Seraphim Pov
The streetlights buzz as they flicker to life, casting dim halos onto the cracked
sidewalks. My boots crunch against loose gravel, the sound muffled by the
stillness of the night. I've walked this route a hundred times before, but
something about the quiet always feels different—like the city is holding its
breath, waiting.
The neighborhood feels alive in its stillness. By day, it's all noise and motion—
vendors shouting over each other, kids chasing soccer balls, and the endless hum
of ambition. But at night, the city shows its real face. No masks. No pretense.
Just the raw, vulnerable truth.
I stop at the corner of an old brick apartment building, its walls tagged with
graffiti. Across the street, a convenience store owner is locking up for the night.
He's an older man, bent by years of work, and he nods at me as he pulls down the
metal shutter. I nod back. No words are needed. We both know what my presence
means.
A stray cat darts out of an alley, catching the headlights of a passing car. Its
sleek, shadowy form vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared. A faint smile tugs
at my lips. "Another guardian of the night," I mutter to myself.
This is my ritual—walking these streets, letting my presence be a silent promise
to the people who live here. It's not glamorous work, but it's necessary. The crimes
here are small—a stolen wallet, a drunken fight—but they cut deep for the people
living them. Safety is fragile. It takes one bad night to shatter it completely.
A noise pulls me out of my thoughts—a low murmur from the alley to my left. My
hand instinctively moves to my weapon as I step closer, my senses sharpening.
Two kids, maybe fifteen, crouch near a dumpster. One of them has a can of spray
paint in his hand, the other is keeping watch. They don't see me until I'm right in
front of them.
"Hey!" I call out, my voice firm but even.
The taller one freezes, his eyes wide with guilt. He stashes the spray can into his
jacket, his hand trembling.
"You know," I say, stepping closer, "vandalism isn't exactly a noble cause."
"Sorry, man," he stammers. His friend grabs his arm, ready to bolt.
I hold up a hand. "Just go home," I tell them. My tone softens as I see the fear
in their eyes. "And maybe spend your time doing something that won't get you
caught next time."
They hesitate, then nod before scurrying off. Their footsteps echo down the
alley until it's silent again. I sigh, letting my shoulders relax. Small interventions.
They don't feel like much in the moment, but they matter. At least, that's what I
keep telling myself.
The commlink on my belt buzzes, jolting me out of my thoughts. I pull it out,
pressing the button to answer.
"Seraphim," I say, my voice low.
"Hey." It's Darius. His voice crackles through the static, and I immediately pick
up on the unease. Something's wrong.
"What is it?" I ask, my grip tightening on the commlink.
There's a pause, heavy and telling. My pulse quickens as I wait for him to speak.
"It's about Lucian Blackwell's wife... Lilith," he finally says. His voice sounds
strained, like he's forcing the words out. "She—she didn't make it. There was an
accident."
The air seems to go still around me.
"An accident?" The word feels foreign in my mouth, like it doesn't belong.
"A truck," Darius continues quickly, as if rushing to fill the silence. "Mechanical
failure. Ran a red light. She's... she's gone, Seraphim."
I don't respond right away. My mind races, grasping at the edges of the news,
trying to make sense of it. I didn't know Lilith personally, but I'd heard about
her—her kindness, her warmth, the way she lit up Lucian's world. And now...
"Thanks for letting me know," I finally say. The words sound hollow, disconnected
from the weight in my chest.
I lower the commlink, staring at the ground as I try to process what I've just
heard. The streets around me feel darker now, the shadows heavier, pressing in
from all sides.
Life can change in an instant. One moment, it's all plans and routines, and the next,
it's... gone. Just like that.
I think of Lucian. Strong, determined, always in control. What would this do to
him? What would he become now that the one light in his life had been
extinguished?
I shake my head, forcing myself to move. There's no time to get lost in my own
thoughts. The patrol isn't over, and there are still people who need protecting.
