The Angel?

Part 1

An anxious silence gripped the grand reception hall of Podem's imperial palace. Moments ago, the court had hovered on the brink of upheaval: Emperor Simon, swayed by his ministers' whispered suspicions, had ordered James to be seized. In an act of extreme boldness, General Bisera—the legendary Lioness of Vakeria—had dropped to her knees in public, beseeching Emperor Simon to spare him. The entire court watched, their breath caught in their throats, too stunned to react.

Before anyone could launch another protest, a sudden brilliance flared directly above James, flooding the chamber with such dazzling, otherworldly light that more than a few screamed in alarm. Guards stumbled, poleaxes crashing onto polished marble. Ministers shielded their eyes, some staggering back as though blindsided by the wrath of the heavens. Bisera, already kneeling, instinctively ducked lower, heart pounding. In her mind, a single question rang out: Could this be Seraphina's intervention?

When the searing radiance subsided, an extraordinary figure stood upon the dais, calmly surveying the scene. Two towering, white-feathered wings extended in an impressive display from her back. Each plume seemed almost aglow, reflecting the torchlight with an ethereal sheen. At a height slightly shorter than Bisera, she was neither too imposing nor diminutive—yet her presence felt monumental. Every eye in the hall fixated on her slender shape, awestruck by a surreal blend of angelic majesty and unsettlingly human detail.

An astonished gasp rippled through the onlookers. Bisera's pulse throbbed as she stared, overcome with reverent disbelief. The woman's face was astonishingly lovely: her features sculpted into gentle angles, porcelain-pale skin, and golden hair cascading in luminous waves. Glittering emerald eyes, fringed by impossibly long lashes, radiated an almost heavenly light reminiscent of the divine messengers depicted in the Holy Book. In her shock, Bisera only half-registered the faintest glint of something synthetic near the wing joints—a detail she quickly dismissed, for her mind echoed with a single truth: An angel has manifested before us.

Behind Bisera, James likewise gaped. He had never truly considered that one of Seraphina's "servants" might appear in a flash of literal divine light. His heart hammered with a mixture of relief and guilt: a cosmic being was, in theory, here to help—but he also wondered what repercussions this event might bring.

Meanwhile, Selene's attire caused immediate consternation among the devout. She wore a form-fitting, pearlescent gown that accentuated her figure with a scandalous flair. Silky drapes flowed below her waist, but the sleeveless upper portion bared her arms, shoulders, and a slender strip of midriff—an unthinkable breach of modesty by Vakerian standards. Torchlight flickered over semi-translucent sections, affording glimpses of soft curves beneath. Ministers flushed, cheeks burning, torn between averting their eyes or staring in guilty fascination at what they perceived to be a living angel.

For Emperor Simon—who had just ordered James to be seized—the very air seemed to solidify around him. Terror flooded his chest; fearful thoughts raced across his mind. Could his rash order have summoned the wrath of the Universal Spirit? He clenched his fists as his heart thudded like a war drum. The Holy Book told tales of angels descending to punish mortals who dared challenge the divine. Now, before him stood a creature straight from those scriptures, radiant and almost serenely terrifying in her composure.

Selene stepped forward, wings unfurling with a regal grace. Ministers and guards held their breath. The Holy Book's teachings insisted that mortals remain prostrate in the presence of an angel unless commanded to stand. Thus, in unison, the court bowed low, pressing foreheads to the marble in trembling reverence.

Still kneeling, Bisera lowered her head, emotions surging through her: awe at the spectacle of a heavenly being, shock that Seraphina had answered her plea so directly, and a profound sense of relief that James might now be safe from danger. Despite her famed valor, she felt childlike wonder stirring in her chest.

Emperor Simon knelt as well. His mind spun in circles—fear that he had invited divine wrath, gratitude that he had not yet been smitten, and an instinctive desire to make amends if this being truly represented Seraphina. A low, urgent murmur of prayer wove through the hall as ministers begged forgiveness for their doubt.

