The wind carried a floral scent, like orchids and wet earth. It was the end of the dry season and the air seemed charged with storm, as often happened in the rainforest. Gabriel felt the pulse of the jungle slow down, as if everything were holding its breath.
He was walking alone along the path that led to the moth caves when he sensed a presence. Not a sound, not a movement: just a certainty that made the back of his neck tense.
"Don't turn around yet," said a voice behind him. "I don't want to scare you. Even though we've already met."
Gabriel froze.
"Who are you?" he whispered, without turning around.
"You knew me in a past life, when the world was on the brink of ruin. You had a different name then. But the light in your eyes was the same."
Gabriel turned slowly. Before him stood a tall man with skin as dark as the bark of the guanacaste tree , eyes the colour of embers, and hands marked with circular scars. He was dressed in simple clothes, yet a solemn aura surrounded him, as if he had stepped out of an ancient painting.
"Zaccaria..." he whispered, and the name struck him like a spear of memory.
Images exploded in his mind: a city swallowed by sand, collapsed walls, bloodstained fields, skies streaked with winged creatures. And himself, older, older, in bloodstained golden armour. At his side, Zaccaria, with a staff of bone and light.
"You remember," said the man with a sad smile.
"We fought together..."
"Yes. Against the lost Nephilim."
The name alone made the leaves tremble.
"The descendants, the hybrids," explained Zachariah. "Some good, some corrupted by power. You were reborn to lead them. But the world was not ready."
Gabriel staggered, overwhelmed. Zachariah supported him.
— Your body is new, but your soul remembers. It is time for you to know who you are. And who is coming back.
Lightning split the sky, and rain fell violently. Gabriel did not move.
"They are waking up," murmured Zachariah, staring at the clouds.
The rain, touching the ground, turned almost to vapour, as if the earth itself were responding to an ancient call. The two took refuge under a stone ledge, at the entrance to a natural cavity covered with moss and roots.
Zaccaria lowered his voice, as if the names he uttered could summon hidden presences.
"The Nephilim are children of disorder. Born of the forbidden union between angels and humans. Too pure to belong to Earth, too imperfect to remain in the heavens. Some were wise, others destructive. And when the celestial hierarchies understood their power, war began."
Gabriel closed his eyes, overwhelmed by visions. He saw a battlefield suspended in the clouds: luminous and dark bodies colliding like mad stars. And then, her.
Seraphina.
Tall, beautiful, with golden wings and scarlet tips. A sword that cut not only flesh, but also wrong intentions. And her smile, just for him.
"She was the strongest among us," whispered Gabriel. "She called me brother, but... we were more than that."
Zaccaria nodded. "You were bound by a bond beyond forms and roles. When you fell, she was the first to look for you. When the battle was lost, was the first to ask that time be bent to give you another chance.
Gabriel trembled. "And now?"
"Some Nephilim sleep. Others have been reincarnated, forgotten. While others have redeemed themselves. But there are the Rebels: those who have forgotten nothing, and have forgiven neither Heaven nor Earth.
Gabriel stood up, the rain sliding off him like forgotten tears.
"Seraphina... has she returned too?"
Zaccaria lowered his gaze. "I don't know. But when you are ready to awaken completely, she will feel it. And you will find each other.
A thousand wings fluttered through the forest. For a moment, the air was filled with the metallic sound of a vibrating sword.
******
That night Gabriel did not sleep: he fell.
He fell into a dream so vivid it felt engraved on his skin. He was walking on a beach of black pebbles, with the turquoise sea crashing against the lava rocks sculpted by time. The island was a garden of the ancient world, lush and harmonious, hidden from maps and destiny. Olive trees swayed to the rhythm of a perfect wind, birds sang melodies in forgotten languages.
In the heart of the clearing, among the roots of ancient trees, stood a house carved into the living rock.
There lived Gabriel and Seraphina.
She wore a rough linen dress and walked barefoot. Her hair was lighter, her skin golden from the sun. But in her bright green eyes, she had the same flame. The islanders called them Aluna and Mael. They brought them gifts, invoked them to heal children, bring rain, and drive spirits from the hills. No one noticed that they did not age, or perhaps they knew but chose to remain silent. They loved and feared them.
Gabriel, in his dream, felt peace. A primordial serenity. His heart was whole.
Then came the smoke. From the sea.
And with the smoke came the deformed cries of the Hellhounds: beasts without eyes, multiple jaws, shadow paws. They came to reclaim what had been taken from the Judgement.
"Don't fight, there are too many of them," said Seraphina. "Run."
But the last image was of her turning to face them alone, her cry broken in the night, the rock house burning without flames, crumbling.
Gabriel woke up in tears, his heart pounding as if he had been running for hours.
He needed to return to that island. Or to find out if Seraphina had survived.