On Lunaria, peaceful citadels burn as the merciless Djinni sweep across the White Plains, their onslaught threatening to extinguish the dawn of all hope.
After a century in captivity, subjected to aetheric experiments by a mad archangel, Sestra finally escapes. Her scars run deep, but her spirit remains unbowed. Haunted by memories of friends still captive, she has no choice but to turn to the archangels to save them.
Uriel, Praeses of Caelum, struggles to hold together a council fractured by ambition as the Djinni surge ever closer. Visions of irrevocable pasts and unwritten futures haunt him despite his efforts to ignore them. When Sestra’s plea arrives, embodying the fate of every archangel, he can no longer turn away. With war at their gates, he must destroy one of his own, the traitor whose betrayal spawned horrors that still torment Sestra.
Torn between uncertainty and a burgeoning bond, Sestra and Uriel forge an uneasy alliance as they race to free her friends and expose darker conspiracies.
In a realm where love can be both a sanctuary and a sacrifice, will their fledgling trust kindle the spark that ends the Archangel’s reign, or will the inferno of defiance consume them both?
On Lunaria, peaceful citadels burn as the merciless Djinni sweep across the White Plains, their onslaught threatening to extinguish the dawn of all hope.
After a century in captivity, subjected to aetheric experiments by a mad archangel, Sestra finally escapes. Her scars run deep, but her spirit remains unbowed. Haunted by memories of friends still captive, she has no choice but to turn to the archangels to save them.
Uriel, Praeses of Caelum, struggles to hold together a council fractured by ambition as the Djinni surge ever closer. Visions of irrevocable pasts and unwritten futures haunt him despite his efforts to ignore them. When Sestra’s plea arrives, embodying the fate of every archangel, he can no longer turn away. With war at their gates, he must destroy one of his own, the traitor whose betrayal spawned horrors that still torment Sestra.
Torn between uncertainty and a burgeoning bond, Sestra and Uriel forge an uneasy alliance as they race to free her friends and expose darker conspiracies.
In a realm where love can be both a sanctuary and a sacrifice, will their fledgling trust kindle the spark that ends the Archangel’s reign, or will the inferno of defiance consume them both?
Caelum—Year 13,800 P.B.
Uriel should have ended Michael’s tirade—really, he should have. But so long as his fellow archangels kept their daemons in check, he would let them say what they liked.
And, in this case, Uriel found a certain pleasure in watching his second-in-command lash out at the Concigliere.
His role as Praeses meant he should remain impartial, but he let Michael’s sharp words hang in the air as the council members across the room sank further into their seats under Michael’s fury.
Another council meeting. The third in ten days’ time. At this pace, they’d be sitting in session twice a week. Five days in a week. Five weeks in a month. Five months in a year—Uriel had done the math. Far too many meetings for a war that would not wait on protocol.
The council hall, the heart of the Elysium, stood as a masterpiece of Caelum’s celestial architecture. Towering white marble columns rose into the crystalline domed ceiling, where sunlight cascaded through, casting fractured rainbows across the floor. The silver inlays glowed faintly with traces of aether, the very energy that kept Caelum afloat above Lunaria’s vast expanse. Despite its grandeur, tension seeped into every corner, a silent force pressing upon the room.
“Do you truly believe your title as Concigliere grants you the wisdom to question the decisions of those chosen by the Universe itself?” Michael’s voice, edged in steel, rang through the chamber. “We were gifted our strength, our power—to protect Caelum with every fibre of our being. And yet, you sit there, questioning our strategies while refusing to lift a finger to arm your people.”
Frustration burned bright in Michael’s dark eyes as he paced. Each step sent sharp echoes through the pristine halls, his midnight wings held rigid against his back.
The Concigliere—the ruling class of Caelum’s elite, all of them Pari-born—sat tense and unmoving.
Uriel’s gaze swept over the ten council members opposite the Archangels, seated in two neat, equal rows. The Pari were the privileged, born into wealth and lineage. Most used their influence to maintain control over policy, commerce, and governance. Their power was not earned, but rather inherited—something that had never sat well with them.
He knew this dance—when to stay silent, when to look severe. It wasn’t confidence. It was habit. Aloysius had taught him that oftentimes leadership was simply standing still when others flinched.
But inside, his certainty was brittle in the two weeks since Aloysius’s sudden death. He knew what the others whispered—that he was too young, too inexperienced. Uriel was painfully aware of both.