Into that tense hush, Selene spoke in a voice both polite and strangely sweet, like a graceful hostess from some far-flung future lounge:

"Please refrain from restricting James," she said with courteous inflection, "or I will be forced—regrettably—to employ non-lethal force against all who are involved."

A stunned ripple of confusion spread across the assembly. The words, so calmly stated, seemed oddly contradictory to the fiery retribution they'd been expecting. Even James felt his lips twitch in astonished amusement. He exchanged a look with Bisera, whose eyes were brimming with unshed tears of relief. "Heavenly manners are certainly different," Bisera thought curiously.

One noblewoman dared to raise her head. Her voice quivered with reverence still edged by doubt. "H-honored one," she managed, "who are you, and… what is your purpose here?"

Selene turned those luminous emerald eyes upon the speaker, her smile perpetually warm yet inscrutable. "I am Selene. I am here to ensure James's safety, at the direct request of Seraphina."

Hearing Seraphina's name spoken aloud, Emperor Simon jerked as though struck. It confirmed his fears. She was a lesser angel sent by the Archangel of Hope. Panic threatened to consume him: Had he nearly imprisoned Seraphina's chosen emissary?

A timid voice from among the lesser courtiers trembled, "Are… are you also here to help us defeat the traitors? The Gillyrians who threaten our borders?"

"No," Selene answered softly, her head inclining in mild apology. "I received instructions only to protect James. All other matters remain his responsibility."

Her statement sowed fresh confusion; the kneeling crowd exchanged uncertain whispers. They had expected an omnipotent war-angel, but she presented herself more like a specialized envoy on a singular mission. Another noble, voice wavering, swallowed his fear and spoke up: "If you truly are a divine messenger," he stuttered, "m-might we see some proof? We must be sure… that you are no demon or, or mortal trickery."

Simon's eyes widened in alarm. If the lady before them was indeed an angel, this was blasphemy of the highest order. He shot the questioning noble a look as if the man had lost his mind. The noble immediately paled, though he did not retract his challenge.

In an instant too swift for most eyes to follow, Selene seized the sword of the nearest guard, slipping it from its scabbard in one seamless motion. Gasps and exclamations of alarm echoed through the chamber as she held the blade aloft. The guard himself looked stunned; he hadn't even felt her hand move.

Expression serene, Selene gently pressed the steel edge to her exposed right forearm. The court watched in horrified fascination, bracing for the gush of blood. Bisera's heart lurched; she had already seen James wounded enough for one day. Yet Selene kept that unchanging, faintly smiling face—angelic beauty unperturbed by the razor-sharp sword biting into her forearm. Her porcelain-like skin split in a neat line, revealing…

Nothing. No blood, no raw flesh. Instead, beneath the topmost layer, a glimpse of something they had never seen before glimmered faintly. A wide-eyed clergyman, voice echoing in the hush, cried out too loudly, "She is not of flesh and blood…!" A wave of stunned gasps shot through the gathered ranks.

In that next breath, Selene repositioned the sword, grasping the blade between her hands—thumb on one side, fingertips on the other—and snapped it cleanly in two with a decisive, effortless motion. The metal shards clattered onto the marble floor, leaving the entire chamber in silent awe. She raised her healed forearm for all to see, pale skin once again immaculate, with no trace of the cut from earlier.

"Does that answer your questions, my dear inquirer?" she asked with the same kindly tone, as though discussing an afternoon tea.

For several heartbeats, no one dared speak. Then the hall erupted with fearful murmurs and fervent prayers. Many prostrated themselves further, pressing their faces to the cold floor. Emperor Simon's lips moved inaudibly, perhaps praying for forgiveness.

James stood rooted in place, heart hammering. He had believed Seraphina might intervene, but a real angel! That stretched the limits of his understanding despite knowing that Bisera's world is filled with various magical phenomena. A faint tingle suddenly danced through his mind. He recognized Seraphina's telepathic voice at once, sounding unexpectedly sheepish:

"Phew, that crisis is averted! James, I do apologize for taking the liberty to customize the android and have her stage that slight power play to get you some respect. The skin repair cost was around $1500, but I deemed it necessary so no appeal accepted. I will discuss the total costs with you once you have more time. Just a heads up, it was not cheap.

