Gabriel got out of the bath, his skin still humming from the heat. He put on the fresh tunic Mera had laid out for him. It clung to his skin, the soaked fabric turning nearly translucent.

The storm in his muscles had eased, but the weight of everything that transpired still weighed on his mind.

He finished dressing, bent over to pick up the robe that was hiding the book he found in the temple. His hands glided across the face of it, but he felt nothing. No humming, no whispers, no power, just silence.

It called to me in the temple. Why is it showing no signs of power now?

He placed the book on the ground and began fastening his robe. Mera had told him to burn it, but this was a thick, dark blue robe with fur lined on the inside. Even the hood was lined. Burning something of that value would be a waste, he could get a tailor to repair it.

He stepped around the side of the apothecary, boots sinking into the frost-stiffened ground. Mera's voice drifted out of the open window from inside, muttering to herself as glass clinked and herbs boiled.

But the moment Gabriel reached the door handle, something tightened around the back of his neck. A tingle, sliding across his skin, like a fingertip sliding down his back.

He froze. His hand was still resting on the latch.

The same cold he sensed after the Direwolf.

His breath steadied, eyes narrowing beneath his hood.

He turned sharply, hoping to catch whatever was watching him.

There was nothing. The feeling vanished as quickly as it arrived, leaving nothing but the sound of wind crashing against the wooden building.

She wasn't there. I'm feeling things.

Gabriel pushed the door open.

Mera glanced over from her alchemy station, her expression shifting instantly from irritation to joy. "I was hoping you would come in without the clothes on." She chuckled as she continued tinkering.

Gabriel closed the door behind him, the latch clicking shut.

He looked over at the Apothecary, his face showing the slightest bit of fear over what had just happened.

"Thank you."

She brushed him off, "You were not bringing all that filth into the house." She looked at him, noticing the robe and dirty clothes in his hand. "I thought I told you to burn them."

"They can be washed and repaired." He stepped forward.

"You look terrible, go and rest."

Gabriel shook his head, "No, I need to speak with Hanitz."

"You're exhausted, that giant oaf will still be at the guild after you've slept a while"

Gabriel nodded once and turned away, his steps slow and heavy as he made his way up the short staircase. The wooden steps creaked beneath him.

He pushed open the room she had previously prepared for him.

A small space greeted him, barely wide enough for a single bed pressed against the wall and a narrow desk beneath the window. A cupboard stood open beside it, the doors crooked from age. Spare clothes hung inside, neatly folded and placed away with care.

His things were scattered across the desk, books half-opened, scraps of parchment, covered in sketches and notes, a whetstone, a small pot of oil, the cloth he'd used to clean his swords.

He let out a slow breath and sat on the edge of the bed. The hay crunched under his weight. The faint scent of dried herbs lingered on the sheet that covered the bed.

He looked over towards the cluttered desk once more, the scattered mess felt like daggers were trying to dig their way out of his skin.

He needed order.

He unfastened his robe and boots, placing them neatly on the ground next to him, and lay back into the bed, holding the book.

He reached up both hands and began opening the book slowly.

The air around him started to buzz.

The wind hitting the wood stopped, cowering in fear.

The book opened a little more.

Flashes of the man on the throne popped into Gabriel's head.

The book fully opened, revealing its secrets.

Gabriel's eyes widened.

What is this? The pages are blank.

He threw his arm to the side with the book in his hand. And sat up.

His hand grazed a piece of wood, splintering the bed, causing a tiny drop of blood to fall on the book.

His head jolted back, mouth open, eyes wide. His body trembled.

His irises, completely taken over by the whites of his eyes.

Voices began screaming "Dracamere," directly into his mind.

Multiple visions burst into his head, all overlapping with each other; wars, villages burning, eight dark silhouettes standing in a pure white light.

Then a single vision came into focus.

A towering man sat in perfect stillness. His long black hair shadowed a sharp, pale face, but not the red glow in his eyes. His armour was dark and battered. His grip tightened around a greatsword buried in the stone, the floor split beneath it.

"Avenge us, Dracamere".

The vision vanished, like the sunset at dawn.

Gabriel's head jolted forward.

He inhaled a deep breath, coughing in the process.

"What was that? Was he calling me Dracamere?

Avenge who?

Beads of sweat began rolling from his forehead.

He felt the weight of the book still in his hand.

He raised it, opened it to the first page.

The empty page was now full.

Gabriel looked, his eyes taking a second to focus on the words.

...

The quill trembles as I write this, though my hands have never known fear.

Today, the heavens are silent.

I descended upon the valley of Dracmaria expecting to hear their voices rise to greet me, children learning to shape flame, elders sharpening their swords against the stone, the air trembling with the heartbeat of our kin.

Instead, I found ash.

Ash where cities once stood. Ash, where laughter once lived. Ash, where the fire-born and iron-souled people of my bloodline, my own race, should have stood unbroken.

The Seven have acted.

Not with mercy. Not with judgment. They slaughtered my people because they feared them.

My brothers and sisters, the Archangels who claim dominion over "order," have done what I once believed impossible, they have wiped the Dracamerian race from the face of creation.

They call it balance.

I call it betrayal.

And I, The Eighth Divine, am left to wander among the ruins of my own people. Alone.

…

Gabriel stared at the filled page, his breath stuck in his chest.

His fingers tightened around the edges of the book until the leather strained.

A sharp sting shot through the back of his hand.

He looked down.

Thin red lines had carved themselves into the skin, not cuts but markings, glowing faintly like embers on a dying candle.

They pulsed once.

A dull throb spread up his arm, crawling towards his shoulder like it was alive.

Shit, what is this?

His breath shook. Whatever this book was… it wasn't done with him.

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