At just two thousand six hundred and four years old, he had spent mere centuries as an observer, a reluctant apprentice content in the shadows. The youngest ever to be elevated to Praeses in recorded history; an accomplishment he took neither joy nor pride in. Now, he bore the weight of command meant for someone twice his age.
But the war had changed everything.
Lunaria, once a planet of peace, now lay in the ruins of that promise. The Djinni had shattered the illusion—ruthless, relentless, and unyielding.
The Karkadann—the one-horned shapeshifters—had vanished into hiding despite their strength, and only the stars above could guess where. The Draconians had taken up arms—and claws—no doubt delighting in the carnage.
And the Hortians, those fragile mortals, now paralyzed by fear, clung to the archangels for protection. Just like every Caelian citizen.
After the battle that had taken Alyosius’s life, only seven Archangels remained. Seven warriors against an enemy that thrived on destruction.
Michael’s fury crackled in the air, dangerous and electric, and barely contained. Uriel’s second-in-command was losing the battle against his daemon, showcasing a scowl even most archangels would think twice about challenging. The Universe had granted each of them power—immense, divine—but with it came a curse.
Their daemons, dark reflections of their worst traits, lurked within. The darkest part of themselves, flinching from the truth, snarling at the light.
Uriel’s own daemon didn’t speak—it recoiled. Fought. Hid. Knowing too well what would come when Uriel used his divine gift. Every time he glimpsed the future, his daemon bled, and so did he.
Uriel sighed and pushed against Michael’s mind, sending a wave of calm through their connection. If you plan on making his head explode, can you do so after the vote?
Michael’s tension eased slightly with a rueful look in Uriel’s direction. No promises.
Amusement ran through the archangels’ bond, slowly dissipating the excess of aether in the room. Kaelin, Uriel’s half-brother, chimed in, green eyes sparkling with wit. If you plan on making a mess, be quick. I have somewhere to be in fifteen minutes.
Michael finally exhaled, sinking into his white, silver-rimmed seat. His dark wings settled into the chair’s slits, like a brewing storm quieting—for now. Michael was tired; they all were.
Uriel’s hand itched to capture the light-and-dark contrast of the scene. Before the first attack, he’d never imagined a future where he didn’t have a spare moment to create art. Time seemed to slip away too quickly for someone who had eternity on his side.
Uriel rose. His wings remained tightly folded, purple feathers hiding the silver filaments, a subconscious shield. He hated speaking before a crowd, but there was no choice. He was Praeses now.
“Floating among the clouds has always protected Caelum from earthquakes and floods,” Uriel began, his words carrying through the room. “But in times of war, it becomes a deadly risk. One well-placed blow to our levitation device would cease to maintain the city’s magnetic field and wipe out our entire population.”
The scent of worry, urgency, and fear permeated the room, but there would be no escape. Their city could at any moment suddenly plummet to the ground, resulting not only in the annihilation of every Caelian but also causing significant harm to the Hortians living below.
“We all want what’s best for our city,” he continued, his voice even. “And yet, we refuse to accept the reality before us. The Djinni will not simply disappear. We must prepare our people.”
Uriel turned to Abraxos, the eldest of the Concigliere, where he sat calm, unmoved. He met Uriel’s eyes without fear, but not without secrets. The relationship between them had frayed long before this day.
“During my time on this council,” Abraxos said, his voice steady with the weight of millennia, “none of your predecessors ever considered the need to arm our people. Yet you propose forcing civilians into armed training? Even females and young?”
His tone held the faintest trace of amusement, as if to remind Uriel he had seen three leaders rise and fall before him—and expected this one to be no different.
Uriel had anticipated opposition, but his shoulders still tensed at the accusation. “Not forcing. Offering.”
It came down to his choice of words, delicately balanced to sway them, and Uriel found himself torn between his principles and political manoeuvring.
Movement on Michael’s right.
Sama'el’s ochre wings expanded as he rose, and Uriel held his breath. One careless word would ruin their proposal, and recklessness ran like a river through the archangel’s veins. The rhythm of Uriel’s pounding heart matched the mantra repeating in his head.
Don’t mess it up—don’t mess it up—don’t—
“When the males fly out to defend our city, who remains behind?” Sama'el inquired calmly. “The females. The young. And yet you would leave them defenceless? I propose they be given the means to protect themselves.”
