Through forgotten halls, the last of the guardians, Lazaro, drifted between ancient pillars, his cloak billowing like the tide.
Black feathers swirled around him, remnants of a covenant long erased from memory. A place that was once holy now lay in ruin, its stones bearing carvings from a past long silent, when angels had walked.
Only their cast-off wings remained.
Lazaro was to guard the scriptures of old, but it had finally been the very knowledge within its walls that had corrupted all who sought it out. He just walked among the ruins, alone—a ghost—from an oath forged in times forgotten.
The wind stirred; a single feather touched his face. For the first time in centuries, he spoke: Is anyone left to save?
Only darkness answered.