Earlier that morning…

Feeling a disturbance, Moira woke up before the sun had risen. She glanced around the campsite. Lord Fayten was still in his bedroll sound asleep. Kinsoriel, the reason for her lord’s predicament, looked like he was having a wonderful dream. Nobody else seemed to have felt it.

‘Moira’ she barely heard in a whisper. Swift in her response, she raised her guard, ready to engage anything and anyone. Nobody would dare to sneak up on them and live to tell the tale.

‘Moira’ the voice repeated, this time loud enough for her to make out. She froze. It had spoken directly in her head as only a divine being could. Whoever this voice belonged to also knew her name. Only other angels and those she was with knew it.

‘Who calls my name?’ she telepathically responded. The voice didn’t respond immediately, leaving the archangel in a maddening silence. Before she could ask again, she could feel an innumerable amount of threads wrap themselves around her. Initially attempting to break free, she soon found that she was unable. Even her wing arms were rendered powerless. Her eyes widened as she looked closer at the threads. They were not merely threads for clothing; they were platinum like her scales, like those in the weave of fate. She turned back to Fayten after making this observation and attempted to warn him. The words never left her mouth, restricted now by the threads. She was completely engulfed shortly after.

After this, they began to unwind themselves from her. First leaving her eyes, she was able to see that her surroundings had changed. The dark greens of the forest were replaced by the impossibly reflective white and black surfaces she knew by heart. An hourglass shaped as the symbol of infinity hung from the ceiling, pouring sands up and down in a never-ending cycle. This was the throne room of Fayten. And sitting in that pristine seat, meant only for her master, was someone else.

This person had the shape of a man, obscured entirely by a large cloak. Moira frowned when she inspected it in further detail. It looked exactly like the apparel her lord wore. Was this the outside force she had been told of? She bared her teeth.

“Who are you? Who dares to sit on Fayten’s throne?!”

The stranger did not answer her questions, instead getting up and descending the stairs. This insolence drove Moira to approach, intent on punishing whoever it was. If this was who had opposed Fayten, all would be well again once she killed them.

“Stay,” the stranger said in a regal tone. All momentum behind the angelic dragon disappeared in an instant. Moira tried in vain to move forward, only managing to strain her muscles. She was stuck in place, save for her eyes and mouth.

Drawing closer, the stranger did not become more visible. His face was covered in an ever-present shadow. The cloak clung to him in a way that revealed nothing. Moira could glean nothing more from his appearance than she had when he was farther away.

“Archangel, you have been shirking your duties,” the man said with crossed arms like a scolding parent. “It is understandable why that is, however. You’ve been beguiled by a pretender.”

“How are you doing this to me?” she said, barely registering his words.

Huffing, the man pointed at her wing-arm, hand still covered by the cloak. “I’ll permit you to move that arm. Use your Fate Sight, the gift that I gave you.”

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His words shocked Moira. How could he claim to have done that? Fayten was the one to bestow that ability unto her, not him. She found that she could now move the arm he had indicated. He was within her reach. She could crush him right now, it was the smart move. And yet, her curiosity trumped her better judgment.

Bringing the wing arm to her eyes, she filled them with divine light. When she looked back at the man, a chill traveled along her spine. He didn’t have the golden words of fate surrounding him. Just like…

“Do you see now? I am your creator, angel. I am Fayten.”

Thoughts swam around in her head, drowning out everything else. How could there be another like her Lord? There was a familiarity with Benjamin she didn’t have here, but this man had all the power of her god. Had Fayten split himself? Was that how this was possible?

Perhaps displaying this through her face, this other Fayten spoke up. “Again, I understand your confusion. You’ve been led astray by that pretender. I believe he calls himself ‘Benjamin’. I do not know how he managed to separate himself from Fate’s Weave, but he poses an unprecedented danger.”

Shaking her head, Moira muttered, “It can’t be.”

“Do not be ashamed,” the other Fayten said, “you couldn’t have known. I am not angry with you. In fact, I believe you are the most fit to deal with this problem.”

Attempting to perk up, the angel said, “What problem would you have me deal with,” she paused for a moment, “my Lord?”

“I would think it would be obvious to you.”

It took a moment for her to put two and two together, but when she did, she became distraught. “You can’t mean-”

“Kill the pretender known as Benjamin,” he interrupted, “and undo the disruption to Fate.”

Killing in the name of Fayten was not out of the ordinary to her. She’d done it plenty of times to plenty of people. Ensuring accidents went as planned, and that those who were meant to be dead were; that was her specialty. This man who she was being told to kill had no fate to carry out. That was if she could bring herself to consider it in the first place.

“I don’t think I’m the right angel for this task. My skills are a sore match. Surely you could ask any of the others?”

He went back to crossing his arms, now also tapping his foot against the polished ground. Moira managed to see some sort of black leather shoes poking out from beneath his cloak for a moment.

“Are you telling me, your god, that I am wrong?” His voice was raised, startling the angel. She couldn’t remember Fayten ever doing something like that around her.

“No, no, no my Lord! I would never do such a thing!” Her eyes watched fearfully as he raised a sleeve. Instead of a hand, thousands of platinum threads swarmed out of the cloak as though they were alive. “Aaaahhhhh!” she screamed as they wrapped around her. Light began to pulse out from where the strands connected, taking with it her divine power. She could feel herself shrinking at the same time, seeing the reflective floor get closer. “Please!” she begged.

“Release,” the god said without a hint of emotion. The threads decoupled themselves from her, retreating back into the cloak. At the same time, the force that kept her from moving had also ceased, allowing her to crumple on the cold floor. She lay there for a time, still as the dead.

“Pick yourself up already would you,” this Fayten called over his shoulder while moving back to the throne.

Unable to resist his commands, she did as he asked, keeping her head down. In the reflection of the floor, she saw what had become of her. She was now shorter than the average man by two heads of height. Her scales, once as polished as the floor she saw herself with, now a dull matte grey. The rippling muscles she had were reduced to less than average size. Those pure white horns that extended proudly from her head had receded; all that was visible now were a pair of nubs jutting from her scalp. Saddened eyes stared back at her new appearance. In form and function, she had been reduced to what the dragons called a kobold, save for her wing-arms.

“Archangel, for your arrogance, you are to carry out your duty without my blessings. Perform well and have them returned to you. Fail me, and I’ll see to it that fate has no place for you.” He slammed a fist against the armrest. “Do I make myself clear?”

Performing a bow, Moira said, “Yes, Lord Fayten.”

“Good. Now,” he said while pointing to the door, “go. Kill him.”

Mouth trembling, Moira swiftly took her leave. “Yes, Lord Fayten.”