James's brow creased. Android? He glanced again at Selene, at her radiant wings, her unearthly beauty… Of course! He should have guessed. It was an imitation, a play on these people's piety. But why would an archangel do that?

Then, Seraphina's laugh rippled through his thoughts. "James, my dear, you didn't seriously expect me to break the cosmic rules just for your trivial issues, right? Miracles are sparsely used as it could go against the Creator's obsession with fairness and balance. So, I can only grant you a real miracle when there is a real supernatural force on the other side. Anyways, look at Selen. Doesn't she do the job just the same? She is a watered-down representation of my glory, maybe 1 billionth of my glory, but hey, you are the star of this story, not me."

James swallowed hard, glancing at the snapped sword on the floor. Even in his world, such technology—instant skin regeneration, superhuman strength—was cutting-edge, unattainably expensive for most. This must cost my entire fortune! Well… at least I didn't let Bisera down.

Meanwhile, Bisera, still kneeling, raised her gaze. Tears glistened in her eyes—tears of joy at James's salvation. She, too, believed Selene to be a genuine angel, and nothing in her life had ever made her feel so humbled and grateful. Catching James's eye, she offered him a shaky smile. He gave an almost apologetic shrug in return, deciding that perhaps it was best not to burst her bubble yet.

With a deep breath, Emperor Simon found his voice. "I—" he began, his tone unsteady. "We… we humbly receive the presence of Seraphina's emissary. Let it be known we harbor no ill will." The words tumbled out in a near-stammer as he bowed even lower.

At his pronouncement, many ministers followed suit, murmuring devout affirmations and offering blessings. Selene, poised as ever, simply allowed her wings to fold with graceful deliberation. She did not seem intent on further display or commentary—her mission, evidently, was to ensure James's safety, no more.

For a long moment, none of the nobles knew what to do. Tense anticipation lingered in the air, some of them hoping the angelic figure would speak again—offer more revelations or instructions. But Selene kept her silence, as if waiting for any renewed threats.

Gradually, the hush took on a more subdued, awkward flavor. One brave young noblewoman, trembling as she bowed, whispered hopefully, "If… if you have any message from Seraphina for us… might you share it?"

Selene blinked once, head tilted slightly. "My apologies—were you speaking to me just now?"

A wave of uncertain, confused glances passed among the courtiers. Bisera lowered her own head, an almost giddy grin threatening to break across her normally stern features. She is from Seraphina, alright.

Part 2

Saralta pulled back gently on the reins, bringing her dappled mare to a halt at the crest of the gentle slope. A biting wind swept around her, tugging at the edges of her fur-lined cloak and playing with the strands of her long, raven-black braid. Narrowing her sharp, dark eyes, she gazed at the fortress city rising quietly from beyond the ridge. Beneath the pale winter sky, Podem's stout stone walls and battlements stood as silent sentinels, etched softly against the fading afternoon.

It had been countless days since Saralta had led her elite steppe cavalry southwest, riding hard across vast, open plains and through narrow mountain trails. The journey had carried an echo of home—the northern lands near the Volga—but colder, harsher, weighed down by more uncertainty. She shifted uneasily, the heavy furs on her shoulders suddenly oppressive, warmed not just by exertion, but by thoughts that twisted and churned within her mind.

She had departed Rosagar swiftly, without lavish ceremony. But the news she had recently received troubled her. If the whispers from Arinthia were true—then Rosagar needed eyes on the ground. Yet Saralta had not come to pledge loyalty blindly. Should the empire crumble under civil strife, Rosagar would smoothly pivot to independence, safely away from the flames.

