Chapter 4 A Mortal Before Ephemiel

They would put something else inside her. Something that would rip her in half trying to be born.

Dione, in her frustration, wanted to claw the sigil off her own arm with her nails. And at the same time, she wanted to fall to her knees and beg Ephemiel never to leave her alone here.

Instead, she stood very still and tried her best not to look terrified.

The books also said the women who fought were the ones who suffered the longest. And she had already bargained away every right to say no.

Dhuraval shot Rok a warning glare. "How did you come here?" he asked, turning back to her. "This plane is hidden from mortal eyes. It should tear your flesh from your bones. Unless…"

"She bears my sigil," a voice interrupted.

The words sent an involuntary thrill racing down Dione's spine.

Ephemiel.

He descended the grand staircase like he owned not only the mansion but the entire plane itself.

His wings were hidden, yet raw power radiated from him in waves. And he moved with the lazy grace of a predator who had never known fear.

Both Fallen turned toward him.

"What business have you with a mortal, Second Light?" Dhuraval asked, crossing his arms.

"None that concerns you." He replied brusquely, not even glancing at them.

Rok scoffed, nudging his friend. "A pet. The prince has grown bored with his endless existence and desires a pet."

Ephemiel's gaze locked onto Dione's, green like absinthe, and piercing. "You. Come."

He turned and strode away without waiting. Dione hurried after him, unable to stop herself from glancing back over her shoulder.

Her last glimpse was Rok staring openly at her ass and Dhuraval smacking the back of his head so hard the paintings on the walls rattled.

Ephemiel walked fast. Dione almost had to jog to keep up. He led her outside into a courtyard garden that should not have existed in any reality she knew.

Trees bore silver leaves and heavy golden fruit that glowed. Flowers pulsed with impossible colors, with shades that had no names on Earth.

They released scents so strong they made her slightly dizzy. Even the sky above looked like polished glass.

Dione could not hide her wonder, her mouth falling open. The place was breathtaking.

Ephemiel glanced at her over one broad shoulder. "Do not drool over my fields, Wasp."

"Sorry," she muttered, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. "It's just… It's beautiful."

"Yes," he said flatly. "Because I created it."

She noticed his attire then. The long coat of dark leather hung open, revealing his powerful torso, while fitted black pants darker than shadow itself clung to his legs. He looked like night and day poured into flesh.

Clearing her throat, Dione asked quietly, "How may I…" She hesitated, carefully choosing the right words she hoped would appease him. "...serve you?"

Ephemiel's lips formed into a slow, arrogant smile, satisfaction gleaming in those green eyes. "Finally," he murmured, sounding pleased. "You begin to understand your place."

Dione inwardly rolled her eyes.

Here it comes again. The title. The speech. The pride.

Ephemiel abruptly paused, watching her sharply, and Dione's pulse spiked.

For a frightening second, she wondered if he could read minds.

The ancient books had never mentioned angelic telepathy or mental intrusion.

Ephemiel's green eyes narrowed, as if confirming her fear, but when he spoke, she realized she had been wrong.

"I called you here," he continued, "for answers."

She exhaled in relief before staring at him in surprise.

This powerful being had summoned her across realms for answers?

Ephemiel paused momentarily, then resumed. "You performed a rite most mortals consider superstition or mere myth."

Dione adjusted the bag on her shoulder as he spoke, keeping her expression neutral.

"I demand to know how a mortal like you…" His eyes drifted over her slim, black-clad frame.

"…was able to speak the words no human tongue has uttered correctly in centuries. Words that have not dragged me from slumber since the last time a desperate woman called me forth."

"I had nothing else to believe in," she replied sincerely. "Dahlia was dying in front of me. And I… I study history. Dead languages. Forgotten things."

Interest sparked in Ephemiel's eyes.

"I found a book about fallen angels one day and started digging. The more I read, the more I hoped that…" She lifted her gaze to his. "…they could still exist."

She dropped her eyes to the floor. "I did not intend to summon you. I thought I would get someone lesser like Rok."

Ephemiel scoffed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Rok is the maddest of us all."

"…or Orion."

His smile thinned. "Instead, you got me."

"Yes," she whispered. "The most powerful of them all."

The statement clearly pleased him; he lifted his head high with pride. "From now on, when I call on you, you will tell me about the mortal world…"

"Haven't you been to the mortal world before?" The question slipped from Dione before she could stop it.

Ephemiel's green eyes narrowed sharply. "Do not interrupt when I speak."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered, shrinking deeper into her oversized black hoodie.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound filled with irritation. "I have." he replied after a moment. "It has simply been a very long while."

Dione hesitated, then offered quietly, still clutching the strap of her backpack, "Then why don't you go there yourself? I could show you around."

The look of pure disgust that crossed his face made her stomach twist. "What could possibly interest me enough in your world to make me wish to return?" He swept a graceful hand toward the garden around them. "Can it offer beauty that rivals even a fraction of this? Or would I merely be exchanging perfection for mediocrity?"

Dione shrugged. "There is beauty in mortality."

Ephemiel fell silent.

For a long moment, he stared at her.

His green eyes grew distant, like her words had pulled him into a memory far older than the garden itself.

Then he blinked, and the mask of arrogance snapped back into place.

"Enough," he said sharply. "This garden was not made for mortal chatter."

Without another glance, he turned and strode away.

Dione hurried after him as he led her back through the palace corridors.

It was empty.

She had hoped to see more of the Fallen, even as insane as it sounded.

They climbed the sweeping staircase Ephemiel had descended from earlier on, and passed through towering doors into a wide chamber that took her breath away.

The room, vast and ancient as it was, was also beautiful.

Dark wood paneling older than any civilization on Earth reflected under the glow of hovering orbs of light.

Heavy curtains depicting celestial battles hung from the walls, their threads made of real gold and something divine.

A massive hearth blazed further down the room, giving off no heat, but only a comforting radiance.

At the center sat two velvet chairs, positioned before a low glass table inlaid with constellations.

Ephemiel dropped into the larger chair.

"Sit." He said, gesturing curtly to the seat opposite him.