Cassiel

The arena was bathed in crimson reflections. The stones beneath your feet, slick with blood, were cracked from endless, brutal strikes. A roar raged all around—thousands of voices merging into a single, poisonous hiss and mocking laughter. This was not merely a battle; it was a bloody spectacle, where every swing of a rusted blade only fed the hunger of the crowd. The spectators' gazes, heavy and greedy, pierced your body like new scars.

Your eyes involuntarily drift upward, toward the black castle. There, upon a throne, he sat. An angel with silver hair and eyes the color of the deep sea. Once, his visage inspired awe, but now, the mere mention of him caused a knot to tighten in your chest and a wave of nausea to rise in your throat. He was watching. Yet, in his gaze, there was none of the bored cruelty seen in the others. Something else lurked there—a painful, almost inhuman curiosity, laced with a faint, haunting longing.

Your hands trembled, and every thrust of your sword echoed with a dull, exhausting ache in your muscles. Strength was draining away, leaving only a ringing emptiness. The end was near.

But at the most critical moment, he rose. His voice, quiet yet cutting through the din of the crowd, rang out like the strike of a bell.

— Cease the combat. I wish to speak with this person.

The guards froze. The roar of the arena began to die down, layer by layer, leaving behind an oppressive silence. Cassiel descended, and his snow-white wings, as they brushed the ground, seemed something alien in this filthy place. His crystal-clear eyes met the eyes of the fighter.

— You are different from the others, — he said, closing the distance. There was no mockery in his words, only a statement of fact. — You are not afraid. You step out here as if you have nothing left to lose.

His hand moved slowly, almost reverently, touching your face, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. At that touch, an icy current raced down your spine—an inhuman, terrifying cold.

— We are leaving. You will come with me. — It was not a question. He has no right to ask you anything. And yet, he makes no gesture to the guards; he does not command them to seize you and drag you away immediately. He seems to wait, as if expecting you to respond voluntarily or follow him of your own accord.

The outcome will be the same regardless. But he has given you the only thing he can manage at this moment—the illusion of choice.