But even as I walk, the unease lingers—a quiet, unshakable weight that settles
deep in my chest.
I don't remember much of the rest of my patrol that night. My legs carried me
forward, street after street, but my mind was somewhere else. The news of
Lilith's death clung to me like the chill in the air, a quiet ache that wouldn't let go.
I couldn't stop thinking about Lucian. How did you even begin to process something
like this? How did you make sense of losing the person who anchored you to the
world?
When I finally returned to the precinct, it was past midnight. The halls were
mostly empty, the overhead lights buzzing faintly. Darius was there, waiting by
the door to my office. He didn't say much—just handed me the details for the
funeral.
"She meant a lot to him," Darius said softly.
I nodded, tucking the papers under my arm. "She meant everything to him."
There wasn't anything else to say.
The funeral was set for two days later. When the day came, I found myself
standing outside the cemetery gates, my hand resting on the cool iron bars. I
wasn't sure why I was hesitating. Maybe it was the feeling of intruding on
something so personal, or maybe it was the weight of knowing I couldn't offer
Lucian anything close to what he'd lost.
I stepped inside, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots seeming too loud in the
somber stillness.
I hadn't attended many funerals. Not because I was unaccustomed to death—my
work saw plenty of it—but because I avoided this part. The aftermath. The
mourning. The stark reminder of how powerless we all are in the face of it.
Lilith's funeral was modest but full of sincerity. The kind of gathering that spoke
to who she was. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and a faint
mist hung over the cemetery. It seemed fitting, somehow. A quiet grief matched
by the quiet weather.
I stood a little apart from the crowd at first, unsure of my place here. Most of
the attendees were dressed in formal black, their heads bowed, their faces
etched with loss. Friends, family, acquaintances—it was clear she'd been deeply
loved.
And then there was Lucian.
He stood at the front, motionless, his shoulders unnaturally stiff. His face
betrayed nothing, but his hands—clenched at his sides—told another story. I
didn't need to know him personally to see the weight of his grief. It was a tangible
thing, radiating off him like heat from a dying fire.
As the priest spoke, I barely registered the words. My focus stayed on Lucian,
on the emptiness in his eyes. He wasn't just mourning Lilith. He was unraveling.
When the ceremony ended, people began to approach him in quiet lines, offering
their condolences. I hesitated again, lingering by an old tree, trying to convince
myself that I belonged here.
"Just go," I muttered under my breath. "Say something. Anything."
I finally moved toward him, feeling every step stretch out like it took an eternity.
"Lucian." My voice came out quieter than I intended, barely cutting through the
hum of low murmurs around us.
He turned to me, his gaze slow and unfocused, as if he didn't truly see me. "I... I
wanted to say I'm sorry," I said, my hands tightening around the umbrella I'd
brought. "She was... remarkable."
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "She was."
"Thank you," he said at last, his tone hollow, his grief too raw for anything more.
The way he said it, so final, made my chest tighten. I wanted to say more, to offer
something that might ease even a fraction of the pain, but nothing felt right.
"If there's anything I can do—"
"There's not." His words were clipped, not cruel, just... empty.
I nodded, stepping back, feeling the weight of failure settle on me. He didn't need
my words. He didn't need me. He needed her, and she wasn't here.
As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of him lowering his head, one hand
brushing over something he held. A scarf, I realized, bright against the
monochrome of the day.
That image stayed with me long after I left. Lucian, alone with his grief, clutching
the last piece of her like it was the only thing holding him together.
The streets were quiet by the time I made it home. The chill of the evening air
still clung to my coat as I stepped inside my apartment. It was a modest space—
functional, no frills—suited to a life that didn't leave much room for anything
personal.
I closed the door behind me, the sound of the lock clicking in place feeling heavier
than usual. My boots scuffed softly against the wooden floor as I made my way
to the kitchen, more out of habit than hunger. I poured a glass of water and
leaned against the counter, the events of the day replaying in my mind.
