“Curse you…” Miles muttered, his footsteps echoing down the cold marble halls of the cathedral. Humiliated, defeated, and burning with anger, he pushed past the other Saints gathered in the council chambers. Whispers followed him like shadows—rumors of his removal from the Imp case and the supposed death of Gabriel.

“These fools really think Gabriel’s dead?” Miles spat under his breath. “They look down on us Saints like we’re nothing.”

He reached his dormitory—an ornate door crowned with a brass plaque reading Miles Phillips, Third Saint of Floria. He yanked it open and stepped inside, only to be greeted by a familiar, grinning face.

“What’s cracking, brother?” Micheal Pendragon, scarred and dark-haired, leaned casually against the wall, his Saint’s armor gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Miles sank to the edge of his bed, voice heavy with frustration. “I got laid off. Thidos gave the assignment to Saraline.”

Micheal laughed, the sound light but edged with sympathy. “Saraline, huh? You lost your groove, Miles.” He flicked his wrist, conjuring a looking glass that shimmered with distant images. “Wanna see her?”

Miles nodded, a fire sparking in his eyes. “I have to. I must see her.”

“The job’s secretive,” Micheal warned, “but I caught a glimpse. She’s already at the last scene before Gabe.”

Miles clenched his fists. “You really think Gabe’s dead?”

“Not a chance. He’s the Second Saint. He eclipses all of us, tenfold. No way he falls to some lowly insect.” Micheal’s hand brushed Miles’ cheek gently, trying to calm the storm inside him.

Miles shook his head, the weight of his thoughts pressing down. “I want out.”

Micheal’s eyes widened. “You can’t say that here. You left with your life. You can’t quit—if you do, they’ll erase you.”

“We could go to another God,” Miles whispered bitterly. “Why must we stay loyal to Thidos?”

Micheal’s gaze hardened. “Titles. Notoriety. The cheers of the people, the respect of the lowly. That’s all we have. And we can’t leave—not until after the Second Grand Reprisal.”

At the mention of those words, Miles let out a bitter laugh. “Yes… the Grand Reprisal. How could I have forgotten?”

60 Years Ago

“I choose… Miles Phillips of Asaldom as my Third Saint of Floria,” Thidos declared, seated atop a throne carved from divine shadow. They lifted a single finger — dark, ethereal — pointing to the knight kneeling below.

At Thidos’ sides, two other Gods sat in matching golden thrones. Their gazes bored down through the rows of broken, bloodied knights — dozens of them on the marble below, kneeling and gasping for air.

This was no ritual of peace. This was war’s final selection.

Miles raised his head slightly. His lips curled into the faintest smile. He had been chosen. Chosen by God. A mortal now blessed — marked — made sacred. A man who had touched divinity. A man who had survived the Grand Reprisal.

But then a second voice thundered from above.

“Do you have any objections?”

It was not a question. It was a test. A trap — one meant to see if humans dared question Gods.

Miles stiffened. His words caught in his throat. And then he spoke:

“No, I do not. I humbly accept your undying request, my lord.”

There was silence. And then:

“Do not treat me as an equal.”

Thidos’ voice was calm. But it split Miles’ soul.

He gasped. His breath hitched. Sweat poured from his skin. Around him, other knights lowered their heads further, trembling. And for the first time, Miles looked up — truly looked.

Into Thidos’ eyes.

They were bright. Beautiful. Empty.

A void of divinity.

Where a human soul might have flickered, there was only pure white. Not light. Not life. Just judgment.

This was no blessing. This was condemnation wrapped in holiness.

He saw the truth in those eyes:

How dare a mortal think he had a choice?

Miles began to quake.

The other Gods laughed quietly from their thrones. The air distorted. Ripples of unseen energy pulsed through the cathedral. Miles couldn’t breathe.

“I’m sorry, sire—!” he cried, then slammed his forehead into the marble.

CRACK.

Blood smeared the stone beneath him.

And then… Thidos smiled.

Not with teeth. With light — cold, clean, inhuman. His mouth parted, glowing with impossible purity.

“Very well,” Thidos whispered.

From the heavens, a banner descended slowly. Upon it, the sigil of Thidos: a cherry, crossed-out eyes scrawled in crimson.

It landed on Miles’ back like a brand.

“Welcome to Floria,” Thidos said. “You will share quarters with your saintly brother — Michael Pendragon. Is there any objection?”

Miles said nothing.

“Affirmative,” Thidos echoed.

And then turned, finger outstretched again.

“Now it is your time to choose, Eliza.”