A well-formulated answer. Uriel gave him the mental equivalent of a pat on the shoulder.
The corner of Sama'el’s mouth twitched—pride blooming along their connection. Overcoming the demands of his daemon—that reckless hunger to test boundaries—was no small feat, especially for a young archangel.
Silence stretched, interrupted only by the soft rustling of shifting wings, and Uriel’s muscles tightened. Outside, it was a cloudless day, and he felt a slight twitch in his wings, a desperate yearning for the freedom of rising air currents and the wind through his feathers.
Abraxos nodded too quickly, the faintest twitch of calculation behind his eyes. The old man never agreed to anything without angling for a profit. This wasn’t agreement—it was strategy.
Uriel filed it away, unease curling behind his ribs. But something in the way Abraxos watched him . . . he was waiting for a misstep, biding time. But for what?
“A compromise, then.” Abraxos leaned back with deliberate ease, lacing his fingers together as if settling in for a game he’d already won. “Training should be mandatory for males of age, and optional for females and young. The law shall fall under Law XXV, the law of warfare.”
Uriel masked his relief. This was more than he had hoped for. The law’s passage, if supported by a majority, would greatly improve their people’s safety. Their chance at survival.
“If there are no more questions,” Abraxos continued, “we will vote.”
Tension thickened as the scribe’s emerald wings moved through the room to collect the votes.
Uriel’s stomach coiled as he waited for the verdict.
Despite his gift, or rather his curse, Uriel couldn’t foresee the vote’s outcome. Even now, his own daemon shrunk from the truth like a creature wounded too many times. The raw pulse of everything he’d buried. Every glimpse into the future carved away a sliver of quiet from within him, leaving the edges raw.
So, his daemon shielded him the only way it knew how—choosing the path of least pain: silence. Darkness. Forgetting.
“The motion is approved,” Valter, the council’s scribe, finally announced. “Ten to seven.”
Uriel’s mouth tilted in restrained satisfaction, hardly believing the outcome. They had won—this time.
The gathering dispersed, each of the males’ distinct wing marks melting into a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours as they all made way to the parting doors.
Michael leaned toward him. That went better than expected.
Uriel exhaled slowly. It won’t last.
Because soon—sooner than any of them wanted to consider—they would have to discuss the evacuation of Caelum.
And that battle, he knew, they would lose. Leaving all they had built, even to save lives—abandoning their riches was something the Concigliere would never allow.
Although the archangels’ protection currently held back the Concigliere’s political ambitions, Uriel sensed this fragile alliance would not last forever. A conflict brewed within the council, and he questioned these males’ true loyalties.
Uriel watched the last of them leave before turning eyes to Kaelin, who lingered at the exit.
His half-brother’s concern pressed against their mental bond, unspoken yet tangible. A vast difference in age stood between them, yet Uriel found a sense of pride in having witnessed Kaelin evolve from a mischievous child to a formidable archangel.
What’s on your mind, Uri? Kaelin’s voice brushed against his thoughts, his concern laced with quiet insistence.
Uriel mustered what he hoped passed for reassurance, but he knew Kaelin saw through it. Their bond as brothers and as archangels ran too deep for deception. Privacy among archangels was an illusion.
We’ll need more weapons and armours, Uriel replied instead. Time for you to get to work.
Kaelin’s gift of creation made him the perfect candidate for this task. Blessed with sharp intelligence and deft hands, he was a master craftsman. But his daemon—his daemon was always hungry for confrontation and destruction. Much like their father’s had been.
Don’t you have sentry duty? Kaelin countered, his rebellious nature cutting through the bond—sharp, impatient. A tell that Kaelin had stretched himself too thin and needed to indulge his daemon. But then, with effort, he tempered it. Are you taking care of yourself?
Uriel nearly scoffed. Kaelin’s own excesses weren’t exactly the pinnacle of self-care. But instead of pointing that out, he accepted the sentiment for what it was. His brother’s fierce loyalty was unwavering, even when misplaced.
Always. Uriel lied, finally rising. I need a change of clothes. I’ll talk to you later.
With measured steps, he left the council hall, making his way through the Elysium’s marble corridors. His home had never seemed so unwelcoming. Every step was a race against time, a futile attempt to outrun the weight of inevitability pressing down on him.
War loomed on the horizon, and his mind spun with an endless web of plans, strategies, and calculations. But it was never enough. Never safe. Not fast enough. Not clever enough.
