The silence was broken by faint groans. Christopher froze, his heart lurching, and turned toward the sound. Among the sea of bodies, a guardian stirred, his tattoos flickering weakly with fading light. Then another, coughing, struggling to rise. Not all were gone.
Christopher staggered forward, ignoring the pain in his side. He knelt beside one of them, gripping his shoulder. "You're alive," he whispered, though his voice was hollow. The guardian's eyes opened, clouded with pain but burning with defiance. Others began to stir, some crawling, some clutching wounds too deep to move.
Those who could stand began to search, stepping carefully among the fallen, calling out names, hoping for answers. Their voices were hoarse, broken, but they carried on. A healer rushed to Christopher, pressing glowing hands against his wound. Warmth surged through him, dulling the agony, but he pushed the healer away. "Enough. I can still fight. I won't stop." His eyes were fixed on the ruins, on the houses where laughter once lived.
Together, they searched. Door after door was thrown open, rooms overturned, beds empty. The children were gone. Every house was hollow, stripped of joy, filled only with shadows. The guardians' faces hardened; despair etched into every line.
When there was nothing left to find, they turned back to the dead. With trembling hands, they began to lift the bodies, laying them side by side, preparing to honor them with the funeral rites. The air was heavy with grief, the silence broken only by the sound of dragging feet and muffled sobs.
Christopher worked among them, his hands stained, his body shaking. Tears streamed down his face, unstoppable, his sorrow laid bare. His daughter—gone. His wife—missing. His brothers and sisters—nearly all dead. The children vanished.
He could not think of tomorrow, nor of what battle might come next. His mind was consumed by the weight of loss. All he could do was honor the fallen, give them the dignity they deserved. And when the last body was laid to rest, when the funeral flames rose into the night, then—then he would find her. He would find Ariel.
The guardians gathered beneath the pale light of dawn, the battlefield transformed into a sacred ground. The air was still, heavy with frost, and the silence was broken only by the soft rustle of boots and the muffled sobs of the living.
One by one, the fallen were carried to the center of the square, their bodies laid side by side, tattoos dimmed but still etched with the memory of their vows. Black feathers drifted across the ground, mingling with the white frost, a haunting reminder of what had been lost.
The healers lit the funeral pyres, flames rising slowly, casting long shadows that danced across the ruins. The fire's glow reflected in the guardians' eyes, turning their tears into glistening trails. They stood in a circle, heads bowed, voices low as they began the ancient chant—a hymn of farewell, a promise that their brothers and sisters would not be forgotten.
Christopher stood among them, his hands trembling as he placed Saraphiel's daughter's small cloak upon the pyre. His tears fell freely, his grief uncontained, his voice breaking as he whispered his own daughter's name. He could not look away as the flames consumed the bodies, carrying their souls to the heavens.
The chants grew louder, rising with the fire, echoing into the sky as if calling to the angels who had once walked among them. The guardians lifted their weapons in salute, blades gleaming in the firelight, a final honor to those who had fallen.
But Christopher's heart was hollow. His wife was missing, his daughter gone, his brothers and sisters reduced to ash. He felt the weight of despair pressing down, yet he forced himself to stand tall, to honor them. He could not think of tomorrow, nor of the battles yet to come. All that mattered now was this moment—the farewell, the fire, the promise to remember.
And when the flames finally died, when the ashes settled into silence, Christopher swore to himself: he would find Ariel. No matter what remained of the world, he would find her.
The flames roared higher, consuming the fallen in a blaze of honor. The guardians stood in a solemn circle, their faces streaked with tears, their voices breaking as they whispered final good-byes. The firelight flickered across their weary forms, illuminating sorrow carved deep into every line.
Then, the air shifted. A warmth unlike the cold of battle swept through the square, soft at first, then growing until it pressed against their hearts. The guardians lifted their heads, and the world was suddenly bathed in a radiant white light.
From the brilliance emerged figures—tall, resplendent, wings unfurled in breathtaking majesty. The archangels descended first, their presence commanding yet sorrowful, their faces etched with grief that mirrored the guardians' own. Behind them, countless angels filled the horizon, their wings stretching wide, feathers shimmering like silver fire. The light of their arrival washed over the ruins, banishing the shadows, though not the sorrow.
The guardians fell silent, awe-struck, their tears flowing anew. They bowed their heads, not in fear, but in reverence, as the archangels stepped closer to the pyres. Their voices did not rise in song or command; instead, they stood in silence, heads bowed, mourning with the guardians who had fought and fallen.
The angels' wings arched above them like a cathedral of light, majestic and solemn. Their grief was palpable, a divine sorrow that weighed upon the earth itself. The guardians felt it in their bones—the mourning of heaven for its lost children.
Christopher's heart clenched as he gazed upon them. Even the angels wept. Even the archangels bowed their heads in sorrow. The fire crackled, the smoke rose, and together—guardian and angel alike—they honored the fallen.
The night was no longer empty. It was filled with light, with grief, with majesty. And though the guardians' tears did not cease, they knew their dead had not been forgotten. Heaven itself had come to mourn.