Gilliam, the agent of the rebels called Black Roses, stood at the pier, his eyes locked onto the darkening horizon. He smiled, the ocean breeze blowing the frost from his mouth. "It's about time you showed up," he said, laughing. "Enough of your scheming, Smith. Let me do that for a moment."
"Let you scheme?" the Angel known as Sir Smith said without emotion as he approached. "That sounds dangerous."
"It's good to see you among company," Gilliam said with a smirk. "It's good to see that you're not so lonesome anymore. It's not healthy, you know..."
Sir Smith said nothing.
Gilliam broke the silence. "I know what your next move is, Smith. And I know you don't know where he is."
Once more, the Angel said nothing.
"You need to free a certain Angelic prisoner, don't you?" Gilliam continued, "a certain prisoner by the name 'Lifebreather?'"
"What of it?"
"I know where to find him," the Black Rose said, frost escaping his mouth and dispersing into the air. "I know where he is headed. There's just one problem."
"And what might that be?"
"Well," Gilliam said with a chuckle, "right now he's a passenger on a smuggler's vessel headed to the Crimson Isle. You know what that means?"
A pained expression flared across Sir Smith's face as he clenched his fist.
"He's going to Kysa Valyri..." the words were wistful on the Angel's tongue.
Salty ocean air whipped about them, blowing Sir Smith's red coat like a cape. Upon the eastern horizon, darkness was encroaching, moonless and filled with lonely stars. Sir Smith grit his teeth.
"The Red Widow..."
The sun was setting over Talvory City; a yellow star turned red as it fell slowly toward the horizon, its last light casting a gilded glow over the city as night slowly approached from the east.
Astrid stood awkwardly, her feet shoulder-width apart upon the ground, her legs slightly quivering.
"No, no!" Alphonso exclaimed, holding his thumb to his forehead and furrowing his brow. "Plant," he began, "the Lotus plants itself into the ground. You call that a horse-stance?!"
"I'm trying my best!" Astrid shot back, her devilish white-and-black eyes like daggers. "It's not my fault that your martial art is difficult!"
"You're too hard on her," Vylet said, seated on a low wall, her feet kicking back and forth like a child. "She's only been practicing for a week, after all. Maybe it's time for a break?"
"No," Astrid said as she widened her stance, "I can do this!"
"Yes," Vylet said with a reassuring smile, "yes, you can."
"Alright!" Alphonso wagged his finger. "There ya go! That's a horse-stance! Now, punch! One!"
At his command, Astrid's fist shot forward. Two. She switched arms. One.
"There we go!" Alphonso lit up. "You got some punch!"
"See!" Vylet exclaimed. "I told you!"
"Deadly and beautiful?!" Joseph said. "I'm in love!"
The three training turned to see Philos, Uri, and Joseph approaching. Astrid looked at Philos, his blondish hair now long from his fight with the Adonai, who returned a warm smile. It was an odd feeling, because she realized that, until recently, she never thought she'd feel accepted anywhere.
But, here she did; here, with them—the ones she called her friends.
"Still training?" Uri said as he fixed his large, round glasses which seemed to magnify his green eyes.
"She's making some progress," Alphonso said as he combed his fingers through his stylish hair, "and with my expertise, she'll be able to protect herself in no time!"
"With your expertise?" Joseph cracked a smile. "So never?"
"What was that, you stupid dog?!" the muscular young man shot back.
Joseph spat and touched his ears. "How have you never seen a cat?!"
"I'm glad everything is working out," Philos said with a grin as he stepped away from the argument and stood before Astrid.
"Yeah!" Uri concurred.
She smiled, feeling embarrassingly vulnerable. She looked at Uri. She hadn't really looked at him before, and wasn't sure how old he was—maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen—it wasn't obvious. She was taller than him by about half a head. As she looked at him, she suddenly realized how thin he was, how frail.
I'll protect you, too. The thought surprised her. She smiled. What was so surprising? She looked at Joseph and Alphonso, holding each other aggressively as Vylet gave them both a scolding. These people—of course I want to protect them. She looked at Philos. His reddish eyes seemed so full of light; she felt her heart lighten. They're my friends!
"So, what's up?" she said.
