"BY WHAT DARK MIRACLE DID SHE BREACH THE GATES OF HEAVEN?!"
The voice — her father’s — cracked through the air like a whip, carrying equal parts outrage and alarm. Cyra froze, her mind scrambling through the implications. 'How does he know? And... what’s he going to do about it?'
Alpert’s voice trembled, the sound of a man caught between duty and survival. “Y-your Majesty, perhaps you should calm—”
“Calm down?!” Zarius’s voice dripped with venom. “I shaped her for one purpose — to turn against Heaven — and now she waltzes through its gates?! Do you realize what this means? This will unravel everything!”
A deafening crash reverberated through the chamber, sharp and violent, and Cyra didn’t need to see to know something — or someone — had borne the brunt of his rage.
Alpert’s voice wavered. “Y-your Majesty…?”
“Where is she?” Zarius bellowed, every syllable fueled by molten fury.
“Sh—she left Heaven, Your Majesty,” Alpert stammered.
Silence. Heavy. Suffocating. It pressed in on Cyra, cold and crushing, the way shadows seem to grow when something dangerous is near.
Finally, Zarius spoke — his tone disturbingly calm, which only made it worse. “Alpert.”
The servant’s voice was thin, barely carrying through the heavy stillness that gripped the chamber.
“Y-yes?”
“We will initiate Operation Eternal Storm.”
The words rolled from King Zarius like the first crack of thunder before a hurricane, and even from behind the door, Cyra felt the stone beneath her quiver. Shadows along the corridor seemed to stretch and curl, slithering like restless serpents.
“In seven hours,” he continued, “our legions will march on Heaven, and we will reclaim our rightful place among the Celestial Realms.”
Alpert faltered. “B-but, Your Majesty, the Angels will not take this lightly. Are you certain—”
“I should have acted sooner,” Zarius cut in, his voice sharp enough to flay skin. The temperature in the hall dropped, then spiked, as if the Realm itself couldn’t decide whether to freeze or burn under his fury. “It’s only a matter of time before she turns against me—thanks to those accursed Angels and their poison.”
Cyra’s brows knit together, her frown carved deep. 'Accursed Angels?'
The thought rang sour in her mind, colliding with the images she’d carried back. Their light, their precision, their beauty—magnificent creatures, she thought, and the stubborn part of her bristled.
'He has no right to speak of them that way.'
As Alpert bowed and darted from the chamber, Cyra’s thoughts spun like wildfire. Without another second to linger, she blinked herself outside the palace gates—only to forget her own teleportation trick the very next moment.
She tore across the scorched plains, hellfire licking at her heels. Devils paused mid-step to watch her, their faces twisted in curiosity, but she paid them no mind. Her head was already full of one question that refused to quiet.
'Did Lloyd know about this?'
Halfway to the Bridge of the Afterlife, the answerless frustration boiled over. She halted, slapped her palm to her forehead, and muttered, “Idiot. You can teleport.”
In the next instant, she reappeared before the colossal bridge, its silver span gleaming faintly against the eternal darkness. She stared up at it, the airless void pressing in around her.
Two paths unfurled in her mind, each as dangerous as the other.
Warn the Angels, and risk igniting the very war her father wanted?
Or keep her silence, and let his plan strike like a blade in the dark?
The choice was a dagger twisting in her gut—one that could tip the scales of Heaven and Hell forever.
Cyra hovered at the edge of the Bridge of the Afterlife, her foot lingering just above its polished surface. The silver expanse seemed endless, a serpent of light binding Heaven and Hell together. She stared into the radiant realm above, the question clawing at her mind.
'If I step onto this Bridge… will I just make everything worse?'
Her father’s voice still echoed in her head—crafted to turn against Heaven—and the truth settled in like a stone in her gut. Of course. She wasn’t just part of his plan. She was the plan. A living weapon. A Nephalem forged for the sole purpose of shattering Heaven’s gates.
She let out a humorless laugh, eyes burning. “Perfect. I’m the doomsday button.”
The thought of going back to face him was laughable. Facing the Angels now? Even worse—they’d see her as a ticking bomb in devil’s clothing.
Her gaze drifted downward to the abyss, then back toward the blinding gates above. “I can’t go back… and I can’t go up,” she murmured, her voice laced with bitter resignation.
