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Aisling was staring at the Tree without truly seeing it. Her eyes followed the lines of its titanic trunk, the slow dance of silver leaves at its crown, the reflections of gold and sap along its bark… yet her mind drifted elsewhere.
It was over. The End War had ended. Centuries of conflict, manipulation, and intertwined hatred had finally come to a close, consumed within a white light. Humanity had endured. It had suffered, bled, lost everything it loved, yet it had reclaimed the Earth. It had planted the Tree. And still…
Aisling felt empty. An immense silence had settled within her, as though victory itself had carried away all that had once made her heart beat. The wind stirred the leaves of the new Tree, but she found no solace in their murmur, only a funereal melody for all that had been lost.
Lucifer had vanished. No trace of him had been found, not even a single feather from his corrupted wings. Lilith had been discovered in the depths, unrecognizable, barely alive. As for the Rephaims and the Anakims, their end had been as brutal as their birth: many had torn each other apart, others had destroyed themselves, as if some part of them had finally understood the horror of their existence. The war had created them; the war had undone them.
Now, the hill served as a place of counsel. Samael stood for the Hells, motionless, solemn. Gabriel spoke for the Heavens, his wings dimmed, his voice steady but without arrogance. Idris and Fenja represented Humanity, supported by Samyaza, Ulthane, and Muria. And, as silent judges, stood Azrael and Raguel. Ogias spoke for the new Nephilims, standing somewhat apart, though it was evident that his presence made many uneasy.
The tone was no longer one of threats or accusations; they spoke of balance, of rebuilding, of a universe that had to learn to breathe again. Angelic messengers had reported earlier that the Council had fled, and all had at least agreed that it would have to answer for much, their escape having sown genuine doubt across all levels of Creation.
Yet as she listened to them speak, Aisling could not help but think: All this… for this?
She drew a deep breath, her gaze lost among the Tree’s branches, and felt the weight of silence pressing around her. Then a caw softly broke the still air. Aisling looked up, a familiar shape was circling high above, its dark wings cutting through the golden light of dusk. Dust.
The bird descended in a slow spiral before landing beside her. A trembling smile escaped Aisling’s lips.
“Hey, you… you made it, didn’t you?” she whispered.
Dust gave a faint cry, then rubbed his beak against her wrist.
She felt a shadow draw near, the presence of Ogias settled beside her with a creak of armor and a long exhale. They remained silent for a while, watching the slow rustling of the Tree. The Nephilim inclined his head slightly.
“We owe them much.”
Aisling needed no clarification to know of whom he spoke.
“I still keep expecting some trick,” she murmured. “Of all of them, none ever seemed truly capable of dying.”
A sad smile tugged at Ogias’s lips. He did not answer at once, his eyes fixed upon the branches mingling with the clouds.
“Perhaps,” he said at last, “they have merely gone to where legend begins.”
Silence returned, peaceful, yet almost heavy. Then Aisling turned her head toward him.
“And now? What will you do?”
“What we had hoped from the beginning… ask Humanity to take us in. Find a place where we may disappear, fade into the depths. We still do not know if our lineage can endure, or if our blood is doomed to die out. But we have no wish to take up too much space.”
Aisling regarded him for a long while, a soft glint of mischief in her eyes.
“Or perhaps… you could allow yourselves to take some space. The share that belongs to you. To us.”
Ogias frowned slightly, not understanding at once. Then Aisling raised her hand and slid the ring from her finger. She held it a moment between her fingertips, as though weighing the burden of a world, before extending it toward him.
“A gift from my parents. My legacy. Why shouldn’t the Nephilims claim Empyrea? It’s a forsaken world, but it could be reborn. The Watchers and the Makers will help you. They will find you a place.”
Ogias froze, astonished. His eyes shone with an emotion he made no effort to conceal. Slowly, he extended his hand and took the ring.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” he breathed.
Aisling smiled, a weary, yet genuine smile.
“We all need a second chance. Humanity has theirs. Now it’s your turn to seize yours.”
