The moon hung low as Meredith and her team crept through the dense underbrush surrounding the Stormgard camp. Gabriel moved ahead silently, his wings tucked tight to avoid detection. Meredith signaled a halt as the flicker of firelight came into view, the supply wagons lined up in neat rows, heavily guarded.
"Three by the east side, four at the wagons," she whispered to Gabriel. "We'll need a distraction."
Gabriel's golden eyes scanned the camp. "A distraction will only buy you moments. Are you prepared for the chaos that follows?"
"Chaos is where I thrive," Meredith replied with a smirk.
She sent two scouts to disable the northern torches while the rest moved toward the wagons. As the torches dimmed, the camp's edge plunged into darkness.
Meredith's team reached the wagons, crouching low as they began rigging incendiary powder. The first flint strike ignited more than fire—it drew a soldier's shout.
"Over there!"
The camp erupted. Meredith drew her sword, intercepting the nearest guard. Gabriel moved like a shadow, his blade flashing as he cut through soldiers with inhuman precision.
"Light it!" Meredith shouted.
A soldier struck the powder, and the first wagon burst into flames. The fire spread quickly, sending guards scrambling to contain it. "Fall back!" Meredith called, leading her team into the forest as pursuit erupted behind them.
The Stormgard soldiers gave chase, their shouts echoing through the trees. Meredith and her team sprinted, but the sounds of pursuit grew louder.
"They're gaining," Fresia hissed.
"Keep moving!" Meredith barked.
Gabriel suddenly halted. "Go," he ordered, raising a hand. A burst of golden light exploded behind them, blinding their pursuers.
As they regrouped far from the camp, Meredith leaned against a tree, catching her breath. When Gabriel rejoined them moments later, his expression was calm, his breathing steady.
"That wasn't subtle," Meredith said, grinning despite her exhaustion.
"You wanted chaos," he replied. "I delivered."
---
The victory felt fleeting. Mere hours after returning to Middleton, Meredith stood in the war room, briefing her battalion on plans to fortify their defenses. Maps lay spread across the table, marked with hastily drawn routes and potential fallback positions.
The mood was tense but hopeful; the sabotage had gone as planned, and the assumption was that Stormgard would be forced to retreat or delay their advance.
The air shifted when the door slammed open, a scout rushing in, his face pale and slick with sweat. His breath came in sharp gasps as all eyes turned toward him.
"They're advancing!" he managed, gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. "Stormgard is marching straight for Middleton."
The room fell into stunned silence. Meredith straightened, her brow furrowing. "That's impossible. Their supplies—"
"Unphased," Roderic interrupted, his voice grim as he rose from his chair. "Whatever you took out wasn't enough. They've grown bolder, not weaker."
The scout nodded frantically. "Their banners are already visible on the horizon. They'll be here by dusk."
Meredith's blood ran cold, the reality sinking in like a lead weight in her stomach. "They should've retreated. We crippled their supply lines—this doesn't make sense."
"It does if they were prepared," Roderic said, his tone sharp. He jabbed a finger at the map. "They're pushing for a decisive strike. Either they succeed, or they fall here. Desperation makes men reckless."
The realization hit harder than Meredith cared to admit.
Gabriel, who had been leaning against the far wall, stepped forward, his golden gaze fixed on the scout. "How many?"
"Thousands," the scout replied shakily. "More than we saw before. They're bringing everything they have."
A murmur rippled through the room, and Meredith could feel the weight of every eye on her. She straightened, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "Then we'll meet them head-on. They want a decisive strike? So do we. Alert the troops. Fortify the outer walls. Roderic, I want every archer on those battlements, and the engineers reinforcing the weak points."
Roderic hesitated for a moment, then nodded, his expression unreadable. "Consider it done."
Gabriel moved closer, his voice low enough that only Meredith could hear. "This won't be like before. They'll throw everything they have at you."
"I know," she replied, her eyes fixed on the map. "But if we retreat now, it's over. Middleton is the last barrier between them and the capital."
"And you?" Gabriel asked, his tone softer now.
Meredith met his gaze, her jaw tightening. "I'll be on the front lines. Where else would I be?"
His expression darkened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he stepped back, his presence as steady as the resolve in her voice.
When the clash began, it was chaos. Middleton's defenses held through the first wave, arrows slicing through the advancing ranks of Stormgard. But their relentless assault soon overwhelmed the outer walls, sending splintered wood and shattered stone crashing to the ground.
Meredith stood firm at the front lines, her blade a blur of precision as it cleaved through her enemies. Beside her, Fresia conjured shimmering barriers, glowing faintly with the soft hue of scattered rose petals swirling within them. The magical shields deflected arrows and blows, giving their forces fleeting moments to regroup.
The two moved in striking harmony—Meredith's relentless ferocity cutting down attackers while Fresia's protective magic kept her standing. Yet even with their combined strength, the truth was undeniable—Middleton was falling.
Then Gabriel descended.
