After the Central Confluence, I thought I'd rest longer. The contract had drained me—spiritually, physically, and in ways I still couldn't explain. It paid well, at least. Enough to afford quiet. I spent two months in the north, doing nothing but breathing, training, and thinking.
Mostly, it was the Confluence.
That damn contract.
How it twisted everything over our heads.
We entered with a plan. One we had worked on for weeks. The Husafis were supposed to rise. This contract was our move—the one that would make us undeniable. We had the strategy, the funds, the right contacts. The victories were already mapped in our minds.
But none of it played out as we expected.
That native doctor betrayed us.
He led us into a mess we couldn't climb out of.
The dais he was promised had all been part of the setup. The plan was simple: Once the co ordinates was received and he went to retrieve the agreed payment, then we would make our move. We stationed Madarikans nearby—some of our best operatives—hidden and ready to capture him.
But somehow… they got ambushed instead.
Crushed. Overwhelmed. Obliterated.
Before the second day of the Confluence, we had already lost control.
So many casualties in such a short window. So many variables we thought we could manipulate—but couldn't. It all fell apart.
No wonder I couldn't stop thinking.
But silence becomes a prison when you're a divine.
Eventually, I accepted a new contract—this time in the west. Routine. Simple. Cleanup operations with 1st otder fallen threat. I didn't go alone. Idris Husafi came with me, along with Abdul, a lesser Hand. We finished the contract in less than 2 days.
We collected our pay, mounted our Ashtaris, and began the journey north.
That was the plan, anyway.
But plans mean nothing when death finds you first.
It happened as the sun dipped behind the western cliffs—casting long shadows across the dusty trail.
We were halfway through a pass when the wind changed.
No birds. No insects. No rustling leaves. Just a cold, rising pressure—like the sky itself was holding its breath.
Then we saw him.
Or... it.
A figure stepped into the path ahead. Alone. No noise. No warning.
I yanked on my Ashtari's reins. Idris and Abdul flanked to the sides, already sensing it too.
The figure stood still, maybe 180cm, draped in what looked like scorched rags fused to its flesh. Its skin was ashy, like burnt clay, cracked and crumbling at the joints. Across both arms were sharp spikes, one long and jagged through each wrist, and smaller ones, jagged and uneven, lining the length of his forearms.
But it was the face that froze us.
Cracked all over. Like a mask breaking from the inside. It looked human—but barely. An illusion of a face, twisted with something... wrong. And then the eyes—
Glowing red. Like an ember that would never go out.
The Ashtaris stepped back. So did Abdul.
We didn't even have time to draw our Divine Crafts.
In a blur—he was on us.
The wind exploded. The air bent.
I barely saw him move before I was snatched off my Ashtari and slammed to the ground.
Everything went white with pain.
By the time I blinked, Idris and Abdul had been thrown to the side, their bodies skidding across dirt and rock like sacks.
And this... thing had its hand around my throat.
Its face was inches from mine.
Its voice wasn't loud. But it was deep. Distorted. Like it echoed from inside the bones of the earth.
"Who did the Husafis make a deal with… for the Central Confluence?"
I stared at him. My chest heaving. How does it know?
"Answer me."
I didn't.
So he drove his left spike clean into my side.
The pain was unreal. Hot. Blinding. Like it carried something more than bone.
I screamed, grabbing at his arm. Blood poured from my side, soaking into the cracked earth.
The others stirred—Idris had readied his craft, Abdul did the same—but they never got the chance.
Two spikes shot out from the attacker's arms—independent of his body. Like they had minds of their own.
One of the spikes shot clean through Abdul's shoulder, slamming him backward and pinning him to a jagged rock with a sickening crack.
The other tore into Idris's thigh, the force folding him to the ground as he let out a strangled cry, blood gushing between his fingers as he tried to crawl away.
And then the voice returned.
"Answer me… or I kill all of you."
This time, I believed it.
And more terrifying than its strength...It spoke our language. Clearly. Deliberately.
This… was a Fallen. But one unlike any I'd ever seen.
A Fallen who could think, and interrogate, and hunt with purpose. Must be of the 8th order.
I coughed blood, trying to breathe. Then I said:
He didn't ask again.
His grip tightened around my ribs until something cracked. I could barely breathe. Pain was searing, sharp, immediate. But even through it, my mind was already moving.
Telling him wouldn't be a problem. Not really.
It wasn't like the native doctor was part of any Divine family. He was just a tool—a skilled, discreet one, yes—but one we could control for our own benefit. That was the point.
And in the end, he was the one who betrayed us during the Confluence.
So if this… creature—this Fallen—was after him, so be it. It'd help clean up a loose thread. Maybe even work in our favor.
So I told him.
Everything.
How the deal was made, the promises exchanged, the dais, the planned ambush—how we thought we'd turn the Confluence to our victory, how it had all flipped against us.
I held nothing back.
And I ended with the name of the native doctor.
Jimoh.
Silence. The spike slid out of my side slowly. Not out of mercy—just...done.
The creature stood. Back arched. Muscles twitching like something inside was still moving.
For a moment, I thought it would leave.
But then it turned to Idris.
Idris, now coughing, still tried to lift his craft.
He didn't get the chance.
In one smooth, awful motion—The Fallen decapitated him.
No sound. Just a flash. And a fall.
The body slumped sideways. Idris Husafi's head rolled across the trail, his mouth frozen mid-breath.
Abdul screamed. I couldn't move. Blood poured from me like it was leaving in protest.
The creature didn't speak again. It turned. Walked. Vanished into the cliffs like a shadow swallowed by the wind.
And I remained there, bleeding out, staring at my Hand's body.
Unmoving.
Unbreathing.
Gone.