Sam ran. Frigid winds whipped against his skin. Snow assaulted his lightly clothed form from all sides. The cold bit at his fingers and bare feet.
Each grueling step against the hurricane-force winds brought him that little bit further from his pursuers—imperceptible among the roaring blizzard. They would never stop chasing him, not with the amount of time and resources poured into his creation. More than anything, he might become an example—a message to his brethren that they too could escape; they too could be free.
With each labored breath, he fought against the icy grip of exhaustion, whispering to himself: I can make it. I'm not tired. I can make it.
***
As he ran, the winds that hindered him became little more than an occasional gust caught between his feathers, and the empty white that obscured him faded into drifting snow. Eden's spirit loomed overhead, shining a spotlight on the young boy through a hole in its hazy form.
Sam glanced back for a moment. His pursuers, their ghastly purple glow casting eerie shadows that danced like phantoms in the snow, shouted, "This way, he's still on foot!"
Terror gripped his hearts, blood rushing through his body and booming in his ears. Dread gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the thought of what they might do to him when they caught him—what they might be doing to his siblings at this moment.
Taking a deep breath, he whispered: I can make it. His legs, on the verge of giving out, surged with newfound energy. I'm not tired. A sudden influx of air revitalized his lungs, which screamed for oxygen. They won't catch me. They can't. His pursuers, eager to recapture him, were closing in.
He ran, wings tucked tightly, weaving through the dense hemolith forest—his steps light to avoid sinking in the powder snow. They wouldn't be able to catch him in the air, but the towering crystals overhead formed a deathly sharp, ready to tear him apart, and he couldn't seem to escape the thicket no matter how far he ran. He couldn't afford to be caught here; he couldn't afford to be caught now; he refused to let his siblings' sacrifice go to waste.
Mustering what little energy he had left, he whispered: I will escape. His body lurched to the side, pulled by an invisible force, as if the very wind were snatching him up, propelling him through the air like an arrow.
***
Sam groaned, his bare skin stung by the snow that cushioned his fall. His vision blurred and obscured; he struggled to make out the cliff face—a white stain leading into a black void—mere strides away.
"There!" He glanced back at the cultists draped in blank cloth, their faces obscured by a darkness contained within their hoods. Purple fire blazed to life and danced in their palms, a scorching reminder of the danger, allowing him to push past his exhaustion to escape the growing heat of their pursuit.
He struggled to his feet. If I make it over this cliff, he whispered, I'll be free.
"Samael! No!"
Sam didn't look back—he spread his wings and leapt into the abyss.