In the silence before the storm breaks, you might see him — hooves sparking like struck flint, wings trailing thunder. If your heart holds falsehood, he will not carry you. If it holds fear, he may.
Some say she appears where the stars fall softest. That flowers bloom at her hooves even in winter. That if she lowers her horn to a fallen soul… they dream one final dream — and in it, they forgive themselves.
They say she walks the warzones no other angels will tread. Where divine light fails, she rises — not as mercy, but as reckoning. Her sword doesn’t burn. It grows.
He descended not on wings, but on certainty. His voice stilled storms. His sword made no sound as it moved. And when he spoke your name, you were already judged.
He descended in a beam of flame and silence. The raiders dropped their blades. Some wept. Some ran. I dropped to my knees. Not from fear… but from knowing I was seen.