Her mind sifted desperately through the realms she knew—Vampires, Dragons, Merfolk, Fae. None of them were safe, and none of them would welcome her with open arms. She couldn’t risk drawing her father’s enemies—or his allies—straight to their doorstep.
Then, like a spark in the dark, the thought struck her. Somewhere beneath all this chaos… somewhere small, unassuming, and blissfully ordinary.
The Mortal World. The Sanctuary. The Realm of Humans.
If she couldn’t fight, and she couldn’t stand still, then she’d vanish. Hide in a place where Devils rarely bothered to look.
And if her father wanted his precious doomsday weapon back… he’d have to find her first.
“What’s it called again?” she muttered, tapping her temple. “E… Earl? Ear–something? Whatever. I’ll figure it out later.” She shook her head, muttering under her breath, “Names aren’t important when you’re running for your life... or whatever it is I have.”
She stepped closer to the cliff’s edge, staring into the churning void beneath. The thought crept in—'What if I just jump?' Maybe she’d land somewhere useful… or maybe she’d drift until she dissolved into nothing. “Yeah, no thanks,” she mumbled, stepping back.
Cyra glanced up toward Heaven’s unreachable gates, then back toward the dark kingdom she’d fled. If she couldn’t go up and she couldn’t go back, she’d have to go sideways—into the one realm her father’s hand didn’t yet fully control.
“I’ll just teleport.”
It wasn’t as simple as snapping her fingers. She’d never been to the Mortal World. She didn’t know its scent, its light, or the feel of its magic. Without a direct image or a tether, finding it was like firing an arrow blindfolded and hoping to hit a single speck of dust.
Closing her eyes, she reached deep, pulling on the quiet hum of power in her bones. She didn’t seek “up” or “down,” but away—searching for somewhere the veil between realms thinned, just enough for her to slip through.
A faint pulse stirred in the distance—weak, fragile, like the heartbeat of a sleeping child. She gripped it and pushed.
The world yanked sideways. A crushing stillness wrapped around her, the kind that didn’t belong in any living place. No wind, no whispers of air against her skin—just an oppressive, unmoving silence. Her boots struck hard ground with a jolt that ran up her spine.
When her vision steadied, she found herself in a narrow alleyway. The brick walls stretched high, pitted and stained with age. The air—what little of it there was—was stale, heavy, and dead. Trash clung to the corners, and somewhere a faint metallic tang lingered like rusted blood.
Cyra blinked, her senses twitching. The magic here was wrong—thin, brittle, and cold, like it could shatter if she touched it too hard. Her presence was already pressing against it, bending it out of shape. If she wasn’t careful, the whole realm would notice her.
She turned toward the faint strip of light at the alley’s end. This wasn’t safety. This was just the first hiding place.
Cyra crept toward the sliver of light at the end of the alley, her palm sliding along the wall for balance. The bricks were cold beneath her fingers, rough enough to scrape skin.
She stopped at the corner, leaned forward just enough to see—
Her eyes widened.
People. Everywhere.
The narrow street opened into a busy stretch alive with movement. Humans hurried past one another in a constant, chaotic flow—some laughing with companions, others barking into strange, glowing rectangles they held to their ears. Cyra stared, absorbing the swirl of colors: deep blues, warm browns, and eye shades she’d never seen in Hell or Heaven. Their clothing was equally baffling—no uniforms, no armor, no ceremonial robes—just endless variety stitched from fabrics she couldn’t name.
The wonder in her chest quickly twisted into unease. She didn’t belong here, and she knew it. Every inch of her screamed wrong. Her wings alone would send this crowd into panic—or worse, draw the wrong kind of attention.
She stepped back into the shadow of the alley. First thing: the wings. She pulled on the familiar reflex, willing them to dissolve into her aura. The fabric of her enchanted outfit flexed and shifted with the change, no strain or tearing. Good.
But then she caught her reflection in a dented sheet of metal leaning against the wall.
The horns.
She flinched. No cloak could hide them; even headwear would make them seem suspicious. Her gaze dropped to her tail, curling lazily behind her, and an idea formed.
Separate concealment works. What if… together?
She hesitated, her magic flickering faintly around her skin. No one had taught her to do that. No one thought it could be done. In Hell, such a trick would be useless—why hide what you are?
What a hypocritical thought...