Her mare snorted restlessly, pawing the frozen earth. Saralta soothed the creature gently, nudging her forward down the slope. Behind her, seasoned riders formed disciplined columns, banners fluttering. Each warrior carried a curved steppe bow and wore the distinctive lamellar armor adapted for swift mobility—steppe cavalry famed for their lightning strikes. They had traveled quickly, lightly, unwilling to be burdened by excessive baggage.

The farmland around Podem appeared eerily desolate, fields fallow and houses shuttered. Saralta's heart tightened, remembering the news of the coup in Arinthia. She clenched her jaw unconsciously. Emperor Simon had ordered loyal troops to gather at Podem, and she obeyed. But she had no intention of rushing blindly into another's civil conflict. Rosagar had no eternal vows tying it to Vakeria. If the usurper took control, she would simply lead her troops back north, safeguarding her father's principality.

Yet despite her logic, a faint pang of guilt still pricked at her conscience. Vakeria, flawed as it was, had respected her abilities in ways Rosagar's own nobility sometimes had not. Still, her loyalty belonged first to Rosagar. She shook off the uncomfortable thought, refocusing on the task ahead.

They ascended another gentle rise, and suddenly Podem spread clearly below, imposing and sturdy. The distant battlements loomed taller now, crowned with vigilant guards and sharpened palisades. Saralta felt tension grip her chest. Approaching too boldly could easily provoke misunderstanding during these confusing times. She raised a hand, signaling her troop to pause.

"We hold here," Saralta's voice resonated clearly, quiet authority in every syllable. She glanced toward Zeryk, her grizzled second-in-command. "Send a herald ahead. Let's confirm their welcome."

Zeryk nodded sharply, assembling a small detachment and raising a simple white flag alongside the Rosagar banner. As they rode toward the gate, Saralta scanned the barren farmland, vineyards dormant and abandoned. Her mother's cautious voice echoed softly within her: "Stay hidden until you must act. Let others tire themselves out first."

Her father had counseled similar prudence: "Rosagar never bets its strength blindly. We wait, we watch, we choose carefully." Yet deep within her chest, a stubborn flicker of pride burned. Wasn't she a warrior, meant to charge fearlessly into battle? She crushed that thought quickly. Emotion was dangerous now; logic would see her through.

The heralds soon returned, escorted by a small group of Podem cavalry. Their captain, clad in a half-cloak over shining chainmail, offered Saralta a respectful salute. "Lady Saralta of Rosagar, you are expected and welcome," he said formally. "Emperor Simon invites you within the walls. Your troops may camp safely by the eastern moat."

Saralta raised a brow slightly at the title. Lady. She rarely used it openly—preferring simply her name or 'General.' "We thank you for your courtesy," she replied calmly, her voice firm yet neutral. "Inform General Serko I shall meet him shortly once my riders settle."

The captain inclined his head, turning to guide them inside. Passing through Podem's massive gates, Saralta saw the wary eyes of guards and the curious glances of citizens peering cautiously from shuttered homes. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the scent of smoke and uncertainty.

Within moments, she had dismounted in a muddy courtyard, handing her mare's reins to a waiting stablehand. The officer from Podem gestured politely toward quarters nearby. "The Emperor is currently giving an audience to General Bisera and the Great Mage James," he explained.

At that, curiosity stirred within Saralta. The famed General Bisera—and this so-called divine emissary, James. Tales of miracles and heavenly magic seemed absurd to her practical steppe mind. She suppressed a smirk. If the Vakerians truly believed such fantasies, perhaps she was right to watch and bide her time. Yet Saralta resolved to withhold judgment until they met face-to-face.

Her stomach growled gently, reminding her of their harsh travel. Patting her mare's neck affectionately, she turned to the officer. "Ensure my scouts have free passage at dawn. We'll need intelligence from around Podem." He nodded, quickly noting her command.

With a final glance around the courtyard—careful, observant—Saralta took stock of her surroundings.

Yet beneath her mask of cool neutrality stirred excitement. Something in the coming meetings—especially with Emperor Simon, Bisera, and the supposed divine emissary. And Saralta, despite every cautious voice inside her, found herself eager for what lay ahead.