His inner daemon clawed at his senses, resisting the visions he was meant to master. He had tried—rituals, readings, long nights of study. He could recite the old prophecies backward and name every seer who’d lived since the Sunderfall. But none of it showed him how to make the visions obey.
None of it stopped the bleeding.
Uriel was the only archangel whose power didn’t answer to command. They came when the Universe deemed them necessary—and when they did, they consumed everything.
It was a constant battle between oblivion and reality, a war within himself that mirrored the one beyond. In the end, the fate of all he loved—of everything he’d sworn to protect—hung in the fragile balance.
∞∞∞
Uriel gracefully landed on the solid and cool sentry cloud at the northern edge of Caelum, feeling the sun’s warmth sink into his skin. Requesting sentry duty wasn’t something a Praeses typically did, but Michael had understood. Uriel needed this—the semblance of solitude, the clean separation between sky and earth, duty and self.
Out here, clarity came easier, even if it was fleeting. From this vantage point, the full splendour of Caelum unfolded below.
The city hovered in layered beauty, each level suspended by unseen levitation arrays, the energy current that held their world aloft. The highest platform housed the Elysium—the archangels’ home—and the council hall, where his authority was both forged and questioned.
Lower down, the districts spilled into cascading terraces, bathed in shifting light. Beneath it all, at the city’s belly, the hanging library swayed ever so slightly, its crystal chambers dangling like a hive. Markets, gardens, and homes burrowed into curved nests of shimmering crystal—each layer connected by spiralling stairways and bridges that held the sunlight like silver vines.
Caelum had always been a place of elegance, warmth, and beauty wrapped together. A reflection of what Uriel once valued most.
As a child, he’d spent hours in the Sephora Garden sketching frostpetal roses, tracing the perfect geometry of their petals. The Artists’ Quarter with its glass-domed studios had once been his sanctuary. But leadership had stolen that from him. War had stolen that from him.
Now, only safety and protection mattered. And Caelum was ill-equipped in that department.
His gaze drifted north, past the edges of the city, toward the horizon. The White Plains stretched endlessly, pale as frostbitten skin, lost beneath the vibrant sky. Somewhere out there, the Djinni lurked, invisible and without roots, like rot beneath pristine snow. No one knew where they’d built their stronghold, only that they were too close.
The faint pressure of his chest plate shifted beneath his clothes—a hidden weight. Calyxite Ore, spun thin as silk, but strong enough to deflect a Djinni blade. Kaelin had woven it after Aloysius fell, when they had seen reason enough to armour themselves.
Although the Concigliere protested that archangels were all-powerful, Uriel hadn’t taken any risks. Aloysius’s death had proven everyone wrong. They were nearly immortal.
Nearly.
Uriel carried that truth in his very marrow, as tangible as the armour against his skin.
Dear stars above, how they missed him.
Aloysius had understood leadership in a way Uriel never could. He had been more than a mentor—more than a friend. He was the centre that held them all together.
When Michael raged, it was Aloysius who steadied him. When Sama'el resisted, it was Aloysius who reasoned. And when Uriel faltered under the weight of his visions, it was Aloysius who listened. Now, the absence of his voice was a silence that lived inside Uriel’s bones.
Uriel’s fingers flexed, craving a paintbrush the way a soldier craved a sword.
The unfinished canvas leaning against the wall of his quarters beckoned him—the portrait of her. The golden-haired female with eyes like ice and sky, the soulmate he’d only seen once in a vision.
No matter how many times he tried, capturing her proved impossible. Something in the eyes was always wrong—maybe because she was never really there. Maybe because he had seen her only once.
He shook his head, forcing the wandering thoughts of his daemon aside. The Universe had given him purpose, not freedom. Daydreams were unaffordable.
The hum of the transport cube pulled him back to the present. It slid into place on a lower platform, its doors opening with a soft sigh. Crates were unloaded—grain, salt, rolls of fabric from Hortus, the Garden City below. Another way Caelum masked its fragility with elegance. War was draining their resources faster than they replenished them.
Uriel’s wings shifted restlessly. Below, a Concigliere stood supervising the shipment, hands clasped behind his back, his posture carved from arrogance.
Once, that male had been a friend. Now, like the rest of them, he was simply a reminder of everything Uriel despised about politics.