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself as they saw her: wingless, hornless, tail gone. The mental picture wavered like a heat mirage, breaking apart every few seconds. She pushed harder, pulling her magic close to her skin, wrapping herself in the memory of her humanlike form.
The change hit in a single shiver—sharp, unfamiliar.
When she opened her eyes, the horns were gone. So was the tail. Her silhouette looked… ordinary. Almost. She touched the spot where the horns used to be—smooth scalp, no ridge or bump—and a quiet, startled laugh escaped her.
“I didn’t think that would actually work.”
Still, the effort left a faint ache at the base of her skull—a reminder that she was used to hiding one feature at a time, not all at once. She could hold the form for as long as she needed, but the constant pull on her focus would make it harder to react quickly if trouble struck.
And deep down, she knew the disguise wouldn’t fool everyone. If her father was anywhere near this realm, he’d see right through it.
The thought wasn’t triumph—it was survival. Every second here was dangerous, and if she couldn’t blend in, she wouldn’t last the hour.
Cyra glanced back toward the bustling street. She still didn’t know the rules of this realm, but she could learn. And learning fast was the only way she was going to survive her father long enough to stop him.
Next, Cyra needed a change of clothes—something that would let her pass as one of them. She stayed in the shadow of the alley, scanning the crowd beyond. Loose fabrics. Muted colors. Soft shoes that barely made a sound on the pavement. Not a single breastplate or ceremonial sash in sight.
Problem: she couldn’t exactly walk up to a human and demand their outfit.
Her gaze lingered on a woman in a faded green jacket, then a man in ripped blue trousers and a strange, flat-brimmed hat. Casual seemed to be the rule here. Ordinary was camouflage.
A slow, sly grin tugged at her lips.
“What if…” Her voice was barely a murmur, but her eyes sharpened with focus.
She drew in her magic—not with breath, but with that still, quiet pull at her core—and shaped the image in her mind: plain fabrics, dull colors, nothing that hinted at who or what she was. The magic flowed over her skin like cool water, replacing weight and texture in a blink.
When she looked down, the transformation was complete. Her flowing Devil garb, rich with crimson embroidery and layered in heavy cloth, was gone. In its place: a plain black hoodie draped over a simple shirt, dark blue shorts brushing her mid-thigh, and black-and-white shoes with soft rubber soles.
She tugged at the hem of the hoodie, testing its feel. The fabric absorbed what little light reached the alley, turning her into a shadow within a shadow. Her eyes, sharper than any human’s, picked out each stitch and seam anyway.
“Teleportation really does have more uses than others think,” she muttered, turning one sleeve in her fingers.
The ache behind her temples gave a dull reminder—another weight added to the strain of holding her altered form. Not enough to stop her, but enough to make her keep her focus razor-sharp.
But her disguise wasn’t complete yet. Her clothes would help her vanish into the crowd, but her face still carried every mark of who she was.
Angels walked among humans; Devils far less so. If her father suspected she was here, he’d send search parties. And if one of them happened to glimpse her white hair or gold-and-red gaze… it would all be over before it began.
She closed her eyes, letting her focus sink deeper. Her hair darkened, strands bleeding from white to a deep, rich black—a color she’d always found quietly striking.
Next came the eyes. She didn’t want to lose all of herself, so she kept her heterochromia. The left, once a Devil’s burning red, cooled into a sharp emerald green. The right, once molten gold, shifted into a bright, ice-clear blue.
The change tugged at the edges of her mind—more magic stacked onto the strain she was already holding. The dull ache at her temples throbbed once, like a warning knock. Manageable, but it was there.
She needed to be sure the illusion was right. That’s when she spotted it: a cracked, half-broken mirror leaning against a wall, its warped surface catching a thin ray of light.
Staying in the shadows, she crossed the alley and picked it up. She tilted it until the reflection matched the image in her mind—black hair framing an unfamiliar face, mismatched eyes glinting in the dimness.
A small smile tugged at her lips. “Okay… I guess that’s it,” she murmured.
The fractured glass scattered her reflection into jagged shards, imperfect and uneven. Somehow, that felt right. A disguise was never truly perfect—just convincing enough to survive.
With tentative steps, the now raven-haired girl stepped out of the alley and onto the cracked, weather-worn sidewalk. Neon lights blazed from signs above, bathing the street in shifting pinks, blues, and golds. The air thrummed with life—honking cars, snippets of conversation, the hum of distant music. It was dazzling compared to the stillness she’d just left behind.