"Krista told us that a ship has anchored in the dock," Philos said with a shrug. "We don't know who they are, but Gilliam said that whoever they are, he knows them, and they know something really important to our mission."
"So he..."
"Yeah." Uri adjusted his glasses, which Astrid suddenly realized were bent. "He wants to talk to all of us."
Astrid looked at Philos quizzically, then turned her eyes to the sky. The sun was all but gone; the night had begun.
The moon shone down upon the black waters, its silver sheen flickering off of the restless ocean below in blinding flashes; the ship, the fearsome Cruel Crow, rocked slightly as it cruised in the darkness, the jolly roger upon its sails fluttering as it was guided by fair winds.
Inside, Captain Arnold Crowell walked down the hall, pushing the black feathers on his shoulders under his coat and straightening his posture as he made his way to the cell below the deck. He kept his birdlike eyes forward. He was a man of sharp dress, and he prided himself in that.
The journey had be three months in duration, yet the prisoner had mostly remained silent. This was to be expected, however, considering who he was and what the captain's client wanted him for.
Captain Crowell knew only vaguely of the sins of his prisoner but decided long ago to not ask questions. Such was the life of a smuggler, and he was the best in the business. He was the infamous shadow that struck fear into even Angels.
He was the Deathwing.
Captain Crowell descended the stairs and proceeded to walk down yet another hallway. Pirates and ruffians stopped as he walked and saluted, giving respect to their captain.
Respect, the captain thought, a smirk forming upon his lips, or fear?
Honestly, he preferred the latter. Respect only gave one favor; fear gave one control.
He came to a door at the end of the hall and opened it. Inside was dark, dark for all but one sliver of moonlight peering in from a high window. He stepped forward to the cell and stopped.
"You're rather cooperative," the captain said, "I figured you would put up at least an attempt at rebellion."
There was silence. Captain Crowell narrowed his crow-like yellow eyes. There, beyond the moonlight, he could see the faint glow of a halo in the darkness, its green light barely illuminating the figure who owned it. The Angelic prisoner sat there, hunched over, an obsidian mask upon his head.
"Silence will get you no remorse," the captain said as he fixed his cuffs and looked at his long, sharp fingernails. "You will be transported to my client either way. There is no negotiation," he said with a smirk. "I guess, then, silence suits you. I'm sure the Red Widow will be able to make you talk. I do not wish to hear your voice anyway." Captain Crowell cleared his throat. "We will be nearing the Crimson Isle soon enough."
There was silence.
"Very well," Captain Crowell spat as he turned to leave.
"Why?" the prisoner said, his voice weary and raspy.
The captain turned.
"The Red Widow is an Angel," the man in the obsidian mask said. "Why are you working for her?"
A crooked smile crossed the captain's face. "For the gold, of course."
More silence.
"You're one of the Beastfolk," the prisoner said, "if you let them have me, the world will be damned. You surely know this, correct? Yet you would do it? For money?"
"Yes," Captain Crowell said with an agitated tone, "money talks, you see, Obsidian Mask. It matters not if the world burns to ash. In this world and the next, one thing will always be king, and that is gold."
"The Angels have enslaved your people," the Angel in the mask said, his green halo shining off of the smooth stone of his obsidian mask. "Do you not hear their cries?"
"No, not quite," the captain said with a sigh. "The politics of this world doesn't bother me too much as long as I live comfortably. I'm a simple man, you see, and you are easy money. That is all."
The Angel in the mask sat silent for a moment, his breath low and muffled.
"Then you are without hope," he finally said.
"Is this remorse I hear?" the captain said, laughing derisively. "If I remember correctly, you are quite the mad scientist. I wouldn't play the morality card if I were you. I may be irredeemable, but your sins—from what I hear—are indelible."
There was silence once more.
"Silence, is it? Stay that way," the captain growled, "I liked you better when you were silent."
The door opened, then closed. The captain had left.
There, in the moonlight, the Angel in the obsidian mask sat alone in a cell with his thoughts. It was true, all of it.
His sins were indelible.
He had cursed the world with his powers, with his science.
He had made what should never exist.
He knew what the Red Widow wanted him to do; he knew explicitly the power and insanity that commanded her hand; he knew what Azazel wanted of him. And he knew what would happen...
He knew that he alone would be made to destroy the world.