Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

My eyelids betray me as I gasp for air. Like a fish pulled from the depths, my mouth hangs open, my eyes wide and frantic. It is dark, oppressively so, and I feel as though the earth itself is dragging me down. I am sinking—caught like an animal in a swamp. Yet I am upright, seated somehow, though my body feels heavier than it should, a crushing weight bearing down on me.

It is a weight greater than when I was buried under the countless masses, smothered by red. Greater than any human could possibly endure. My bones feel as though they should shatter, yet they do not. My legs, trembling and strained, threaten collapse with every breath, but they hold. My shoulders carry a burden heavier than mountains, and still, I stand.

Before me lies an endless void, dark yet pulsing faintly with a deep crimson hue—a shade that flickers and fades as I watch. My feet attempt to move, to step forward, but unseen chains bind me. Chains heavier than continents, invisible yet undeniable, dragging at my every motion.

In the periphery of my vision, I catch a flash of red. Wine-red, like old blood, but it too is fleeting, receding as I edge closer to the void. My foot catches on something. I stumble, and my face collides with an object—solid, unyielding. My breath hitches. There is no pain, but the force startles me. Blindly, I reach out, my hands fumbling for purchase, seeking an understanding of what stands before me.

I cannot help but curse myself in the silence of my thoughts. I should have gone to Eriksson. The words loop in my mind like a haunting refrain. What could have gone wrong? Why was I so stubborn? So foolish? But even as I chastise myself, another voice rises within me—a quieter, colder one. Would he have trusted me, after so many weeks? To him, I am nothing but a Red. A human. A slave.

My hands move across the surface of the object before me, tracing its contours. It is massive—larger than I am, broader too. Its surface is uneven, some parts polished, others jagged. I press onward, groping in the dark, my balance precarious as I navigate its uneven form. My legs falter under the strain of my invisible burden. I sway, nearly collapsing to the side, my hands reaching out instinctively.

My palm meets something rough and angular—jagged, like uncut stone. The texture is coarse, neither warm nor cold. For a moment, I feel nothing. No pain, no weight. Just the sharp edges beneath my fingers. The void around me shifts, and suddenly, my vision is overtaken by red—a vivid, overwhelming red that engulfs everything.

As the crimson haze clears, I see them: crystals. A red one first, then blue, green, yellow, and black. Each is raw and unpolished, their surfaces uneven and wild. My gaze falls on the black crystal before me, its sharp angles catching the faint light. I realize my hand is braced against it, steadying myself. It does not move, as if rooted into the very foundation of existence itself.

I stare, bewildered, as the redness in my vision fades, replaced by the stark, consuming black of the crystal. In its depths, I see a new void—one darker and more profound than the one I had left behind. A sudden wind rises, harsh and all-encompassing, like the birth of a tornado. It feels as though I could be flung hundreds of meters in a single breath, yet I stand firm.

The world shifts again. The black crystal vanishes, and I find myself staring out at a landscape I do not recognize. I do not know whose eyes I'm seeing through, but the image is vivid and haunting.

A wasteland stretches before me—desolate and lifeless. Trees stand like skeletal remains, stripped of leaves and life. The sky is painted with blood, its red hues drowned in a darkness deeper than any night I have ever known. The moon hangs low, its light fading as though consumed by the void.

I look down at my body, a strange sense of detachment settling over me. I am running, though I do not command my legs to move. The earth beneath me feels foreign as my feet strike the ground with unnatural force. My hair streams behind me, caught in the wind as I soar above the dead trees.

The wind rushes past, splitting around me like a river around stone. I am high above the ground, dozens of meters up, flying over a barren expanse. The fields below are lifeless, the trees a shadow of autumn's decay—black and bare, without even the memory of fallen leaves.

In the distance, I see figures—small, indistinct against the landscape. Their forms blur, cloaked in darkness that blends with the ash-laden ground. Blackened skin and dark robes make them indistinguishable from one another. They move like ants in the shadow of giants.

My head turns, though not of my own volition. Others fly beside me, their forms sharp and angular. Wings sprout from their backs, spiked and menacing, like the jagged edges of obsidian blades.

Their voices cut through the wind, deep and resonant.

"Tonight, we claim victory! Tonight, we defeat the sanctimonious lapdogs of the Gods—the golden! Tonight, we crush the First Army of Angels!"

The speaker's voice sends a chill down my spine, its weight heavy enough to make the air itself shudder. My hair stands on end, my body tensing instinctively.

I glance behind me, compelled by some unseen force, and I see an army. They are like the ones who fly beside me—draped in black, their forms cloaked in shadow. Their wings, sharp and fierce, stretch wide, blotting out the crimson-tinged sky. And then, there are my wings—soft and feathered, yet just as black as theirs.

My gaze returns to the horizon, where silhouettes emerge against the distant, blood-red moon. Their forms grow sharper as they draw nearer, the pale light of their presence casting the darkness aside.

Angels.

The First Army of Angels. The direct servants of the Gods.

Their wings are radiant, soft, and white, glowing with a light that seems to pierce the soul. Their skin is luminous, their garments immaculate. They look like gods incarnate, each step they take a testament to their divinity. Yet they are so few—a mere handful compared to the mass of shadows behind me.

But it is they who strike first.

Beams of light erupt from their hands, cutting through the night with blinding speed. The darkness around us evaporates in an instant, replaced by searing white radiance. The world itself seems to tremble under their onslaught.

I fall.

Pain erupts in my chest. I look down to see a gaping hole, large enough to swallow my head. Black blood pours from the wound, and as my vision fades, memories not my own flood my mind.

Viena Minestry.

That is the name of the one whose eyes I now see through, whose wings carried me, and whose life now ebbs away.