“We will need a leader,” he said, his gaze steady, his voice suddenly firmer.
“I’m only a healer,” Aisling shook her head gently, amused. “And you’re doing quite well on your own. So… it will be all right. We’ll be all right.”
Ogias nodded in gratitude, then rose to make room as Idris and Fenja came to sit beside them. The three friends found themselves side by side once more, seated before the Tree, as they once had been by the sea of their native island, same posture, shoulders nearly touching, yet faces and lives utterly changed.
Around them, the hill murmured with diplomatic whispers, but their small island of silence belonged only to them. Aisling exhaled, leaning lightly against the others, and looked at the two lovers with a tender, tired fondness.
“The Three Realms want to negotiate a new Balance,” Idris began in a low, measured voice. “Without the Council this time. They’re proposing a joint inquiry to understand what truly happened. To finish what the Four began. We owe them at least that. And Humanity must now rise again, rebuild… The Elements infused within the planet will help it heal, but it will take time.”
“And Samael?” Aisling asked. “Does he regret calling upon the Lords of the Void to help us instead of seizing Hell for himself?”
She turned her head toward the great demon, who was speaking in the distance with his former lieutenants. He carried himself like a king, and his smile bore a thousand ambiguous promises. The three titans, meanwhile, had returned to the Void, for the better.
“He claims he doesn’t,” Fenja replied, her tone bitter. “That it was all part of the plan, that eliminating Lucifer and Lilith was a step toward power. I can’t shake the feeling that he knew exactly how it would all end, and that he used us as leverage.”
Idris grimaced, casting a hard glance at Samael’s silhouette.
“At least for now he asks nothing of the Earth, nor of us… but I’m certain we haven’t heard the last of him. Or of the Council. They still have too many secrets buried away.”
Fenja bit her lip, frustrated. Her eyes swept the horizon, as if searching for the faces of those they had lost.
“I wish we’d caught them. Forced them to answer for what they’ve done…”
A silence fell between them, neither bitter nor consoling, only heavy with all the battles they had fought. The trees nearby shivered in a gentle breeze, as though the Earth itself sought to soothe its wounds. Idris took Fenja’s hand; Aisling laid hers over their intertwined fingers. None of them had an easy answer, but all understood that rebuilding would demand far more than victories on a battlefield: it would take time, compromise, and the will not to repeat the errors of the past.
“There’s one last thing,” Idris said at last, after a long silence.
Fenja, beside him, nodded slowly, as if to confirm what they had already agreed upon in private.
“Death told us… that whoever planted the Seed could find the Creator.”
“That’s what Lucifer claimed,” Aisling shrugged. “He could easily have been lying.”
“Perhaps. But there’s only one way to know for sure.”
The young woman frowned, looking from one to the other.
“Wait… you want me to go?”
“They’ve already tried,” Fenja explained, pointing toward the gathered figures, angels and demons alike. “None of them could open the Gate. Not even Muria. And honestly, Idris and I… we’d rather enjoy a little of the peace we fought for.”
“The Seed grew inside you, Aisling,” Idris added. “If anyone can get an answer… it’s you.”
The Nephilim sighed, thoughtful.
“Only one way to know, huh?”
She repeated the words, more to herself than to them, before straightening and stepping toward the Tree.
.
Aisling entered alone.
Idris and Fenja did not seem surprised that the doors opened for her, and no one else approached the Tree. Perhaps they simply could not. The interior of the Tree was almost unreal in its calm. A circular tunnel, carved in solidified sap, descended toward the center of the trunk before opening onto a vast platform suspended above a blue-green vortex. Beneath her stretched the Well of Souls, an ocean of shifting lights, of spirits waiting for their turn to be born into children yet to come.
A shiver ran through her. Yes… Humanity would have its second chance. But at what cost?
She crouched for a moment, watching the reflections dance along the walls of the trunk, then lifted her gaze: from the ceiling, platforms slowly detached themselves, moved by a will of their own, forming step by step a staircase leading upward, toward the very heart of the Tree.
