THE FALLEN ANGEL'S MORTAL

"May the heavenly Father forgive me for what I'm about to do," Dione whispered, her hands shaking as she lit the last candle. Everything was set.

The circle and sigils had been carefully drawn in white and red chalk. All six candles burned brightly, and the bowl of white dove's blood sat at the center.

Dione knelt on the cold floor, her raven-black hair spilling over her pale shoulders and down her back.

Her sister was dying. And there was no other way to save her.

The doctors had given up hope, but Dione refused to do the same.

Dahlia had always been the brighter twin.

The one people noticed and naturally warmed to.

Even after their parents' fatal accident and their distant aunt refused to take them in, Dahlia had been the one who kept Dione going, finding ways to make her smile when life gave them little reason to.

Dione, on the other hand, had always been the opposite: quiet, withdrawn, and more comfortable in black than anywhere else.

Compared to her sister, she thought herself the 'unimportant' one.

But none of that mattered tonight.

She would give up her soul if it meant her twin lived.

So she had turned to the forbidden.

Fallen angels.

They were her last hope.

Cast out of Heaven in an age long forgotten, the Fallen still wielded fragments of the Creator's power. According to the scraps of lore Dione had pieced together, even the lesser members of the Upper Six possessed enough power to heal what mortal medicine could not.

Months of obsessive study had convinced Dione that these beings were no holier than demons. They were wicked, cunning, and hungry for payment of the most costly kind.

But she no longer cared, as long as they were able to free her sister from the bone-eating disease that assaulted her night and day.

A few feet away, she lay on the narrow bed, lost in the only mercy left to her: sleep.

Dione drew a deep breath, opened the forbidden grimoire, and sliced her palm with the ritual knife. Blood dripped onto the center sigil. Then she began to chant, pouring every ounce of her desperation into the ancient Latin phrases.

She was no expert in celestial history, but desperation had driven her to study these creatures obsessively.

When the last word left her lips and nothing answered but deafening silence, Dione's stomach dropped to her feet.

This had been her final hope.

Now, she would have to watch her sister die.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she sat there, sobbing for moments, until a crackling sound suddenly cut through the quiet.

It sounded like electricity, but it also sounded like fire meeting dry leaves.

The marks on the floor slowly began to ignite, and Dione gasped in fear, scrambling backward as white flames spread along the chalk lines, climbing higher until something huge stepped out of them.

No, it was not something. It was someone.

This was no ordinary Fallen like Orion or Rok, the lowest-ranked members of the Upper Six, and the ones Dione had deliberately hoped to summon. They were powerful enough to heal her sister, but supposedly safer for a mortal to bargain with.

And yet… standing before her was Ephemiel, the Once-Beloved—their prince and leader of them all.

His sun-gold hair and unnaturally vibrant green eyes gave him away at once, huge wings scarred from his ancient fall unfolding behind him.

They were not the pristine white of heavenly hosts. They were black in every shade: coal, midnight, obsidian, ink, soot. The only imperfection on an otherwise flawless angelic form.

Ephemiel's pride was legendary. Every grimoire Dione had read never failed to mention it. She wondered whether a creature like him would even consider helping someone as small and insignificant as her. But she had to try.

For the first few minutes, the room was dead quiet.

Ephemiel stared at her with utter contempt, his piercing green eyes—the most frightening she'd ever seen—trained on her.

Dione shivered from the attention.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?"

His voice was quiet, but the anger simmering beneath it made her stomach tighten.

Dione scrambled to her feet. "I-I'm sorry." She stuttered. "I…"

"You summon me," he interrupted, his voice smooth and powerful, "Ephemiel First of the Black Winged, Prince of the Fallen, and dare to stand there as though I am some common spirit to be bargained with."

Her heart pounded harder. "I-I expected one of the lesser Fallen. I meant no disrespect…"

"You dragged me from my rest." he cut in, his voice hardening. "You would do well to understand the weight of that offense."

"Please..."

Ephemiel took a sudden step forward, only to pause when a sharp hiss cut through the room. The sigils inside the circle flared brighter in warning.

The Fallen stopped, his eyes dropping to the markings surrounding him.

For a brief moment, silence fell.

When Ephemiel looked up, his expression had morphed into something far more dangerous.

"What is this?" he spoke through gritted teeth, and the sigils blazed brighter.

Dione gulped.

"You try to confine me?" His voice had turned almost guttural. "A prison drawn by chalk and dove's blood?"

Dione's pulse spiked. This was already going terribly wrong. She had somehow managed to enrage the one being who could still save her sister's life.

"I-I did not know who exactly would answer," she stammered. "The book said the circle was necessary for… p-protection."

Ephemiel guffawed in disbelief, the sound strangely beautiful and terrifying.

"Protection," he scoffed, his gaze running over the sigils and candles. "You imagine these markings…" He tilted his head toward the circle. "…shield you from me."

"I had to try," she whispered.

"Of course you did." His voice was laced with mockery. "It is always need that drives mortals to call upon powers beyond them. Never wisdom."

Dione's fingers curled around her bleeding palm. "Please. I only want my sister healed."

Ephemiel's attention shifted briefly to Dahlia's frail form, before returning to Dione.

The fallen angel crossed his hands behind his back with arrogant grace. "Do you understand what you're asking? And are you ready to pay the price?"

"Yes," Dione whispered immediately. "Whatever the cost may be."

He guffawed again, giving her a slow once-over. "So easily spoken. Do you truly believe you possess something that could be of value to me?"

Dione's head dipped. "I have nothing else. Only myself."

"Indeed." His eyes darkened. "And even that is meager."

She was not offended by the insult because she believed it was true.

It was why she would gladly trade her life for her sister's.

Ephemiel lifted his wings partly, enough for the feathers to catch the air, then snapped them down. The force blew out every candle at once, plunging the room into total darkness.

There was no electricity; the bills had gone unpaid for months. Only the thin reflections of moonlight slipping through the curtains kept the space from becoming absolutely black.

Terror washed over Dione. Being in the same room as this creature… this fallen thing… had been almost unbearable in the light.

In darkness, it was worse.

The books had lied.

The circle, the runes, every warning she had followed- none of it was enough to hold him.

She watched the dim silhouette of Ephemiel's leg rise slowly. One foot stepped out of the circle. Then the other.

Nothing stopped him.

Nothing even tried.