She barely had time to take it in before—
Wham.
A body slammed into hers. Cyra stumbled back, her head snapping to one side. A dull throb that had been quietly lurking since her concealment spell flared sharply, making her groan under her breath. She caught herself against a lamppost, one hand instinctively pressing to her temple.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
The voice was warm, edged with genuine concern. Cyra blinked, focusing on the source—a girl with auburn hair that caught the light like burnished copper and olive-green eyes that glimmered with kindness.
Cyra straightened, brushing grit from her black hoodie. “I… yeah, I’m fine,” she said, the faint ache in her skull making her voice come out quieter than intended.
The girl stepped closer, scanning her face. They were about the same height, and for a brief moment, they simply looked at each other. Cyra caught the faint tilt of the stranger’s head, as if she were trying to puzzle her out.
“Excuse me,” the girl began, brows knitting, “but… are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
Cyra let out a nervous chuckle, wincing slightly at the motion. “Oh, yeah… I mean, yes?” She hesitated, mind racing for something safe to say.
The girl’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Then… what were you doing in that dark alley?”
Cyra sighed, the question hitting harder than it should have. “The thing is… I’m kinda lost. I don’t even know what this place is called.”
The stranger’s expression softened immediately. “Oh. Well… this is Starfall City. I’m Zoey, by the way.” She smiled, the kind of smile that felt like it belonged in a safer world than this one.
Cyra hesitated. Revealing her real name had never felt riskier, yet something about Zoey’s voice made her defenses falter.
Was she some kind of Angel? No… Cyra would’ve felt it instantly.
But the headache’s steady pulse in her skull was making it hard to focus, and she didn’t like how easy it was to get lost in those green eyes.
“I’m… Cyra,” she replied, forcing her voice into something that sounded casual, even though her guard was still firmly in place.
Zoey’s smile widened. “Cyra. What a beautiful name!”
“Thank you,” Cyra said, returning the smile—but only briefly. Compliments were nice, but she’d learned a long time ago they didn’t guarantee safety.
Zoey tilted her head, eyes glinting with curiosity. “So, you said you were lost… but it sounds like you don’t have anywhere to go, either?”
“Yeah…” Cyra’s answer came out low, more like a hum than a word.
Zoey’s expression brightened with an almost disarming warmth. “Well, you can stay with me if you want. I don’t think my mum will mind.”
Cyra blinked, a flicker of genuine surprise slipping past her careful mask. “R-really?”
“Yeah,” Zoey said with an easy nod. “We have plenty of room. You can’t stay out here alone, especially not in a city like this.”
There was kindness in her eyes—steady, unflinching—but Cyra’s mind still spun through possibilities. Was Zoey just being nice? Or was she one of those people who seemed harmless until you learned otherwise?
“…Alright,” Cyra said at last, fingers curling lightly at her sides. She studied Zoey, her gaze narrowing. “But why are you helping me? For all you know, I might not be what I seem. I could have an ulterior motive, and you’d still be opening your door to me.”
Zoey met her gaze steadily, her olive eyes calm and sincere. “I don’t pretend to know everything about you, and maybe you do have secrets. But everyone deserves kindness—no matter what they are or what they hide. Helping someone in need doesn’t mean I trust them blindly. It means I believe people can change, or that they deserve a chance.”
Cyra let the words settle between them. A dull ache throbbed at her temples—the lingering strain from holding her dual concealment—but she ignored it, weighing Zoey’s expression. There was nothing performative there, nothing that read like a lie.
She had read that human hearts weren’t pure—not like Angels—but not all of them were rotten either. Some of their souls made it to Heaven afterall. And though her caution didn’t fade, something in Zoey’s voice made her wonder if she’d just met one of the rare ones.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
⋆ Cyra's POV ⋆
268Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgvRzVmEzo1
“CYRA, WAKE UP!” The familiar shout shattered the quiet morning, yanking me out of the warmth I’d wrapped myself in. I groaned, blinking slowly as Zoey’s frazzled face came into focus beside my bed. She held my favorite blue sheets — the ones that always seemed to glow softly in the morning light — now teasingly just out of reach.
A small pang hit me. Those sheets had become my comfort, my little piece of normal.