Aisling drew a deep breath. Then she placed her foot upon the first step. One step. Then another. And she began to climb the stairway, toward the unknown, toward the Creator.
Aisling climbed, step after step, breath short, muscles burning. Each step seemed to hold her back, to weigh more than the one before. Her mind wavered as much as her legs. Was this how it was meant to be? Like in the tales Ren had told her, those ancient myths where the hero triumphed over hardship to receive a final reward?
She doubted it. The true heroes were already dead. What more was there to ask for?
The ascent felt endless. More than once, she was forced to sit upon a step of crystallized sap, gasping. Her fingers trembled; her heart beat an irregular rhythm. This new body, strengthened yet still frail, betrayed her. All she wanted was to sleep. To sleep and dream that none of this had happened, that it had all been a nightmare, and that upon waking, she would find them all again.
But the silence of this place, so total it seemed almost alive, reminded her of the truth. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, drew a long breath, and resumed her climb.
When at last she reached the top, her legs threatened to give way. The final step demanded all her strength, but she crossed it, and found herself upon a wide circular platform bathed in gentle light filtering through the Tree’s canopy. The wind swept through like a slow breath, almost soothing. Her eyes scanned the space, her heart pounding.
Empty. There was no one. No celestial throne, no divine presence, not even a voice to greet her. Only herself, small and solitary, at the summit of the world.
Disoriented, Aisling took a few hesitant steps forward. A bitter laugh escaped her.
“Rather disappointing, as endings go…” she muttered.
“On the contrary: perfectly fitting!”
Aisling started, her heart skipping a beat. She spun around, ready to defend herself, and froze when she saw the figure standing a few paces away.
Killington.
He leaned on his cane with lazy elegance, a sly smile curving his lips, and began to clap slowly, exaggeratedly.
“Bravo, bravo, bravissimo! What a spectacle! A masterful conclusion, full of pathos, of fire, of tears… perhaps a little drawn out toward the end, but what intensity!”
Aisling felt the anger rise, choking her.
“You…” she breathed, her face hardening, her voice trembling with barely contained rage. “What are you doing here?!”
Killington twirled his cane absentmindedly, as if amused by the question.
“Oh, well… there are rules, my dear. Cosmic principles. When a Seed is planted, when a world resets, one must be present, to greet the rebirth, to attend the epilogue. And besides, it’s a celebration, you know. Curtains close, as we say in the trade.”
A cold intuition crept into Aisling’s mind. Her fingers tensed; her gaze sharpened. No… it couldn’t be. Not him.
“It’s… it’s you,” she whispered, her voice nearly strangled. “The Creator… it’s you!”
Killington’s smile widened, blazing with irony. He slowly removed his top hat and bowed in a theatrical, sweeping gesture, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Ah! Finally! I was beginning to fear no one would ever figure it out! But mind you,” he added with mock gravity, “as I told you during our first encounter… I am but an actor, a director, a mere servant of this cosmic tragedy we all play a part in.”
Aisling stared at him, lips parted, unable to shape what she felt, a mixture of disbelief, fury, and cold despair.
“A comedy… you made us play out your comedy,” she said at last, her voice trembling with bitterness. “All of it, the war, the death, the suffering… You could have stopped it! If you’re as powerful as they say, you could have stopped it all!”
Killington sighed, a weary, almost disappointed sigh, like that of a director whose actor had just proven too naïve.
“Creating the Universe does not make one responsible for its wanderings,” he replied, calm and detached, adjusting the lapel of his coat as though the subject bored him.
“Really?! That’s your answer? Not my problem?! Then what was all this talk of Balance? The Council? This whole masquerade?!” she cried, throwing up her hands in despair.
“I fear many of my words have been… misinterpreted,” Killington sighed again, spinning his cane in a languid, distracted motion. “Meaning fades; centuries distort everything. But then, is that not what makes the play interesting? We all get carried away, one way or another, in the merry-go-round of life. Don’t we?”