At first, he seemed an unassuming figure amidst the chaos. His wings were folded neatly against his back, and his movements were calm, almost casual. The Stormgard soldiers didn't notice him immediately, but when the first of their ranks lunged at him, the battlefield seemed to still.
Gabriel's blade moved with impossible speed, a radiant arc of light that sliced through steel and flesh as though neither offered resistance. His golden eyes glimmered with a cold focus, his every motion deliberate and unerring.
He didn't fight like a mortal—there was no hesitation, no wasted effort. His strikes were elegant, as if choreographed by the heavens themselves, and yet they carried a devastating force that sent his enemies crumbling to the ground.
Meredith, fighting just a few paces away, paused for a fraction of a second as she caught sight of him. Her breath hitched, the carnage around her momentarily forgotten. She had known Gabriel was powerful, but this was something else entirely. He wasn't just an angel—he was a storm made flesh, a celestial force that bent the battlefield to his will.
Stormgard's soldiers hesitated, their advance faltering as whispers rippled through their ranks.
"An angel," they murmured, their voices laced with fear. The word carried weight, sapping the resolve of even the fiercest among them.
Gabriel moved through the fray like light through darkness, untouchable and unstoppable. The golden feathers of his wings glinted with an otherworldly sheen as they flared briefly, scattering the enemy like leaves before a gale. His sword cut through the air with a hum that sounded almost melodic, a haunting counterpoint to the screams of the fallen.
For a moment, their eyes met. Gabriel glanced at Meredith, his gaze steady, his golden eyes glowing faintly amidst the carnage. It wasn't a look of reassurance—it was a promise. A vow that as long as he stood, this battle was not lost.
Emboldened, Meredith surged forward with renewed vigor, her sword cutting a path through the enemy ranks. Around her, the defenders of Middleton rallied, their morale lifted by the sight of Gabriel in action.
And as the Stormgard soldiers faltered, their courage sapped by the angel who fought like a divine tempest, it became clear that the tide of battle had shifted.
The battle raged on, but Middleton's defenders held firm, bolstered by Gabriel's quiet, unyielding strength and Meredith's fierce resolve.
By the time the enemy began to retreat, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the battlefield in hues of deep crimson and gold.
Smoke lingered in the air, the aftermath of violence hanging heavy, but for Meredith, the world had narrowed to this moment. She stood amidst the wreckage, her armor streaked with dirt and blood, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
Gabriel approached her, his movements unhurried, as if untouched by the chaos that still simmered around them. The glow of the dying sun caught on his wings, and for a moment, he looked otherworldly, a figure carved from the heavens.
"You're reckless," he said, his voice calm but with a softness that disarmed her. "You push yourself too far."
Meredith let out a shaky laugh, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "Reckless wins battles."
Gabriel's gaze lingered on her, unyielding but gentle. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to steady her as she swayed. His touch was warm, grounding her amidst the exhaustion that threatened to pull her under. "Reckless also gets you killed," he murmured, his golden eyes meeting hers.
Meredith looked up at him, her heart pounding in her chest, though it had nothing to do with the battle. Something in his gaze held her there, the noise of the battlefield fading into the background.
The words escaped her before she could second-guess them. "We should get married."
Gabriel blinked, caught off guard, his wings shifting slightly behind him. "What?"
"You should know, I have high standards. For a husband," she said with a smirk. "And clearly, you're overqualified."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.
Then, before he could respond, Meredith closed the distance, leaning up and pressing her lips to his. The kiss was brief but electric, a defiance of the smoke, blood, and chaos surrounding them. When she pulled back, her smirk returned, but her cheeks carried a faint flush.
Gabriel's golden eyes searched hers, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening into something she couldn't quite name.
"You're impossible," he said quietly, but his tone wasn't sharp—it was filled with something unspoken, something tender.
"And yet," Meredith replied, her voice softer now, "you're still here."
Gabriel's gaze lingered, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, before he turned his head slightly, as if shielding his thoughts from her.
Later, as the dust settled and the injured tended to, Meredith finally collapsed. Her legs gave out as she tried to walk toward the war room, and Gabriel was there instantly, catching her before she hit the ground.
Gabriel knelt beside her, gently examining a shallow cut on her arm, but before he could finish, Fresia appeared, a satchel of salves and bandages slung over her shoulder. She knelt beside Meredith with practiced ease, her expression a mix of worry and determination.
"You don't take care of yourself," Fresia said softly, her hands steady as they brushed over Meredith's shoulder, checking for further injuries.
"I've got you to do that for me," Meredith replied with a teasing grin, though her voice was laced with fatigue.
Fresia's lips quirked into a faint smile, but her eyes betrayed her tension. She focused intently on her task, her hands lingering just slightly too long as she wrapped Meredith's wrist, the warmth of her touch almost hesitant.
"What would I do without you?" She smirked, leaning back with a tired sigh.
"You'd manage somehow," Fresia murmured, though her flushed cheeks betrayed her modesty.
