Trials

Prologue

"And so, on the bed of life to Zsofiel the Archangel of Kin, said God: You must help them become the dominance of Earth as you are in Heaven, and the humans will know of your deeds and duty, for this is the Purpose of Angels.
So She did and so Kin heard, and Justice, Peace, Ease, and Drifting.
And Drifting said Let it be known that Justice leads, Kin looks after, Ease heals, and Peace provides the means of unbiased measures to be carried out.
For Heaven is proud, Earth is bound by glory, and Hell is shrouded in glaciation.
The tolerance is serenity, the whole truth is pain, the lie is death."
Drifting 3:1

Prologue

December 3rd, 10772, Outside Jalisdensa, Day.
The scent of forest was crisp and clean. No smoke in the air from fires, no pungent aroma of shriveling flowers. Devon decided that was a good thing. Too often did the smoke from the fighting float over the trees and wreck a perfectly good hunt. He was sure that a day like today was bound to have its usual smoke; nothing ever lasted for long.

Devon's low breathing stilled for a moment. There she was. Standing so still it was like looking at a painting. Long slender legs, a tender body. Enough for a few good meals. Devon pulled an arrow from his quiver and notched it. Keeping his breath steady and quiet, he aimed and let his arrow loose.

At the last second, the deer pulled away and frolicked off into the trees. "Damn," Devon whispered. He relaxed his tense stance and sighed into the tree. It was only after he inhaled a deep breath that he realized why his prized meal ticket had run off.

The coppery smell of blood and ash wafted into Devon's nose. He swore. The wind was blowing down from the direction of Jalisdensa. Home.

He scrambled down from the tree, scraping his shin in the process. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he turned and sprinted back toward Jalisdensa.

His lungs screamed out at the polluted air that filled them and stabbed his chest like icy shards. His legs burned from the dead sprint. He grunted with each exhale in a futile attempt to regulate his breathing.
Devon stopped short of the break in the trees that lead to Jalisdensa. Smoke rose from the community center and several houses. One of Devon's neighbors, Mr. Rodrick was lying on the ground, his eyes glazed with death. The air tingled with raw energy, crackling through molecules with a charge so great, it could only have been generated by powerful magic. Between two houses stood a figure wearing a black cloak with intricate red swirls rolling across it, as if animated by the gusts of wind that scattered sand over the Wohato Plains in the north. The figure's hood was drawn over his head, shrouding his face in darkness. Devon couldn't move, couldn't figure out what to do. Fear seeped through his veins, sinking into his bones. What should he do? What could he do? What was he willing to do?

The figure turned to face a patch of trees just to the right of Devon. He could see that the hood covered the face of a man with startling green eyes. Not a man, he thought. An Angel. Powerful one if the magic in the air is anything to go by. Devon knelt down and drew an arrow. Maybe the people of the village who were still alive would have a chance to escape if Devon could shoot the Angel and incapacitate it for a little while.

The twelve-year-old nocked the arrow and aimed carefully as he would at a deer. He relaxed his breathing and settled down into the ground, waiting for the perfect shot to his target's heart. The figure turned and his face was caught by the light. He was young, couldn't've been more than twenty. His green eyes betrayed immense anger and a guarded sadness.

Devon hesitated.

Suddenly, a sharp noise to his right startled Devon and his already tense hand let the arrow from his bow fly. His eyes widened as the projectile flew true toward its target. The figure's eyes snapped up to meet Devon's and they held each other for the briefest of moments.

A green energy coalesced around the figure, stopping the arrow inches from his heart. Green magic, the magic of the Archangel Jensiel. His green eyes pierced through Devon's soul and his shield against fear. Jensiel's black and red wings sprang from his back and stretched out in a display of anger, reaching their full span of 11 feet. Blind panic overwhelmed Devon and he did the only thing he could do—run. He turned to his left and charged away into the trees as fast as his legs would carry him.

He didn't stop sprinting until he was too tired and had to jog.

He didn't stop jogging until he was too tired and had to walk.

He didn't stop walking until he was too tired and had to crawl.

He crawled until his hands bled and he lay down in the undergrowth and sobbed at the grief of his losses. The village. His neighbors. His friends and family.

"Mom..." he croaked. "Sis..."
And he lay there until he succumbed to sleep.