Aisling shook her head in disbelief, indignation burning in her chest.
“And why was it so vital that I ‘understand the mistake’ I was supposed to be? Hmm? What was the lesson?”
Killington froze. His smile faltered slightly. For a brief instant, something passed through his gaze, a shadow, a flicker of irritation barely restrained.
“I could have left a mere human in peace… or perhaps made you dance a little longer, for the sake of principle. But…”
He stopped short. And Aisling understood — in a flash.
“The Nephilims… it was about them, wasn’t it? They were the problem.”
Killington’s gaze hardened; his mask of nonchalance cracked at last.
“Once again, there are rules, my dear. Certain limits one cannot cross. Certain mixtures that should never have been allowed.”
“Then… can you bring them back?”
Killington tilted his head, intrigued — caught off guard by the unexpected improvisation.
“Bring them back? And why, pray tell, would I do such a thing?”
“Because, clearly, you still have a dance to finish with me,” she said, voice firming. “And I have the feeling the mighty Creator of the Universe wouldn’t be the sort to refuse a challenge.”
Killington burst into a cruel laugh — one that echoed long in the heights of the great Tree. A laugh of amusement, of scorn… and perhaps, buried deep within, of genuine interest.
“Or I could simply snap my fingers and turn you to dust.”
Aisling felt bile rise in her throat, yet she did not retreat. Instead, she straightened, her chest blazing.
“But you haven’t,” she said. “You’ve kept postponing my death again and again.”
Then the truth struck her.
“You have no power over us,” she realized. “Our souls are not yours… you did not forge our beginning. And you can’t bring them back, because you don’t know where they are!”
A chill coursed through the air; Killington’s aura darkened, sharpened. His smile faded, amusement giving way to a coiled threat.
“Careful now, sweet child,” he murmured, voice turning from honey to thunder. “I could lose my patience.”
“Do it then. Burn me to ashes!” she shouted, arms spread wide, body taut like a beacon defying the storm. “Send me to join them, and I promise you, they’ll find you. They’ll find their way here… to you.”
Her finger trembled, pointed straight at the playwright. For one long, perilous second, Killington truly seemed tempted. His gaze searched for the cruelest answer, then something restrained him. He inhaled, caught between impulse and calculation.
“You will live, young one,” he said at last, voice low and strained. “A long life… peaceful, uneventful. Tend to your own. Watch over mankind, and the new order that now rises. But… do not… defy… me.”
He struck his cane against the ground. Around him, a cloud of black bats rose, and Killington dissolved into them. Aisling stood motionless for a long moment, heart pounding, hands still warm from the strain. The threat was gone, yet its echo resonated deep within her chest. She knew this order would not last long. The Four might not yet be within reach… but she would find them.
A day would come when the Creator himself would have to answer.
.
The night air was cool and fragrant with the scent of rain and wildflowers. Through the open window of a small stone farmhouse, the sounds of life drifted in, the gentle creak of trees, the distant call of an owl, and somewhere far off, the soft murmur of the sea.
Inside, warmth reigned. The fire in the hearth cast dancing amber lights on the walls of sunbaked clay, now lined with wooden beams and shelves filled with jars of herbs, scrolls, and tiny charms. Aisling had always loved this house, one of the first built after the End War. Its roof was thatched like the old homes of Nimrach, but its heart was all Earth.
A young woman lay in the center of the room, her breath coming in short, ragged waves. She was strong, the kind of strength that came from those who’d inherited both courage and stubbornness. Her fingers clenched the cloth beneath her, and her dark hair clung to her temples in damp strands.
Around her, two women moved calmly, their gestures sure and practiced. One adjusted a damp cloth on the woman’s forehead, while the other murmured softly. And crouched between them was Aisling.
Her green eyes glimmered in the firelight, serene and determined. She had hardly changed over the years, a privilege of her race, and the quiet strength of her voice had never faltered.
“Steady now, Mira. You’re doing wonderfully. Breathe, let it come. You’ve got this.”
