Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

I had been falling moments ago, descending into an endless abyss. Yet now, before me, there is an alley—a shadowed pathway reminiscent of those in Trüben-City. The air here is thick, cloaked in a veil of fog, though the oppressive cold blue is absent. Instead, this place is steeped in darkness, a deeper black, where the only illumination comes from the faint glow of a white moon.

Not red.

Not gold.

White.

A woman stands beneath that pale light, her hand clasped around that of a little girl. The mother gazes upwards, her clouded eyes fixed upon the celestial sphere, its glow casting faint silver highlights upon the encroaching shadows. The child beside her smiles innocently, her round cheeks flushed with life.

"Viena, sweetheart," the mother says gently, though her tone is heavy with caution, "we shouldn't go any further. The borders aren't safe."

She hesitates, then sighs. Despite her unease, a tender smile graces her lips as she looks down at her daughter. Her gaze lingers on the child's innocent face, her plump cheeks bouncing slightly with each step. Both are adorned in black—dark clothes that seem to absorb the faint moonlight. Wings, folded neatly against their backs, shimmer faintly with the same ebony hue as their hair.

The little girl laughs, pulling her mother forward. Their joy feels fragile, fleeting, as if it could be shattered by the mere whisper of wind. Then suddenly, the world twists. Darkness floods my vision, and I hear a cry—a desperate, piercing wail that tears through the silence.

"Mama! No, don't go!"

The voice is small, trembling with panic. Viena reaches out, her tiny arms straining to grasp her mother, but someone else holds her back. She is lifted, carried away as if she were a doll. Her screams grow louder, more frantic, as black blood pools upon the ground.

A blade gleams in the pale moonlight.

White. Brilliant. Piercing.

The sword cuts through her mother's body with merciless precision. For a moment, the woman's dull gaze flickers, her life extinguished in an instant. An angel stands above her, their wings pure and radiant, casting a stark contrast against the shadows.

More figures emerge—angels, their forms glowing like specters of judgment.

But the scene shifts again, violently, as if my mind is being dragged through a storm. Images flood my consciousness, each one sharper and more painful than the last. It feels as though a hammer strikes against my skull, over and over, splintering my thoughts.

I grip my head, struggling to anchor myself. The world shifts once more, and I find myself in another place—a cavernous expanse, devoid of sunlight. The air is thick, oppressive, lit only by the dim flicker of candlelight. The walls are lined with skulls, their hollow eyes watching in silent judgment. Beneath my feet, the stone floor feels cold and unyielding.

It is a tomb.

A man walks beside Viena, his presence both commanding and weary. His hair, once black, is now streaked with gray, and his wings—tattered and broken—trail behind him like remnants of a forgotten battle. His frail fingers trace the contours of the skull-lined walls, his voice steady yet somber.

"Death, child, is no gentle friend," he says, his words echoing in the stillness, "but a silent thief. It takes all you once held dear, leaving you hollow, stripped of pride and possession. It watches, always waiting, inescapable and unyielding—a judge without mercy. Yet within its cold embrace lies a truth we are loath to accept all who live are promised to it. There is no escape, no refuge. It leaves you bare, with nothing but the weight of your choices and the shadows of the legacy you leave behind. Death is not a beginning, my child, but an end—a final punctuation to the story you write."

The man pauses, his gaze distant, as if peering into some unseen abyss. His voice softens, and his trembling hand brushes against the wall of skulls once more.

"Do not fear it," he continues, "for it is not the enemy. It is a mirror, reflecting the sum of your life. It is not how long you live those matters, but how you walk the path toward it. Face it with courage, live with dignity, and when it comes, meet it with your head held high. For in the end, child, it is not death but the mark you leave on this world that defines your legacy."

Viena listens in silence, her head bowed. She is still so young, yet her eyes hold a weight beyond her years.

The scene shifts again.

Colors burst into view, vibrant and dazzling. Crystals hang from the walls, their light refracting into a spectrum of hues that dance across the cavern like fleeting spirits. It feels almost absurd—this kaleidoscope of beauty set against the grim tableau before me.

The old man lies motionless on the ground, his frail body sprawled upon the stone floor. Viena stands above him, her figure still and solemn. I can feel her grief radiating from her, a silent, unyielding force. She stares down at him, her expression unreadable.

The sight stirs memories within me—of Bill, as his body was lowered into the earth, of the hollow ache that followed.

The crystals' light flickers, casting shifting shadows across Viena's form. She is no longer a child. She stands tall and poised, her black hair cascading like a river of ink. Her clothing—dark and sleek, woven from nanofibers—clings to her figure, its metallic sheen catching the faint light. Black plates reinforce her armor, accentuating her shoulders, arms, and thighs, giving her an air of elegance and strength.

Dozens of figures surround her, their wings folded close, their faces shrouded in shadow. Some bear a faint brown hue to their skin, their forms draped in chains as they haul crystals from the cavern depths. Others, pale and spectral, linger in silence.

Viena remains still, her head held high.

The old man's body begins to dissolve into black smoke, his form consumed by the darkness. The light from the crystal's dims, their colors fading as the smoke swirls upward, hungry and consuming.

"Andromed will find peace, Viena," a voice says, cutting through the silence. "But we must move. The first army of angels is on its way, and they mean to destroy us."

The air shifts. The mournful stillness that had gripped the room is replaced by urgency. The gathered figures straighten, their wings unfolding as they prepare to take flight. They ascend through jagged openings in the cavern's ceiling, their silhouettes stark against the dwindling light.

Viena remains for a moment, tears glistening in her dark eyes. Her grief is palpable, yet she does not falter. She clenches her fists, her resolve hardening.

And once more, the scene changes.

I see through her eyes now, gazing upwards at the sky—a void of black, faintly tinged with red. In the distance, shadows clash against each other: white and black forms locked in battle. The air trembles with the force of their strikes, beams of light colliding with bursts of black fire.

The battle is distant from within the cavern, yet its intensity is undeniable. My vision blurs, and my eyes flutter closed, the images fading into darkness.