Vem stirred, slowly waking to the gentle rise and fall of Pilor's weight on his chest. The bird was fast asleep, nestled into the curve of Vem's belly, his tiny talons lightly gripping the blanket.
Daylight filtered through the infirmary's wide windows, casting soft rays across the room, which was furnished with wooden tables and shelves lined with glowing vials and herbs. The air smelled of medicinal salves and earthy remedies. His hand absentmindedly drifted to his side, reaching for his sword, Seraphina. He missed the feel of its hilt in his grip—the one thing that had been by his side through every battle, every rescue.
But something else lingered in his mind. He blinked as a memory surfaced: Aislin, her figure approaching him last night, her dark silhouette blurred by his grogginess.
She had left something for him, and now he saw it—a small vial on the bedside table. As he shifted to sit up, he felt the pull of his wound—a brutal, ghoulish gash that ran from his collarbone down to his abdomen, wrapped tightly in fresh bandages.
He picked up the vial, noting the odd liquid inside, shimmering between yellow and green, its surface swirling like a miniature storm. He held it up to his nose and inhaled. Lemon. And gasoline.
Beside the vial was another object he hadn't noticed—another letter. His fingers fumbled as he retrieved it, unfolding the paper. The handwriting was familiar: Yulia's careful script, looping elegantly across the page. He read the words slowly, each line adding to the mounting curiosity that already gnawed at him. The letter was brief, but its urgency dripped from every word:
Vem,
I hope this finds you in better health. I can't wait for you to recover, but I must see you the moment you are able to stand. It is important, and there is much you need to know—things I cannot write here.
Meet me as soon as you are well enough. You'll know where to find me.
Yulia
The letter was signed hastily, without Yulia's usual flair, as if she had written it in a rush.
At the moment, he had saved seven fallen angels, including Yulia. They were all women. But he didn't know why did they needed to be rescued? He was simply fulfilling direct orders from Lord Uwell. This question tormented him more and more every day, and now the answer seemed closer, but at the same time more elusive than ever.
His gaze shifted to the vial again. Reluctantly, he opened it and took a hesitant sip. The sharp tang of lemon stung his tongue, quickly followed by a harsh, burning sensation that tasted like smoke. For a moment, nothing. But then, his mind buzzed. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and suddenly, a voice filled his head.
"You rescued them, but do you know what they once had?"
The voice was young, male, and familiar yet strange at once. Images flickered in his mind—disjointed fragments of a place Vem had never seen. A world bathed in sunlight, with lush valleys and silver rivers that wound through golden plains. The fallen angels had lived here once, birthed together, raised in this beautiful paradise. They were not bound by blood, yet their bond was deeper than that of sisters. Vem saw them laughing, growing, a close-knit group.
Then, the paradise darkened.
The sky split open with a thunderous roar, and in its wake, chaos reigned. What had once been an idyllic haven for the angels was now a nightmare. Golden fields withered into ash, and serene waters churned into violent storms. Vem witnessed the fall, as though he were standing among them, helpless as the angels were torn from their sanctuary, scattered across unknown realms, cast down from the heavens in agonizing exile.
The images moved swiftly, spiraling in and out of focus. He saw their wings shred as they fell, their cries echoing in the wind, and their once-beautiful faces etched with pain and fear. Then, the visions sharpened, the pace quickened until one place seared into his mind, lingering like a bitter aftertaste—an endless stretch of black water. The Black Sea. Its inky depths were cold, unforgiving, rippling with dark currents that seemed to swallow everything that touched them.
On the shore, there was a figure—a fallen angel. She was crouched on jagged rocks, her wings broken and limp, the feathers torn and bleeding into the cruel sea. Her pale skin glistened with salt from the water, and her silver hair clung to her tear-streaked face. Chains—heavy, rusted chains—bound her wrists and ankles, stretching out into the sea where they disappeared beneath the dark waves, anchoring her to the spot. The water lapped at her feet like a predator, rising slowly with each breath she took. She was trapped, the chains tightening with every attempt to move, as though the sea itself had claimed her as its prisoner.
Her cries for help were muted by the howling winds, lost to the storm that hovered over the Black Sea's endless horizon. She was alone, hurt, and waiting for rescue, her strength ebbing away as the tides threatened to pull her under at any moment. Vem's heart pounded as he watched her struggle, knowing he had seen this place before—and now, he knew where he had to go next.
Vem's eyes flew open with a jolt, and his body jerked. Pilor startled awake, flapping his wings frantically as if sensing Vem's distress. The potion's aftertaste lingered bitterly in his mouth, and the vision clung to him like a shadow. He sat up, still reeling from what he had seen, when the door creaked open, and the nurse entered. Her face was calm, yet her eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as she stepped closer.
"Is everything alright?" she asked softly, noticing the tension in his frame.
Vem stared at her for a moment, his thoughts a whirl of confusion and urgency. He didn't know how to answer her. The visions still burned in his mind, and the looming presence of the Black Sea haunted his every breath.
And so, he remained silent.