I brought the floating being into my palace.
By torchlight and morning sun both, he looked unreal.
Up close, I could see the crystal-like shards embedded in his body—jagged, translucent splinters driven deep into flesh that gleamed like molten gold frozen mid-flow. They caught the light at every angle, refracting it into thin prisms that danced across the stone walls and vaulted ceiling. Blues. Whites. Pale violets. As if the sky itself had shattered and lodged inside him.
His skin was not metal, not truly. It moved when I breathed near it, rose and fell with a rhythm so slow it felt deliberate, measured. Veins of faint light pulsed beneath the surface, glowing brighter near the shards, dimmer farther away, like a constellation mapped beneath flesh.
I could not look away.
Each shard looked sharp enough to tear muscle, to shred organs, to kill any living thing. Yet there was no blood pooling around them. No torn skin. No signs of pain frozen into his expression. His face was calm—almost peaceful—as though he were resting rather than hovering unconscious above my palace floor.
They looked like fragments of the sky itself.
One by one, I pulled them free.
The first shard resisted for a heartbeat, then slid out far too easily, whispering faintly as it left his body. It made a sound like ice cracking in a winter river—soft, high, almost apologetic. The light around it dimmed as soon as it left him, turning dull and inert in my hand.
There was no wound beneath it.
No blood. No torn flesh. Just smooth, unbroken skin, warm beneath my fingers.
I swallowed and removed another.
And another.
Each shard came free with the same soft sound, the same impossible ease. As I worked, the palace seemed to grow quieter, as though the walls themselves were listening. Even the distant city noise—the calls of guards, the low murmur of servants—faded into something far away, muffled, unreal.
By the time I reached the last shard embedded near his ribs, my breath was shallow. My pulse thudded loudly in my ears, louder than any drum of war I had ever marched to.
When the final piece fell from my hand and clinked against the stone floor, his eyelids fluttered.
The sound startled me more than any scream would have.
I stepped back instantly and grabbed a spear from the weapon stand near the chamber wall. The wood felt solid, familiar, grounding. My fingers wrapped around it too tightly, knuckles whitening as I brought the point up.
My hands were shaking.
He began to descend.
Not falling.
Descending.
Slowly, deliberately, as if gravity were a suggestion rather than a law. His feet touched the palace floor as gently as falling ash, barely disturbing the thin layer of dust on the stone.
No impact.
No sound.
Just control.
The silence afterward was absolute.
I leveled the spear at his chest, the tip hovering inches from that impossible golden skin. My reflection warped faintly in him—small, sharp-eyed, tense.
"Who are you," I demanded, my voice echoing louder than I intended, "and why are you in Oma?"
He looked at me calmly.
Truly calmly.
There was no confusion in his eyes. No panic. No fear. Just awareness—deep, steady, unsettling awareness. His gaze felt like it passed through my armor, my title, my fury, and landed somewhere much closer to my heart.
He said a single word.
"Zefar."
The name struck me like a blade between the ribs.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My chest locked, air caught halfway between inhale and scream. The palace seemed to tilt, just slightly, as memories surged uninvited—smoke, blood, screams, banners burning, the sound of steel tearing through flesh.
"How do you know that name?" I asked, my voice low and sharp, barely restrained.
"I came down from the heavens to take down that tyrant," he said. His voice was smooth, carrying an echo that didn't belong to the chamber. Not loud—just… layered. As if more than one place spoke through him at once. "He must pay for his deeds."
The air felt heavier around us.
My grip tightened on the spear, the leather wrapping biting into my palm.
Then he said my name.
"Will you help me, Everlyn?"
My thoughts were shattered.
I hurled the spear.
The motion was pure instinct—trained, precise, lethal. The spear cut through the air with a sharp whistle, aimed directly at his heart.
It stopped mid-air.
Not embedded. Not deflected.
Stopped.
The sound it made was subtle but unmistakable—a low hum, like a distant choir holding a single note. The shaft trembled, vibrating softly, suspended inches from his chest.
He stared at it, curious rather than threatened.
Then, with a single tap of his finger, he sent it back.
The force was gentle—but absolute.
The spear flew toward me point-first, spinning once before embedding itself perfectly into the stone floor at my feet. The impact rang out, sharp and clean, echoing through the chamber.
I didn't move.
My heart was pounding so hard I could taste iron at the back of my tongue.
He sat down.
Just… sat.
As though we were not standing amid impossible power and unanswered questions. As though this were a quiet room and we were old acquaintances sharing a moment of peace.
"This must be a bit too much for you," he said softly, his tone almost kind. "Come. Sit. Let me tell you everything—how I know you, how I know Zefar, and what he did to your land."
I didn't move.
The smell hit me then.
Not blood. Not smoke.
Something clean. Rain on warm stone. Fresh earth after a storm. The scent of life where life should not exist. It filled the chamber subtly, replacing the old palace smells of oil, dust, and iron.
Undisturbed by my silence, he pointed behind me.
I turned.
To the stone basin where I had washed off his blood.
Where I had washed off his golden blood. It had swirled briefly before vanishing down into the soil of the lifeless basin.
In that place, a small, fragile plant had once tried—and failed—to live.
It had died the very day it germinated.
Now—
Green spread across the stone.
At first slowly, like a cautious breath. Then faster. Leaves unfurled, veins forming in real time, catching the light.
Stems thickened, pushing upward with quiet determination. The stone beneath cracked softly as roots forced their way into impossibly hard surfaces.
Flowers bloomed.
Full, vibrant, impossibly alive. Their petals shimmered faintly, dusted with the same pale gold glow I had seen in his blood.
The air filled with their scent—sweet, clean, overwhelming.
I could almost taste it, floral and fresh, like honey carried on a spring wind.
My skin prickled.
Not with fear alone—but with something dangerously close to hope.
I stared, breath caught somewhere between terror and awe, my fingers numb against the spear shaft.
Only then did I look back at him.
He was watching me—not the plant, not the room, but me. As if this reaction was the proof he had been waiting for.
And for the first time since he fell from the sky, since he tore through the heavens and shattered the ground of my land, I felt my certainty waver.
This strange, ethereal being…
Might truly be heaven-sent.
And that realization both frightened and awed me.