The Fallen Light

He approached her slowly, the sacrificial dagger still in hand, its blade wet with the girl’s blood. He considered ending her life then and there, but something stayed his hand. Seraphs were beings of another order, wielding powers far beyond his own. Killing her might send her back to her realm, free of his grasp – an outcome he couldn’t allow.

Kneeling beside her, he brushed his fingers through her silken hair, its silver sheen almost luminous. Then he slid his arms beneath her fragile frame, lifting her effortlessly. Cradling her wings, he carried her to his horse, draped her across its back, and mounted behind her. He barked orders to his followers to erase all traces of the ritual before spurring his steed into the night.

The torches were snuffed out, the girl’s body and ritual tools spirited away. Only the mute ruins remained, cloaked in darkness.

The warlock rode at a steady gallop along a deserted forest trail, the seraph’s limp form held before him. He needed time to think, a place to regroup. He recalled a ramshackle cabin deep in the woods, stumbled upon months ago during a ride. It was crude, unworthy of his stature, but sturdy and hidden from prying eyes.

Carefully, he laid the woman on a sagging bedframe stuffed with straw, its edges nibbled by mice. With a thick leather strap, he bound her wrists, a precaution that eased some unnamed fear within him.

As he secured her, he studied her flawless form. Her skin was soft and youthful, her frame slender yet shapely, barely over five feet tall. Her white hair and pale complexion gave her an otherworldly air, like an alabaster statue brought to life.

He left her there, alone, waiting for her to stir.

For a time, she remained motionless. Then her eyelids fluttered.

Life returned to her. She shifted, her head and legs twitching as if caught in a dream. After a few minutes, her eyes opened – a piercing, icy blue. Slowly, she rolled onto her side, taking in her surroundings, still dazed.

“Awake?” the warlock asked, seated at a rough-hewn table nearby, sipping from a tin mug. He stood, clad in dark trousers and a faded shirt, and approached her. His gaze was cold, his voice sharp. “Do you have a name?”

She didn’t lift her head or attempt to rise. She lay there, watching him, her face blank yet devoid of hostility. Tears welled silently in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks to dampen the straw. Otherwise, she was still, saying nothing.

“Can you understand me?” he pressed.

She gave no sign of comprehension, her eyes fixed on him, unblinking yet serene. Her wings shifted slightly, their soft feathers cushioning her body.

He picked up a riding crop from the table and trailed it lightly over her skin – not with affection, but with calculated indifference. Love was foreign to him; his heart was a pit of malice. He smirked, a cruel edge to it, as the leather grazed her chest and lifted her chin.

“Or are you mute?” He flicked the crop against her cheek, a sharp kiss of pain.

Her reaction was immediate. She flinched, scrambling to sit up, pressing herself against the wall behind the bed. Her knees drew in, her bound hands fumbling as panic flickered across her face. Within seconds, fear and confusion clouded her once-calm features.

The warlock, startled by her sudden movement, lashed out. The crop cracked against her cheek, leaving a red welt. She recoiled further, her wings wrapping around her like a shield, though she still peered at him through a narrow gap.

“Speak!” he snarled, his anger flaring at her resistance, hoping to break her with force.

He stepped closer, studying her trembling form. Her fear was palpable. Leaning in, he brushed a hand over her wings, their softness stirring a faint awareness of her divine nature.

“Why are you here?” he whispered, his tone softening. “What do you want from me? Why did you come?”

Paranoia gnawed at him. He saw conspiracy, not his own mistake, refusing to admit his ritual had failed.

As his fingers grazed her feathers, her lips parted. A faint, halting sound escaped – “I… d-didn’t…” – until, with effort, words formed. “You… I didn’t want… why?” Her gaze, raw and pleading, might have moved a kinder soul.

But the warlock’s mind was a mire of dark desire. Disobedience fueled his cruelty. His fingers tightened on her wings, prying them apart to meet her eyes.

“You didn’t want to challenge me?” he sneered. “You made a mistake coming here. Why? What are you plotting? Speak, or I’ll tear your feathers out one by one!”

He gripped a feather, his threat clear, his eyes devouring her fragile form. Her breath quickened, a tremor seizing her as she struggled to respond.

“I came… for the soul. Love, comfort… then darkness. I’m… alone now.” The word “alone” seemed to terrify her. Her voice steadied, pleading. “I want to go back… this is wrong. I mean you no harm.”

The warlock listened, his gaze lingering on her curves. A twisted hunger rose within him – a predator’s lust for something pure.

She wanted to leave? His hesitation turned to resolve. With a swift motion, he seized her bound wrists and yanked her to her feet, her wings flaring open.