it.
A flash of another world.
Fire. Wings torn from heaven. A hand reaching for me through smoke. His hand.
Then it was gone.
The Seraph dismissed the crowd, and the guards dragged my new "guardian" toward the lower chambers. My knees shook as I rose, Celene whispering frantic warnings, but the world had already shifted. The bond pulsed faintly against my wrist like a brand.
I followed, because I had no choice — and because part of me didn't want one.
The corridors of the Citadel were carved from white stone, gilded with runes that hummed faintly with holy energy. Every surface gleamed, but the light never reached the corners. Shadows clung like whispers.
The guards stopped before the door to the Guardian cells and shoved him inside. One lingered, spitting at his feet before locking the gate.
"May the Light cleanse what's left of you," the man sneered.
When they left, I hesitated at the threshold.
The fallen sat on the floor, wrists still bound, head bowed. Chains pooled like serpents around him. His breathing was steady — too steady for someone freshly beaten.
I cleared my throat. "So you're my… guardian."
A low sound escaped him — something between a laugh and a growl. "I was your executioner, once." His voice was quiet but rough, like gravel dragged over silk.
My pulse skipped. "That's comforting."
He looked up then, and the breath froze in my lungs. His eyes weren't silver anymore. They glowed faintly red, molten and alive.
"Tell me, Seer," he murmured, "do you see what they truly are? The ones who chain angels and call it mercy?"
"I see enough," I said carefully. "And I see that you're in no position to test my patience."
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. "You're not like the others."
"You don't know me."
"Not yet."
He rose slowly, the chains clinking, and I realized just how tall he was — how the space seemed to shrink around him. Despite the bruises, he moved with predatory grace.
Something in me flinched, not from fear but recognition. My own darkness answering his.
"Stay back," I warned. "There are wards—"
"I can feel them." His gaze flicked toward the glowing runes on the floor. "They won't stop me if I choose to break them."
"You wouldn't survive it."
He tilted his head, almost amused. "Neither would you."
Silence stretched — taut, electric.
Then footsteps echoed in the corridor. I stepped away just as the High Seraph appeared at the doorway, flanked by two priests.
"Seer Lyra," he said smoothly. "You will begin your initiation tomorrow. Until then, your guardian remains confined. He is a weapon, not a man — do not forget that."
"Yes, Your Grace."
His gaze lingered on me — too long, too intent — before he turned and left.
When the footsteps faded, I let out the breath I'd been holding.
Behind the bars, the fallen smiled again — slow, knowing, dangerous.
"Careful, little Seer. You wear their light like armor, but I see the cracks."
I met his gaze through the iron. "Then keep your distance, Guardian. Before you find what's hiding underneath it."
His laughter followed me down the corridor — low, dark, and far too human.