Mira nodded weakly, clutching the wrist of the older woman beside her, Fenja, her grandmother. The years had bent Fenja’s back but not her spirit. Her once-blonde hair had turned white, braided neatly down her shoulder, and her eyes, though weary, still burned with the same protective fire. She held her granddaughter’s hand tightly, whispering words of comfort.
“You’re almost there, sweetheart… he’s almost here.”
“Just one more. One last push, love. The child is ready.”
Outside, the storm that had been building all night finally broke. Thunder rumbled softly across the horizon. The earth drank deeply of the rain, and somewhere beyond the hills, the roots of the colossal Tree shimmered faintly under the lightning’s glows.
Then, in a single, trembling instant, the air changed.
A cry rang out, bright, loud, alive.
Aisling caught the newborn in her arms, her hands sure despite the tears clouding her vision. She lifted the child gently, wrapped in a linen cloth. The baby’s tiny lungs filled with air, and another cry broke free, stronger, defiant, bursting with life.
Fenja let out a broken sob and pressed a trembling hand to her lips. The sound that escaped her was half-laughter, half-grief, the kind of sound only those who had survived too much could make.
“He’s perfect,” Aisling whispered, her voice trembling.
She placed the baby on Mira’s chest, and the young mother let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, the sound of relief, of wonder. The child quieted almost instantly, curling against her warmth.
Aisling leaned back, exhaustion and peace softening her face. Her gaze wandered toward the open window, where the night sky stretched vast and clear. Fenja wiped her eyes and looked down at the child, her voice low and hoarse.
“Idris would have loved him,” she murmured.
Aisling reached over, resting her hand on Fenja’s shoulder. Outside, the wind carried the newborn’s cry into the night, past the fields and forests, up to where the branches of the World Tree shimmered against the stars.
.
“Thank you for coming all the way here,” Fenja whispered, leaning on her friend’s arm as they walked along the path leading to the Tree.
Aisling gave a faint, amused smile.
“You’re joking, right? Bringing a child into the world is sort of… what I do best, remember?”
Fenja let out a raspy little laugh.
“Isn’t it rather sowing as much chaos as possible?”
“Perhaps…” the Nephilim replied, throwing her a mischievous glance. “Besides, your granddaughter handled it beautifully. She’s a force of nature, like her grandmother.”
Fenja rolled her eyes, a tender smile softening her features.
“Mira’s as stubborn as Idris was. He would have been so proud of her.”
A peaceful silence settled between them, marked only by the murmur of wind and the creak of wet wood beneath their feet. Around them, Earth stretched out, green, serene, renewed. No scars of war, no traces of fire or ruin remained. Only life, simple, fertile, abundant.
“Look at this. If someone had told me Earth would look like this again…” She turned slowly toward Aisling, her eyes glimmering with both warmth and sorrow. “You know, the next time you come back… I’ll probably be gone.”
Aisling stopped short, frowning.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth. I’m old, Aisling. Old and tired. I’ve lived a good life, not always gentle, but beautiful nonetheless. I’ve loved, I’ve lost, I’ve watched this world be reborn… I only wanted to live long enough to see the next generation. And now that I have…”
She lifted her shoulders weakly, her wrinkled fingers tightening around Aisling’s hand.
“I think it’s time to make room for others.”
Aisling turned her gaze away, biting the inside of her cheek to contain the surge of emotion rising within her.
With infinite gentleness, Fenja laid a hand over hers.
“My only regret,” she murmured, “is not seeing you at peace as well.”
Aisling inhaled slowly, eyes lowered.
“I can’t stop now…”
“The Darksiders?” Fenja asked softly.
A faint smile touched Aisling’s lips.
“My last journey took me to the gates of Oblivion. I felt… something there. A trace. They’re outside of everything, but I believe they’ll find their way back, eventually.”
“Maybe it’s time you found yours too,” Fenja said, nodding pensively.
