Gabriel stood in the empty common room and stared at his hands. Six months of torture. Four years of exile. And still no answers.

He closed his eyes.

Outside, the morning sun continued its slow climb into the sky.

The cut on his palm had reopened during the night. Not deep, just enough to bleed. He'd caught it on a splinter while moving his pack, and the scab had torn away cleanly.

Gabriel pulled out a strip of cloth from his supplies and began wrapping it. Blood welled up faster than expected, dark against his pale skin. He pressed the cloth down and held it there.

Mera entered through the side door with her pack slung over one shoulder. She moved to the centre of the room and set it down carefully, then pulled out the leather-bound book.

"I want to examine it again before we leave," she said without looking up. "See if there's anything I missed."

Gabriel's eyes fixed on the book immediately. That familiar pull settled into his chest, insistent and cold.

"Find anything?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

"Nothing yet." Mera opened the cover and flipped through the first few pages. "Still blank. Every page."

She laid the book flat on the floor between them, studying the empty parchment with that clinical focus she always had when examining something she didn't understand.

Gabriel unwrapped his hand to check the cut. Blood had soaked through the cloth faster than he'd thought, and when he pulled it away, a thin line of red ran down his palm toward his wrist.

He shifted to rewrap it.

The movement was too quick, and a single drop fell from his hand.

It struck the open page with barely a sound.

The reaction was immediate.

Gabriel's head snapped back, and his breath tore from his lungs as his body went rigid. His vision washed white, the color flooding his eyes until the world vanished behind it. His muscles locked, trembling as something vast and ancient pressed into his mind.

"Gabriel!" Mera's voice was distant, muffled.

He couldn't respond. His jaw was clenched too tight, teeth grinding as the pressure built behind his eyes.

The farmhouse disappeared.

He was standing in a field of ash. Grey snow fell from a sky choked with smoke, settling on the ruins of what had once been buildings. Stone walls stood broken and blackened, their surfaces cracked from heat that had burned so hot it turned rock to glass in places.

Bodies lay scattered across the ground. Dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Men, women, and children with scales covering parts of their skin, horns curving from their heads, and eyes that stared sightlessly at nothing. Their armour was scorched and melted, weapons still clutched in hands that would never move again.

The silence was absolute. Not even wind moved through the ruins.

Gabriel tried to turn, to look around, but his body wouldn't respond. He was locked in place, forced to witness what lay before him.

A figure moved through the ash.

Tall, clad in white armour that gleamed even in the dim light. Wings spread from its back, massive and radiant, each feather edged in gold. The figure's face was hidden beneath a helmet, but Gabriel could feel its gaze sweeping across the dead.

It stopped beside one of the bodies. A child, no more than ten, with small horns barely visible through dark hair.

The figure knelt and placed a hand on the child's head. When it spoke, the voice carried no emotion.

"Balance is restored."

More figures appeared. Six of them, all in white armour, all with wings that caught the light. They moved through the ruins methodically, checking each body, ensuring nothing lived.

One of them looked up suddenly, staring directly at where Gabriel stood.

"Someone watches," it said.

The others turned. Seven pairs of eyes fixed on him.

Gabriel tried to move, to run, but his body remained frozen. The pressure in his head built until it felt like his skull would crack.

Then a voice cut through the vision, deep and resonant, filled with a rage that burned hotter than any flame.

"Do you see them, blood of mine? Do you see what they did?"

The scene shifted violently.

Gabriel was no longer standing in the ruins. He was above them, looking down from a great height as the seven figures spread their wings and rose into the sky. Below, the field of ash stretched in every direction, covering what must have been an entire city.

"They called it justice," the voice continued. "They called it necessary. My brothers and sisters, the Archangels who claimed to protect all life, slaughtered an entire race because they feared what that race might become."

The vision pulled back further. Gabriel could see the edges of the destruction now, the line where ash met untouched grass. The city had been contained, isolated, and then erased.

"The Dracamerian people," the voice said. "My people. Your blood. Gone because the creator decided they were too dangerous to live."

The scene changed again.

Gabriel stood in a vast chamber carved from black stone. Pillars rose into shadow, and in the centre sat a throne. The figure from before occupied it, the one with long black hair and red eyes. His hand rested on the hilt of a greatsword driven deep into the floor, and his gaze bore into Gabriel with an intensity that felt physical.

"I am Drusgard," the figure said. "The Eighth Divine. The one they cast aside because I would not accept their judgment."

Gabriel's voice wouldn't work. He could only stare.

"You carry my blood," Drusgard continued. "Diluted through generations, weakened by time, but mine nonetheless. And through you, I can act." He leaned forward slightly. "They thought they destroyed my people completely, but they were wrong. Fragments survived. Scattered across the world, hidden in bloodlines they never suspected."

The pressure in Gabriel's head intensified. He felt something pushing against his thoughts, trying to take hold.

"Complete the trial," the Eighth said. "Take the book and finish what was begun. Restore what was lost. Make them pay for what they did."

Gabriel's body convulsed. The chamber began to fade, darkness creeping in from the edges.

"Complete the trial," Drusgard repeated, his voice growing louder. "Avenge us."

The vision shattered.

Gabriel slammed back into his body with a gasp that tore through his throat. He was on his back, staring up at the farmhouse ceiling with Mera leaning over him. Her hands pressed against his shoulders, and her face was pale.

"Gabriel! Can you hear me?"

He tried to speak, but only a rasp emerged. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming.

"Don't move," Mera said. "You've been convulsing for almost a minute."

Gabriel's eyes moved to the book. It lay where Mera had left it, still open to the page where his blood had fallen. The parchment was no longer blank.

Red ink filled the surface, forming words in a script he recognised but couldn't read. The same language he'd seen before, ancient and flowing. And at the top of the page, written larger than the rest.

Complete the trial

Mera followed his gaze, and her breath caught. "It's not blank anymore."

"No," Gabriel managed, his voice hoarse. "It's not."

She stared at the writing, then back at him. "What happened? What did you see?"

Gabriel closed his eyes, but the vision remained burned into his mind. The field of ash. The dead Dracamerians. The seven-winged figures. And the one on the throne, demanding vengeance.

"Everything," he said quietly. "I saw everything."

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