Fallen from Grace | Claymore

PROLOGUE

The sound of dripping echoed through the dark underground, as spiders scuttled and insects buzzed, filling the air with an incessant hum. Yet none of this diminished the unsettling atmosphere at the center of the vast, shadowy cave.

Massive black chains stretched across the space, attaching themselves to the ground, ceiling, and walls — everywhere.

Those chains converged on a figure suspended in mid-air, held in place by the heavy, dark links that bound it.

A purple substance dripped from the figure’s porcelain feet, staining a large, once-white mass that lay beneath. Below, a disturbing sight unfolded.

Torn and ripped savagely, the unrecognizable mass seemed out of place, disjointed, as if violently severed from something greater.

Upon closer inspection, it became clear: these were wings, countless wings, ripped apart and scattered around the figure.

Suddenly, the figure stirred, causing the chains to rattle ominously. The sound echoed louder, but the figure paid no mind, continuing to strain against its bonds.

From behind, the source of the dripping purple liquid became evident.

The figure’s back was marred by deep scars and gaping wounds, injuries so severe they seemed beyond healing, as if time itself could not mend them.

The wounds, brutal and raw, exposed torn flesh, with some so deep that inner tissue peeked through. Blood flowed continuously from these horrific injuries, painting the pale, scarred back with an eerie beauty.

Strangely, instead of crimson blood, a dark purple fluid oozed from the wounds, creating a striking contrast against the figure’s pristine, porcelain skin. Perhaps it was this haunting beauty, this cruel juxtaposition of violence and grace, that had driven someone to do this.

Once, the figure had been untarnished, flawless, an embodiment of divine beauty. But now, its form was ravaged, forever marked by brutality.

The figure’s hair, once elegant, now hung short and uneven, as if crudely cut by someone’s hand, giving it a wild, disheveled look. Yet, even in its disorder, there was something mesmerizing about it.

The uneven strands, falling haphazardly around the face, only heightened the figure’s untouchable elegance.

Then, the figure’s eyes snapped open, revealing radiant golden irises, so intense they nearly illuminated the cavern.

In that instant, the full weight of the figure’s appearance became clear, surreal, divine, achingly beautiful, even in its disarray.

The golden eyes, once filled with apathy, now brimmed with cold indifference, void of any earthly desire.

Its pale lips, stained with dark blood, still seemed untarnished by the violence that surrounded it, maintaining an air of unshaken divinity.

His gaze met those indifferent, mesmerizing eyes. He smirked, captivated by the figure’s apathetic expression, so ravishing, so otherworldly, even in the midst of such destruction, and ruins.