They finally reached the foot of the Tree of Life. Fenja sat down upon a stone, while Aisling remained standing, gazing at the ethereal gateway that pulsed gently through the roots — the passage to Empyrea. She leaned forward, pressed a tender kiss upon her friend’s forehead.
“Shall I see you at my next visit?”
Fenja managed a weary smile.
“Hmm… See you later…”
Aisling smiled, eyes glistening. She let the words sink deep into her heart, then straightened. The portal flared to life at her approach, bathing her features in a soft opaline glow. She cast one last look toward Fenja, still and radiant in the evening light, the silhouette of another age, and stepped through the threshold.
Empyrea welcomed her with the same serenity as Earth.
The Nephilims were thriving, slowly, perhaps more slowly than humans, yet with a quiet, almost timid grace. Aisling climbed the cobbled street she had once known as shattered, reduced to rubble haunted by ghosts. Now it rang with laughter: a group of young Nephilim children playing ball between two marble columns. Their clear voices rose into the limpid air, oblivious to the blood, tears, and sacrifices that had made this world possible.
A soft smile touched Aisling’s lips. Ogias had once proposed erecting statues in honor of the Darksiders “so that none forget those who opened the way.” But those who had known them closely had turned down the idea with a laugh.
“The Four would have hated it,” she had said. “Except maybe Strife, provided the statue was made of solid gold.”
The healer let her gaze drift toward the great castle perched above the city. She thought of her parents, of Ren, of Nimue, of all those who had dreamed of a better world without ever seeing its dawn.
“I think they would have liked this story,” she murmured. “Another story to tell…”
Slowly, she resumed her walk, following the path that led upward through the hills.
As expected, a familiar silhouette awaited her by the roadside. Uriel. The angel stood tall, arms crossed.
“Well?” she asked simply, lifting her gaze.
“A little boy,” Aisling replied softly. “Beautiful, strong.”
“A good thing,” Uriel nodded slowly. “Yet you look sad.”
Aisling sat on a low stone wall, elbows resting on her knees, eyes lost in the mauve sky.
“Do you think my quest is a waste of time?”
Uriel gave a faint smile, rolling her eyes heavenward.
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
“I need a reminder,” Aisling said, half-smiling, half-weary.
The angel drew a deep breath, her gaze drifting toward the horizon.
“The Council is still in hiding. Heaven, Hell, and Mankind still struggle to find a new Balance. Lilith is imprisoned, yet her promises of vengeance still poison the air. And apparently even our Creator might be a threat, isn’t that so?”
“So?”
“So… what remains at the bottom of the box?”
Aisling felt a smile bloom at the corner of her lips.
“Hope,” she said softly, nodding. “Thank you, Uriel.”
“And you, what will you do, when they return?”
The Nephilim let out a small laugh.
“We may have a few decades before that, don’t you think?”
“Why wait?” Uriel arched a brow.
“The time it’ll take to loosen you up a little on the subject I have in mind,” Aisling teased.
Uriel clenched her jaw, feigning severity to hide a smile.
“You just earned yourself a dawn training session tomorrow. No excuses.”
Aisling burst into rare, genuine laughter. The two women clasped hands briefly, a gesture both simple and heavy with meaning. Then the Nephilim continued up the path toward her home perched on the hill.
Her modest dwelling of pale stone and light wood stood surrounded by a flourishing garden of herbs and wildflowers. On the highest branch of a nearby tree, Dust was quietly preening his wings. At her approach, he lifted his head, gave a low caw, and came to perch on the wooden railing beside her.
For despite the passing centuries, her journey was not over. She had explored the known Realms, crossed the gateways between worlds, even searched the depths of Oblivion. Years ago, when she had reached its gates, Aisling had known, deep within her soul, that she was finally close.
She had poured out every drop of magic she possessed, until her strength was gone. Complex spells to keep the doors of Oblivion slightly open. She had hoped for a sign, a whisper, a breath, something, to come back to her from the other side.
