In the end, there was nothing I could do but watch her die.
The sword had never been meant for anyone immortal, its ancient magic feeding from the bearer’s lifeline. When she touched the hilt it had flared to incandescent glory, burning through the years she offered.
She’d been right, only that boundless fury could have carved through the dark enchantments that protected the heart of Avenkadra. But now, watching the flames fade into darkness, I couldn’t help but curse the gods who created her, then let her die.
Men were born and bred to thrown themselves upon the swords of destiny, scattering their souls across a thousand godly battlefields. It was our right, our honor, and we had failed her.
Angels were never meant to fall.