A vehement adrenaline spread through the atmosphere, filling the busting morning in the Harmony Sanctum. The rumor of Thomas Pitch being supposedly alive bounced around the Harmonies like a ping-pong.

Keeping a secret in the Celestial Realm was nearly impossible, and the information was bound to leak.

There were unfruitful attempts from the Archangel’s team to figure out where the Gala might be. The rest of the night was radio silence from the man’s activity. Michael assumed he was planning for future attacks.

Michael waited readily for the opportunity to capture him. Determined to prove to his brother that Pitch was six feet under, he would figure out who was mocking an offensive appearance.

After working for six hours straight, Michael decided to take a small break. He left his office, ignoring the glances from his people—the quizzing gaze in wonder if the Archangel had slipped up. Curling his fists into balls, he desired to spend some quality time alone, hoping to escape the whispering among the Harmonies.

Since the day neared lunchtime, Michael headed towards the training room. Around this time, hardly any Harmonies practiced learning their magic from the art of weaponry.

He hadn’t observed Harmonie's training for a while due to his busy schedule. Strolling up the glass staircase, Michael started down the corridor that led to the East Wing, dedicated to the training arena. Daniel hurried to his brother’s side, reading off the lists of what Michael needed to do today and keeping him informed of anything urgent.

With a kind twinkle in the angel’s walnut eyes and dark espresso skin, Daniel had the talent of being exceptionally alert and observant around his surroundings. He noted in a soft tone, “Ah, your daughter is in the arena now. It’s probably a good idea to practice with her since it’s been a few busy weeks since you trained with her.”

Glancing at the list, Daniel kept even pace with Michael’s long strides. “As you know, there are no sightings on the Gala, but the Choirs are targeting surveillance cameras around the world. I updated the leaders in the Sanctums about our condition and your brother, Lucifer, being useless. No offense, sir.”

Michael chuckled, delighted to have humor with the stressful days ahead of him.

“I supposed you know about the rumor?” asked Daniel, pursing his lips.

“I have a feeling who started the rumor,” grumbled Michael, gazing at his fellow sibling. “Tell me, has John convinced my people that my daughter is crazy? Even after a year of her denying me that there’s no voice she hears, the Harmonies still think she’s insane.”

“I do assume John had set both rumors of Pitch being alive and your daughter being psychotic,” Daniel frowned. “I see no reason for him to do such sinful acts.”

Feeling somewhat betrayed by John’s reckless actions, Michael pondered the motivations for his act of treason. He adored Daniel, who was straightforward, honest, and loyal. He replied, “Anything else for today?”

“That’s all for now,” Daniel sighed, knowing his brother’s overloaded plate was already there. He held the clipboard to his chest and looked up at the simple circular designs on the ceiling that symbolized angels’ halos.

Sucking in his breath, the Choir asked, “Has your daughter been doing alright?”

The Archangel halted in front of the pearly doors and pursed his lips. If he could be honest to anyone, it would be to Daniel: “I think so. Although I suppose she’s been bored lately, so I’ve been giving her assignments of going on missions with her friend.” He nodded firmly, to reassure him more than his brother, “Yes, she’s doing great.”

He pulled the heavy doors open and stepped into a small room with a long window that showed an arena downstairs.

Two girls whispered and giggled among themselves, staring out of the window, “Crazy bitch.” They were engrossed in their conversation to not hear Michael’s soft footsteps.

On the outside of where the Prowler trained, the window facing her was tinted, so she couldn’t see if anyone watched her. The reason for the cover was that some Harmonies were practiced better by not having eyes on them.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

A tiny bit frustrated with the girls treating his daughter like this, Michael turned to see her swing her sword at illusions, killing them off one by one, efficiently, cleanly, and fast. However, unlike her graceful moves, Sara was cussing and wore a mask of fury.

“You asshole!” Sara stabbed an illusion through its neck, which simulates a replica of a supernatural. She fought werewolves that hadn’t transformed completely. Grabbing knives underneath her skirt from one of her hands, she tossed them at three more illusions lunching at her, “Shut up! I am so fucking mad at you right now!”