The following morning, the camp seemed to hum with an unnatural energy, the air charged as though something unseen was building. Fresia sat beside Meredith at the command table, her posture stiff and her gaze distant as they reviewed plans for the next day.
"Are you feeling alright?" Meredith asked, frowning as she noticed Fresia shifting uncomfortably.
Her sharp gaze lingered on Fresia's movements, catching the faint way her hand brushed over her chest, as though trying to soothe an invisible ache.
"I'm fine," Fresia replied quickly, her voice a touch too clipped.
Meredith's brow furrowed, but she let it go, turning back to the map spread across the table. Fresia exhaled quietly, her fingers curling against her chest where her Thysia mark glowed faintly beneath her tunic. The heat radiating from it was almost unbearable, but she swallowed the pain, forcing her focus back on Meredith.
She couldn't tell her—couldn't burden her with this. Not now, when Meredith already carried the weight of an entire kingdom on her shoulders.
---
The remnants of Stormgard's forces limped back into their camp under the shroud of night, the once-proud soldiers now weary and defeated. Their armor bore the scars of their failed assault on Middleton, and their spirits were heavy with the weight of their loss. But amidst the tension and despair, a strange air of anticipation lingered.
The soldiers had not yet tended to the fires or removed their battered armor when the faint rumble of approaching wagons cut through the silence. Heads turned toward the forest, and whispers rippled through the camp. They had been expecting this.
Moments later, a faint golden light appeared, growing brighter as supply wagons emerged from the shadowed trees.
Sleek, otherworldly beasts pulled the wagons, their glowing eyes casting an eerie illumination across the camp. The soldiers watched in awe as the wagons rolled to a halt, laden with pristine supplies—crates of weapons, barrels of rations, and gleaming armor untouched by mortal hands.
The golden light intensified, and Malachel descended, his wings folding neatly as he landed before the wagons. His expression was cool, his golden eyes surveying the camp with a detached air of scrutiny.
Commander Galthor stepped forward reluctantly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. "You've returned," he said cautiously.
Malachel's sharp gaze swept over the camp, taking in the scattered remnants of Stormgard's forces. His lips curled into a faint sneer as his voice rang out, smooth and cutting. "Returned, yes. And what a scene to return to. Failure clinging to every face, chaos in every corner. Tell me, Commander, is this the glorious Stormgard I was promised?"
Galthor's jaw tightened. "The defenses at Middleton were stronger than anticipated. Their princess—"
"Spare me the excuses," Malachel interrupted, his voice cold. "Do not insult me by blaming a mere mortal for your ineptitude."
"It wasn't just her," Galthor admitted after a pause, his voice lowering. "There was an angel."
Malachel froze, his wings shifting slightly. His golden eyes narrowed, and a flicker of something darker crossed his expression before it vanished behind his usual mocking smile.
Galthor hesitated, then ventured cautiously, "His presence turned the tide. We couldn't have anticipated—"
"Couldn't have anticipated?" Malachel repeated, his tone silken but sharp. "Oh, but you could have prepared. You were warned about the risks, were you not? Or did you think victory would simply fall into your lap?"
Galthor stiffened but said nothing. The soldiers around them shifted uneasily, their unease growing as Malachel's golden eyes bore into their commander.
Malachel took a step closer to Galthor, his voice soft but cutting. "And yet, even with an angel against you, I had expected better from Stormgard. Supplies sabotaged, an assault repelled. You have made this mess far worse than it needed to be."
"We were overwhelmed," Galthor admitted, his voice tight. "But the next strike—"
Malachel raised a hand, silencing him with an elegant gesture. "No. Do not bore me with promises. Dear commander, this is no longer about numbers or brute force." He tilted his head, his smile sharpening. "And perhaps it is time I considered how best to balance this scale myself."
The soldiers stiffened, their fear giving way to uncertainty. Was he offering to help—or threatening further humiliation?
Galthor frowned, his voice measured. "Will you intervene?"
Malachel's laughter rang out, melodic and chilling. "Oh, Galthor, that would be too simple. A celestial stepping in to resolve your little mortal struggle? Where's the fun in that?"
He turned, his wings unfurling slightly as the golden light around him intensified. "But rest assured, I'll be watching. Perhaps next time, if your mortal limitations prove too unsightly, I might lend a hand. Or perhaps I won't."
His wings flared fully, sending a gust of wind through the camp. "For now, rally what remains of your strength. Show me that Stormgard still has teeth. And remember…" He glanced over his shoulder, his golden eyes narrowing. "An angel may have turned the tide once, but even angels have weaknesses."
With a powerful beat of his wings, Malachel ascended into the night, his golden glow fading into the darkness.
The camp remained silent long after he had gone. Galthor turned to his officers, his jaw clenched. "Prepare the men. We march again when dawn breaks."
But his words felt hollow, and the unease among the soldiers lingered. They could not tell if Malachel's presence was a blessing or a warning—and that uncertainty gnawed at them more than their defeat.