But since then, nothing. Not a tremor, not an echo. Only void. Perhaps she had missed something. Perhaps she would need to prepare another expedition, return there once more. Yes… that was likely it. She had to go back.
Lost in thought, she felt movement against her hand. Dust was shifting nervously, feathers bristling with an unfamiliar agitation. Aisling scratched gently behind his head, trying to soothe him.
“Well now, what’s gotten into you today? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
The bird fixed her with a sharp eye, then gave her a quick pinch of his beak, impatient with her slowness to understand.
“Ow!” she laughed softly. “All right, all right, I’m listening, you old grumbler.”
But Dust only flapped his wings and flew up to a higher perch, watching her intently as she moved toward the door. Aisling raised a questioning brow. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The little house breathed tranquility, the scent of dried herbs, the faint crackle of fire in the hearth. She took off her boots, set her satchel on the bench by the door, and let her eyes sweep the room out of habit, ensuring everything was in its place.
Her gaze stopped at a corner of the living room. The chessboard. It lay there beneath a fine layer of dust, the pieces frozen in the same position they had held for decades. It was Death’s turn.
A sad smile curved her lips. She stepped closer, brushed the familiar pieces with her fingertips and froze.
The queen had been moved.
Aisling stood still, breath caught in her throat. Then, before she could turn around, she felt two strong arms gently wrap around her. A firm, weary embrace. A warm, heavy weight against her back, a hoarse breath against her neck.
A voice, veiled but unmistakably familiar, murmured behind her:
“I think… I wouldn’t mind if you carried… me for a while.”
The world seemed to stop. Her heart skipped a beat, her fingers trembled. She recognized the presence before she could even convince herself she wasn’t dreaming.
A laugh escaped her, half disbelief, half tears, before she slowly turned her head.
.
Golden dawn filtered softly through the open window, scattering warm shards of light across the floor of the small room. The morning breeze carried the scent of herbs from her garden and made the curtains tremble gently. Perched upon the windowsill, Dust watched the scene with one half-closed eye, feathers still ruffled from the night.
Aisling, sitting at the edge of the bed, could not take her eyes off the man sleeping before her. She couldn’t remember ever having seen one of the Four asleep, and certainly not with such abandonment, such exhaustion.
Death. His features, once so stern and unreadable, now seemed peaceful, almost human. His heavy armor lay beside the bed, and Aisling had spent the entire night tending to the wounds she had found beneath it: ancient scars, seared and torn by forces she could not name. Each act of healing had reminded her of a simple truth, he was alive. And that alone bordered on a miracle.
Uriel had not come knocking at dawn, which likely meant that War had fared no better and that she was otherwise occupied. As for Strife and Fury, Aisling simply hoped they had found, somewhere, the rest they deserved. She had not yet dared to ask Death how they had returned. The answer could wait. They had returned. And for now, that was all that mattered.
A sudden caw shattered the silence. Dust, now upright on his perch, was staring into the garden, feathers fluffed in alarm. Aisling frowned. With a sigh, the healer rose quietly so as not to wake Death, took the cloak hanging by the door, and stepped into the newborn light.
She expected to find Uriel, or perhaps one of the young Nephilims come to announce the others’ return. But the path was empty. She walked a few steps, squinting through the morning mist. And there, at the edge of the garden, just before the old stone arch that marked the entrance to the path, he stood.
Killington.
Impeccably dressed, the same cruel smile, the same cold gaze. Aisling felt her blood turn to ice, her body tense before she could even think. He inclined his head slightly, then lifted two fingers to his hat in a mocking salute. I warned you, the gesture seemed to say. A theatrical, almost elegant farewell.
Before she could utter a word, he vanished, dissolved into the air like a shadow swallowed by the light.
A long silence followed. Aisling stood still, her hand pressed against her chest, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. Then she drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and fixed her gaze upon the horizon where the sun was rising.
And in some corner of her memory, she still heard Uriel’s voice asking:
“And you, what will you do…?”
Aisling’s smile was without joy.
Apparently… wage a bloody war against the Creator.