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Chapter One
If an angel loses her Grace, her wings will wither like the parched lands of Cinder.
- The Book Of Grace Chapter 5 Verse 87
Malachi Umbra,Commander of the Seventh Celestial Host and newly appointed High Commander of Legions—and my father—with his piercing violet gaze and broad build, is the greatest archangel in generations.
Great like the flood.
Great like the depression.
Great like my desire not to be here.
The floor trembles.
The air crackles with energy as blinding, electric blue flames surge up from the very center of our plane.
An answer to his call.
He isn’t an archangel people argue with.
Today is different.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
For a moment, his thunderous order drowns out the hissing, sizzling fire leaping toward him. The flames encircle him, casting him and his war room in icy shades of blue-violet. He draws his wings in close just as the fires draw closer, bathing his formal robes and white feathers in flickering light.
The flames lick closer still, teasing at the hem of his robes until they finally consume him completely.
My father steps forward and the flames settle around his neck, flowing down his back like a magnificent cloak.
It’s quite an image.
One that he’s cultivated over the centuries he’s held office, now emboldened by his newly appointed position.
I’ve never seen him without at least a touch of the Flames.
Embers at his fingertips.
Blue smoke winding around his head like a ghostly crown.
A single spark in his gaze.
So there’s never a doubt.
Not a single soul can forget, even for a moment, how powerful he is.
The only archangel in history to have the Flames of Celestus at his beck and call.
It’s been ages since he’s called on the plane’s fires in full. That he’s done so now doesn’t bode well for me.
And as the unnaturally hued firelight flickers over his features, painting him in unsettling shadow and light, a question tickles my mind.
What will he choose this time?
Compassion?
Empathy?