Sara twirled around, simultaneously swiping her blade across another illusion’s stomach, blood gushing out. She kicked it on the wound and twirled around once more, slicing the werewolf's head off with vengeance.

Huffing out her annoyance, the assassin squeezed the halt of her sword and grabbed one more knife underneath her skirt, not even looking at the werewolf sneaking around her. Instead, she rubbed her temple with closed eyes, muttering, “I’m done with you.”

With a flick of her hand, the knife sailed in the air and slammed into the middle of the illusion’s head. The young girl flashed her eyes, red blazing, and she lurched what seemed to be the wall across from her, but she stabbed and aimed into empty air with no one else in the arena, looking like she was attacking someone invisible.

“Look at her, she’s crazy, literally,” mocked Harmony. “Wonder why Michael chose her as his assassin...never understanding as his damn daughter, maybe to contain a blood-thirsty animal like her.”

Her friend finally saw the Archangel watching them with a blank visage, and she quickly bowed, which none of the Harmonies do unless they were in trouble with him. She pulled her friend away, and they scurried away, leaving the Choirs alone in the small room.

“Come here, and I’ll rip out your nuts!” screamed Sara, gripping her fallen knives and tossing them in one direction. She laughed wildly. “You are right; I’ll rip out your heart if you let me learn from what you did last night!”

“Yep, she seems good,” Daniel joked dryly but immediately shut his mouth with a dirty look from his brother. “I’m going back to work. Best of luck.” He quickly left with a bang on the door.

Pressing on the microphone button, Michael’s voice rang out from the speaker in the arena: “Sara, are you alright?”

His daughter froze midway, slicing her blade in the air, and she jerked her head up to the tinted window. He flipped on a switch, letting her see the clear view in the observant room.

Sara blinked, dumbfounded. Her face had gone bright pink from embarrassment, and she cleared her throat to hopefully bat away her screaming rage moments ago. Coming up with the most reasonable excuse, she stated, “You know, just, um, venting.”

Extremely worried about his daughter’s sanity, Michael could only nod. He said to flush away Sara’s ignominiously, “It’s been a couple of weeks since we trained last; I think it’s time to see how well you’ve improved.” He watched her coal eyes light up with excuses.

She slid her sword into a sheath and tapped her fingers together. Looking at the floor, Sara answered, “I was thinking, um, eating soon.”

Michael raised his eyebrows, giving her his not-believer look. He swayed his head and started walking down the deep stairs that led to the fighting platform. Emerging from where his daughter stood, he raised his arm to the ceiling. A sword appeared in his hand.

Giving her best teenager attitude a sigh, Sara drew her sword, the schwing noise of the blade wisping through the air from the sheath. She mumbled, knowing she couldn’t win this fight by arguing against her father. “I might be a little rusty.”

Flickering his blade at her throat, the Prowler’s sword clashed back fast enough to block Michael’s movements. He laughed softly. “What were you saying again?”

Sara smiled warmly, perceiving he had gone slow enough for her to react in time and give her a boost of encouragement, which was working. She teased back, “I can see right through you, Father.”

A quirky grin flashed on the Archangel’s face. “Let’s put that to the test.” He swiftly moved his sword away and jabbed the blade to her side. Yet that boosted the courage of Sara, who laughed with giddiness. She pirouetted, striking her sharp steel against his; the sound of metal against metal rang out like a high-pitched musical note.

They circled one another, smirks shyly spreading on their visage as their blades clanged together.

Whatever she was throwing a fit about had vanished. She thrust her sword up, a countermove to knock Michael’s rapier; however, his hand was steadily wrapped around the hilt. He pulled away, swiping his foot to unbalance her while slicing at her neck concurrently. A whoosh of the blades grinding on each other.

Sara whisked her head back, the edge of the blade inches from her face. Flipping backward, one of her feet kicked at her father’s arm, and the other one booted the rapier from his hand in one swift motion. She landed on her feet quickly in a gymnastic pose and then grabbed her father’s weapon in the air, pointing the sharp ends of their swords at her father’s neck.

“I win,” gloated Sara.

Rising his hands in surrender, Michael smiled. “I yield.”

She handed him his sword back, her blood pumping with adrenaline and her heart rhythmically beating in unison.