The battlefield was quiet, save for the faint crackle of scorched wood and the occasional creak of the shattered walls. Lysander stood amidst the wreckage of Grand garden, his form battered and broken. His once-pristine golden armor hung in shreds, his left wing limp and dragging behind him, its ethereal light flickering weakly.
He clutched his sword for support, the weight of the battle pressing heavily on his shoulders. Golden blood dripped steadily from the gashes in his torso and arms, staining the ground beneath his feet. His breathing was labored, his divine grace dimmed.
As his golden gaze swept the area, he realized Mathew was gone. The Nephilim had vanished without a trace, leaving Lysander alone in the ruins of his failure. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind. He had been sent with a clear purpose: to purge the abomination and anyone who stood in his path. Yet, he had failed.
Lysander dropped to one knee, clutching the hilt of his blade to keep himself upright. The thought of returning to the Silver City, of facing the judgment of his superiors, filled him with dread. His strength faltered, and for the first time in centuries, he felt truly mortal.
"I was chosen for this," he murmured, his voice hoarse and bitter. "How could I falter?"
Summoning the last remnants of his power, Lysander staggered to his feet. His wings, now dulled and tattered, spread weakly behind him as he prepared to depart. With one final glance at the devastation, he took flight, his movements sluggish and uneven. The angel disappeared into the sky, leaving behind the ruins of Thorne Manor and the uncertainty of what would come next.
---
Inside the battered remains of the mansion, a small puff of dust rose from the shadows. Udo emerged, his mismatched eyes darting around in search of Mathew. The little imp sneezed, brushing soot off his small, leathery hands. The destruction around him was overwhelming, even for someone accustomed to chaos.
"Mathew?" Udo called, his voice surprisingly soft for his scrappy demeanor. "Where are you, lad?"
But the Nephilim was nowhere to be found. Udo's ears twitched as he listened intently, but the silence was deafening. With a grim expression, he scurried deeper into the mansion, determined to find Isabel and Alden.
---
In the dark, cramped cellar beneath the mansion, Alden paced nervously. The walls were lined with cobwebs and dusty barrels, and the faint scent of mildew clung to the air. Isabel sat on an overturned crate, her arms crossed as she tried to mask her worry.
"Alden, stop pacing," Isabel said finally, her voice sharp but tinged with concern. "You'll wear a hole in the floor."
The older man ignored her, his face etched with anxiety. "I shouldn't have hidden down here. Mathew… he needed me."
"You would've been a liability up there, and you know it," Isabel replied. "He told us to stay out of the way for a reason."
Before Alden could respond, a sudden scuttling sound made them both turn. Udo appeared at the top of the cellar stairs, his small frame illuminated by the faint light filtering through the cracks in the floorboards.
Alden jumped back, startled. "What in the devil is that?"
"Relax," Isabel said, standing and moving toward Udo. "This is Udo. He's… a friend."
Udo puffed out his chest proudly, though the gesture was somewhat comical given his diminutive size. "Aye, a friend. And a bloody good one, too."
Alden eyed Udo warily but eventually nodded. "If Isabel trusts you, I suppose I can try."
"Try faster," Udo muttered, earning a smirk from Isabel.
The imp quickly recounted what he had seen above. "The angel—Lysander, or whatever his pompous name is—put up a hell of a fight. But Mathew? That lad held his own. Got the angel bleeding, he did. Gold blood everywhere. But then... he vanished. Poof. Gone."
Alden's face paled. "Vanished? What do you mean vanished?"
"Stabbed by that glowing blade of his," Udo replied, his tone uncharacteristically somber. "And then he was just… gone. Like smoke in the wind."
Isabel's jaw tightened as she processed the news. "Mathew's strong," she said firmly, though the worry in her eyes betrayed her. "He'll find his way back to us. He always does."
Alden's shoulders slumped, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. "I should've been there," he muttered.
"Don't start with the guilt," Isabel snapped. "He made his choice to protect us. The best thing we can do now is figure out what comes next."
---
As the others worried below, Isabel eventually stepped out into the destroyed gardens. The once-beautiful landscape was now a wasteland of rubble and ash. Craters marred the earth, and shattered statues lay scattered among the debris.
She walked slowly, her boots crunching against the broken stone, searching for any clue that might lead to Mathew. Her fingers brushed against a piece of torn fabric—part of Mathew's shirt—clinging to a jagged piece of wood. She clenched it tightly, a grim reminder of how close they had all come to losing him.
"Where are you, Mathew?" she whispered, her voice carried away by the wind.
---
Far from the chaos of Thorne Manor, Mathew lay on a small wooden bed. His body was weak, his strength sapped by Lysander's blade. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his mind clouded and his memories fragmented.
Above him, vines adorned with vibrant flowers hung from the ceiling, their colors shifting in the soft light that filtered through the room. Occasionally, he glimpsed fruits of all shapes and sizes dangling above him, their fragrance soothing.
He heard voices, faint and muffled, like whispers in a dream. A gentle, melodic tone would speak to him, though he couldn't make out the words. Other times, sharp arguments echoed in the background, the voices too distant to grasp.
Mathew's eyes fluttered open briefly, the vibrant colors of the room swimming before him. He tried to lift his arm, but it felt as though it were weighed down by lead. His breath was shallow, and every inch of his body throbbed with pain.
---
Meanwhile, back in London, the city was abuzz with rumors about the incident at Thorne Manor. The media reported that Judge Mathew Thorne had been injured in an accident caused by the collapse of an old structure on the estate. Official statements claimed that he had been sent abroad for treatment.
At the Thorne family estate, Calum pressed Alden for answers. "Where is he, Alden? What really happened?"
Alden sighed, rubbing his temples. "I can't tell you everything, Calum. Just know that we're doing what's necessary. Mathew will come back when he's ready."
The younger man frowned, his frustration evident. "You expect me to just sit here and wait while God knows what is happening to him?"
Before Alden could respond, Udo wandered into the room. Calum's eyes widened in shock, and before he could think, he swung his umbrella at the imp.
"Oi!" Udo yelped, dodging the blow. "What's your problem, mate?"
"What *is* that thing?" Calum demanded, pointing his cane at Udo like a sword.
"Enough," Isabel said sharply as she entered the room. "Udo's with us. He's proven himself more than once."
Calum lowered his cane reluctantly, still glaring at the imp.
"You owe me a drink for that, you know," Udo muttered, earning a bemused smirk from Calum despite himself.
---
As the days passed, Isabel insisted they all relocate to her hidden refuge—a network of underground ruins outside the city. The ancient structure was concealed by overgrown foliage and forgotten by time, offering a safe haven from prying eyes.
"We don't know what's coming next," Isabel said firmly. "Angel or demon, we can't stay exposed. Mathew wouldn't forgive me if I didn't keep you all safe."
Alden hesitated but eventually agreed, his worry for Mathew outweighing his reservations. Calum, though grumbling at the inconvenience, followed suit.
As they settled into the ruins, the weight of Mathew's absence hung heavily over them all. Each day passed with more questions than answers, and the looming uncertainty of what lay ahead grew ever more oppressive.