Prologue
Brushed from memoirs faithful truth shall come regrets for the rest till judgment presents itself.
Kyriel walked plaintively along the corridor of the St. Bernard Medical Institution. He was hearing those random voices again, the voices of those who've been on the same place crying their demented sorrows. The Institute wears all the old cream coat it had since it was made, almost tearing off because of age. Creepy with all the smudges of blood and scratches.
For a moment, Kyriel stood there watching as the emptiness gulp down his sorrows. He'd been at the Institute for how long? He couldn't remember. For generations, he remained unchanged with the lean muscles under his svelte body, he looked more of a nineteen-year-old than that of a 600-year-old. Now, he was left alone, abandoned in the building. He winced as the bones in his back flexed and ripped open his delicate skin to produce a great pair of wings which were once white but now covered with huge splotches of raven black.
He was just getting used to his transformation that had just started a few years back. Every year the ebony color consumes half of the angelic part in his being. And, whenever his infected blood surge, he mourned for it to stop. But now, it was all going to end. The inky black have now eaten almost the rest of the white feathers in his left appendage. He spread his wings attempting to fly to the open sky.
