The rain had not stopped for three days.
It fell in thin, steady lines against the cracked window of Elara's cottage, tracing paths like tears on glass. She sat by the window, chin resting on her knees, staring into the mist-covered forest beyond. Her grandmother used to say rain was heaven's way of remembering — but tonight, it felt more like the sky was grieving.
Her sketchbook lay open beside her, half-filled with drawings she couldn't explain — faces she'd never seen, wings she'd never touched, eyes that didn't belong to anyone she knew. She turned a page, gazing at the newest one: a man with burning silver eyes and feathers charred at the tips.
She didn't remember drawing him.
The fire in her small hearth flickered low, shadows dancing across the walls. Somewhere outside, thunder groaned, rolling like the voice of something ancient. She shivered, clutching her blanket closer. The air felt different tonight — alive, somehow.
And then she heard it.
A faint sound — like something heavy falling into the woods behind her home.
Elara froze. Her cottage was on the edge of the village, surrounded by wild forest that no one dared wander into after dark. But curiosity, like a whisper she couldn't silence, tugged at her. She slipped on her boots and reached for her lantern.
The forest was thick with mist. Every step she took crunched on wet leaves, every breath puffed white in the cold air. She kept her lantern close, its small circle of light barely piercing the fog.
Then she saw him.
A man — no, something more — lying among broken branches. His body was half-covered in mud, his shirt torn, his back streaked with blood. And behind him… were wings. Great, tattered things that shimmered faintly even in the dark.
Her breath caught.
She took a cautious step closer. "H–hello? Are you—"
His hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His eyes opened — silver, glowing faintly through the rain.
"Don't…" His voice was hoarse, barely human. "Don't come closer."
Elara's heart pounded, but she couldn't move away. There was something about his eyes — pain, yes, but also sorrow, and something that felt like recognition.
"You're hurt," she whispered. "I can help you—"
He let go, turning his face away. "You shouldn't see this. You shouldn't see me."
For a moment, silence filled the forest except for the rhythm of falling rain. Elara set down her lantern, kneeling beside him despite his protest. Up close, she could see faint burns across his skin — but they weren't normal burns. They pulsed with faint light, as if fire and starlight had both scarred him.
"You fell," she murmured. "From where?"
He didn't answer. But she could feel the tremor in his breath, the weight of something far heavier than pain.
"Please," she said softly. "You'll die if I leave you here."
Azael opened his eyes again, and for a heartbeat, he saw what he thought he had lost forever — light. Not the blinding purity of heaven, but something warmer, human, real.
He exhaled slowly. "You shouldn't have found me."
"Maybe I was meant to," she whispered.
And though neither of them understood it then, that moment — that single meeting beneath the storm — would change the balance between heaven and earth forever.
Elara helped him up, his weight heavy against her shoulder. He was warm, unnaturally so, and his touch sent a strange current through her — not fear, not attraction, but something deeper. Recognition.
As they reached her cottage, thunder rumbled again — distant, but growing louder. And somewhere beyond the clouds, unseen eyes watched, whispering among the stars.
> "The fallen has found the light."
> "Then the reckoning begins."