Literature
The Gilded Iron Chain
The first time Malachiel saw the mortal city, he mistook its lights for fallen stars.
He had been sent to harvest the soul of a warlord whose name already stank in Heaven’s ledgers. The task was routine: descend, sever, ascend. Angels do not linger.
But the warlord’s palace was a cathedral of mirrors, and in one of them Malachiel caught his own reflection—black wings, golden eyes, the sigil of the Sixth Choir branded between his shoulder blades. Something in the glass looked back with curiosity instead of duty. He hesitated. That was the first crack.
The warlord, Cassian Vey, was no fool. He had studied the old texts, the ones that spoke of binding celestial fire with cold iron and colder words. When Malachiel stepped through the veil, Cassian was waiting with a circle of salt and obsidian, a chant on his tongue older than the stones beneath his feet. The angel’s scythe clattered to the marble before it could rise.
Iron manacles—forged in the blood of a thousand battlefield