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Chapter One: The Angel and the Rider
The Nightshade Kingdom was a place where the sun never rose. Shadows ruled the land, and the sky was a constant stretch of deep indigo, speckled with faint stars that seemed too tired to shine. The air tasted like forgotten promises — heavy, cold, and quiet.
At the kingdom's center stood the Midnight Citadel.
A towering fortress of black stone and bone, it felt less like a building and more like a wound carved into the earth. The walls seemed to pulse, a slow, steady thrum, as though the magic within them was alive — watching. People spoke about the Citadel the way you speak about a graveyard at midnight: in hushed voices, with a shiver down your spine.
That's where I saw him for the first time.
Dacre.
The Apocalyptic Rider.
His name wasn't just a name — it was a threat. The kind that lingered long after it was spoken, like smoke in the air. People said his presence was a warning of disaster, that storms followed him, and the ground withered beneath his feet. I expected a monster — a creature with fire in his eyes and ruin in his breath.
But he was just a man.
A dangerous man, yes — but still a man.
His hair was dark, falling in unruly waves over a face that seemed cut from stone — all sharp angles and brooding lines. His eyes, though — they were the color of dying embers, smoldering but never quite burning. He wore black armor etched with old, forgotten symbols, faintly glowing a dull crimson, as though the runes themselves were barely containing the power within. A sword hung at his side — long and unforgiving.
And yet, despite all of this, there was something painfully human about him.
I am Mirelha — the Angel of Death.
People think that means I'm some gentle, ethereal being — a soft voice guiding souls to the afterlife. They're wrong.
My wings — dark as crow feathers — hang behind me like a shadow I can never outrun. My aura flickers with galaxies and quiet verses, glowing constellations orbiting me like I carry the universe's sorrow on my skin. Some say my presence feels like a sad song — beautiful, but cold.
But I'm not comforting. I never have been.
I'm not a soft place to land. I'm the final breath before oblivion.
And still — there he was. Dacre. A walking storm standing only a few feet away in the dim corridor of the Midnight Citadel.
We were supposed to be enemies.
Our families — the Celestials and the Riders — had been at war for generations. It wasn't the kind of war you read about in books — no grand battles or fiery speeches — but a silent, cruel one. Secrets poisoned the air between us, and blood stained the pages of our history.
The Celestials were guardians of balance — of light, order, and cosmic law. The Riders were chaos incarnate — forces of destruction meant to tear apart what we tried so hard to hold together.
We were never supposed to meet.
Never supposed to speak.
Never supposed to stand in the same room, breathing the same cursed air.
And yet — there we were.
"Angel," Dacre's voice broke the silence — deep, rough, like gravel scraping against steel. His eyes flickered across my glowing aura, his jaw clenching, as though the very sight of me was a wound he couldn't bear.
"Rider," I answered, my voice softer — more a sigh than a word.
Silence.
He took a step forward — slow, steady, like a predator deciding if I was prey.
I didn't move back. I took a step too.
We were two storms, circling each other — one of ruin, one of death — colliding in the quiet. My heart shouldn't have raced like it did. Not for him. Not for someone who was everything I was sworn to destroy.
But it did.
And then —
A scream tore through the corridor — sharp, desperate, a sound that left the walls trembling.
Dacre's hand was on his sword in an instant. My fingers sparked with celestial magic, glowing silver in the dim light.
Enemies again.
The fragile moment between us shattered.
What we didn't know — not yet — was that this was only the beginning.
That the world had already started to unravel.
And that, no matter how hard we tried to fight it — we would unravel with it.
Together.
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