“Just five more minutes...” I mumbled, curling back under the covers, reluctant to leave the softness.
Zoey rolled her eyes, but her smile was warm. “You know the drill. Thirty minutes until first period. We can’t be late, not with Mrs. Johnson’s zero tolerance.”
My heart kicked into gear. “What?!” I shot upright, the rush of urgency sinking in as I shoved off the blankets.
I moved quickly through my routine — the cold water on my face snapping away the last of sleep, the familiar scent of soap filling the air. Dressing in my school uniform felt automatic by now: the dark blue skirt, light blue shirt, red tie, and blazer that symbolized the school's spirit.
I stepped into the kitchen, the familiar warmth wrapping around me like a soft blanket. The scent of freshly baked toast filled the air as soft morning light spilled through the window, illuminating the cream-colored walls and dark wood cabinets. The worn island in the center looked just like it always did—home.
Zoey was already there, waiting with that teasing smirk that never seemed to fade. Her auburn hair caught the sunlight, shining bright as ever. “Cyra, after a whole year living with us, you still can’t shake this habit,” she said, eyes sparkling with amusement.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile.
At the table, Molly, Zoey’s mom, was quietly busy buttering toast, her kind eyes crinkling with warmth. Her auburn waves framed a face that always made me feel safe, her gentle smile a steady comfort.
She glanced up and joked, “Sometimes I think she’s been forced to stay awake her whole life.”
I muttered under my breath, biting into the cereal that somehow never lost its sweetness. “You have no idea...”
After a swift breakfast, Zoey and I bid Molly farewell and headed to school, just three streets away. The cool morning air brushed against my skin as we walked through the familiar corridors of Evercrest High. The bell rang, signaling the start of class. We slipped into our usual seats at the back—our quiet sanctuary—where we could watch and listen without drawing too much attention.
Mrs. Johnson, our homeroom teacher, stood at the front of the classroom, clipboard in hand. She began the morning with roll call, her voice clear and steady as she called out names.
“Adams, Liam?”
“Here,” a boy near the front answered.
“Alvarez, Ava?”
A soft “Present” came from a girl sitting by the window.
Mrs. Johnson continued down the list, names flowing steadily, until she reached the H’s.
“Hansen, Marcus?”
“Here.”
“Harper, Emily?”
“Present.”
Her eyes scanned the page, then she called out, “Hoover, Cyra?”
I hesitated a bit, but I answered, “Here.”
I'd lied when I first arrived, saying I didn’t have a last name — didn’t want to reveal too much. But Zoey and her family were so kind, so open, that I took their last name without really thinking about it. Sometimes, the guilt tugs at me, but mostly, it feels like a small thread connecting me to a world I’m still trying to belong to.
Zoey gave me a small grin. Our silent exchange was a quiet reminder of the bond we’d built.
“Hoover, Zoey?”
“Here,” She said with her usual bright tone.
As Mrs. Johnson closed her attendance, she shifted to the lesson, scribbling complex physics equations across the board.
As the numbers and formulas filled the room, my mind wandered. It was hard to believe how much had changed since I first arrived in Starfall City. I’d found a true friend in Zoey, a warm home with her family, and a peace I hadn’t known in centuries.
A year ago, I told Molly and Zoey I was just a simple fifteen-year-old girl. Now I was sixteen, though in truth, I was eleven hundred and sixteen. Time had little meaning for me anymore, yet here I was, trying to live one day at a time.
Sometimes, when the world was quiet, I could almost forget who I was—except for the nagging whisper in my mind reminding me: I couldn’t hide forever. My father would come for me. And when he did, I had to be ready.
But for now, I chose to savor this fragile normalcy—holding onto the friendships, the small moments, and the life that made this strange, mortal world feel like home.
»»———————- ♔ ———————-««
King Zarius: "Calm down?! I crafted her to turn against Heaven, and now she's breached the very gates! This will unravel everything!"
Alpert: "Well, maybe it's time to consider a new hobby, Your Majesty. Like knitting or something."
King Zarius: "Knitting?! You think I should knit while my plans are unraveling?!"
---
Cyra: “I can’t keep hiding forever. One of these days, my dad will find me.”
Zoey: “You know, I’ve had worse worries. Like that one time I lost my phone for two hours."
268Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDJfOm0pAFX
[A/N]: The real fun begins~
Thanks for reading! ^^
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