Lilith Blackwell. I hadn't known her personally, but even in the brief stories I'd
heard from others at the funeral, it was clear she'd been a light in Lucian's life.
A light extinguished far too soon.
I had tried to speak to him, to offer my condolences, but my words had felt...
insufficient. What could I possibly say that would matter to someone drowning in
grief?
The glass in my hand felt cold against my fingers as I stared out the window. The
city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white, distant and indifferent to the
pain I'd seen in Lucian's eyes.
For all my power, all my training, I had been utterly useless today. Protecting
people was supposed to be my purpose. So why did it always feel like I was arriving
too late?
I set the glass down with a soft clink, pushing off the counter to pace the room.
My thoughts spiraled into familiar doubts, questions I'd never been able to answer.
Could I have done something? Should I have?
My faith demanded trust in a higher plan, in justice and balance. But days like
today made it hard to believe.
I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at the insignia engraved
into the metal of my badge. It felt heavier now than ever. I turned it over in my
hands, the edges cold and sharp against my skin.
"Lilith," I murmured, the name barely audible in the quiet room. "You deserved
better. He deserved better."
The weight of it all pressed against my chest—Lucian's loss, my own inadequacies,
the endless tide of people I couldn't save. And yet, there was no escape from the
responsibility.
Not for someone like me.
The moonlight streaming through the window caught the edge of my badge,
casting a faint glimmer on the wall. I stared at it for a long moment, then set it
down on the nightstand.
If I couldn't save everyone, then I would at least honor their memory. I would try
harder. Be better.
Even if it never felt like enough.
The morning light crept through the blinds, dragging me back to the world. My
body protested as I sat up, a dull ache in my shoulders from the restless night.
The funeral still lingered in my mind, the memory of Lucian's hollow stare burning
behind my eyes. I tried to shake it off as I went through the motions—shower,
coffee, a glance at the newsfeed flashing across my tablet. The headlines blurred
together, a mix of mundane updates and grim statistics.
Halfway through my second cup of coffee, my communicator buzzed on the table.
The sharp trill broke the silence, pulling my focus.
"Seraphim," I answered, keeping my voice steady.
"Good morning, Officer. We need to speak," came the clipped tone of Commander
Harris. Formal, direct—a sure sign this wasn't a social call.
"Yes, sir. I'm listening."
"There's been a reassignment. Effective immediately, you're being transferred to
the Cylvana Bureau. They're short-staffed, and your record makes you the obvious
choice."
The words hit harder than I expected. I'd known this day might come, but it still
felt abrupt. "When do I leave?"
"Tomorrow. Your orders will be sent shortly. Prepare yourself."
The line went dead before I could respond. Typical Harris—straight to the point,
no room for argument.
I set the communicator down, the weight of the new assignment sinking in. Cylvana.
A city with its own shadows, its own challenges.
Part of me felt relieved to leave Caelum behind, to put distance between myself
and the suffocating memories of the last few days. But another part... another
part felt like I was running away.
I spent the day packing, the silence of the apartment broken only by the hum of
the air conditioning and the occasional sound of cardboard boxes sliding against
the floor. Each item I placed into my duffel bag felt like a goodbye.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, I stood by the window, staring out
at the city one last time.
Caelum had been my home for years. It was where I'd built my career, where I'd
fought to make a difference. And yet, as I looked out at the sprawling skyline, all
I could see were the faces of those I'd failed to save.
Lilith's face joined the others, a ghost among the crowd.
"This isn't the end," I murmured to myself, clenching my fists. "It's just another
beginning."
The transfer wasn't just a new assignment—it was a chance to reset, to find
purpose again. And maybe, just maybe, to make up for the moments I'd lost.
As I closed the blinds and turned away from the window, a faint sense of resolve
stirred within me. Tomorrow, a new city awaited. A new battlefield.
And I would be ready.