A sharp gust stirred the air, and with it, memory. Sorkan. His father’s name flickered through Uriel’s mind like a dying ember. He, too, had been Pari-born.
It had been over a millennium since the accident—the one that had stolen both Sorkan and Ambrose, Praeses and Michael’s father, in a single, unspeakable moment.
No bodies.
No farewell.
Just a sudden void in the archangelic bond, as if their very existence had been wiped from history.
But Uriel’s loss had come even earlier. His father had slowly vanished long before—ever since Uriel’s mother died. His father had withered in his soulmate’s absence, every archangel’s fate.
The Universe gave archangels immortality and power—but anchored them to mortal soulmates. Balance in all things.
Sorkan had lost the sight of colour and emotion before even the archangelic bond refused him. Where there should have been connection, there was silence. Where there should have been purpose, there was only emptiness. And into that void, hatred crept, and daemons thrived.
Uriel inhaled sharply, grounding himself in the present. His father had chosen his fate, but Uriel would choose his own.
He cast a quick check through the archangelic bond—a habit Michael called obsessive. And maybe he was right, as Uriel couldn’t stop himself.
A brush of minds, never violating the trust that came with their limitless connection: Michael, simmering in frustration; Rafael, calm hands working in the infirmary; Gabriel, soothing a street dispute; Lysander, laughing softly with his father over some shared joke; Sama'el, flying too far ahead of his scouting squadron. Kaelin—
Uriel cut the connection before Kaelin’s latest escapade imprinted too vividly, but not before Kaelin noticed.
You really need to work on your timing. Kaelin’s mind playfully nudged his, all sharp intellect and reckless charm; the very qualities that tempted mortals and angels, males and females, into his bed.
Some of us have responsibilities, Uriel countered, but he smiled despite himself.
And some of us know how to survive them. Kaelin replied.
The warmth of their bond lingered, even after his brother withdrew, leaving only the earthy scent of sweet currant—Kaelin’s signature.
Uriel exhaled.
They were all present. All breathing. For now.
A flicker of pink caught his attention.
A female landed on the sentry cloud, her dress matching the blush shade of her wings. Her smile was a carefully practiced curve, her gait too graceful to be natural. Pari-born, of course.
Uriel kept his face impassive, but his pulse kicked up in irritation. Since ascending to Praeses, they had circled him like driftfeathers, all hoping to be the one he’d choose as vita. As if a soul-bond were a political agenda. As if fate let itself be commanded.
She approached, smile brightening.
“Praeses,” she purred.
Uriel nodded, his disinterest a shield she either didn’t see or chose to ignore. Before he dismissed her, the wind caught her off balance. Without thinking, he reached out, catching her by the arm.
Silk, not skin—a small mercy.
Visions came easiest through touch, most vivid with skin-to-skin, though they didn’t always obey the rules. He’d learned to be careful, even if caution was no guarantee. He didn’t need a vision of her future intruding now.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said evenly.
Her smile widened. “I thought you might escort me to the Blossom Festival.”
A headache came out of nowhere.
The war had stolen time itself, and yet the Pari clung to their habits, their illusions. As if flower garlands would protect them from Djinni blades.
“There won’t be a festival,” he said, voice gentler than he felt. “We’re at war.”
Disappointment flickered across her face, but Uriel had already turned back to the horizon. War allowed no time for distractions. And neither did leadership.
The wind filled Uriel’s ears, tearing away whatever excuse the Pari-born female might have offered next.
Michael’s voice pressed into his mind, sharp and urgent.
A pod breached our atmosphere. Sama'el’s squadron is already on its way.
Uriel barely spared the female another glance before launching himself into the sky, purple wings slicing through the air, silver lines reflecting the light. Another sentry would escort her back down to the residential levels soon enough.
Ahead, the White Plains unfurled like a frostbitten tapestry, shimmering faintly beneath the weak spill of sunlight—frozen, barren lands trapped beyond Ignis and the Celestial Highlands, cursed with silence and darkness.
Beneath him lay the Hortian Cradle, the patchwork farms carved into the earth like ancient sigils. Hortian farmers lived modestly but steadily, sheltered from the consuming tides by their fortunate elevation. Their fields had fed Caelum for eons.
To the west, the lava lakes of Ignis pulsed, ribbons of molten gold splitting black earth apart like fractured glass. Their heat sometimes reached even on Caelum when the winds shifted.
Michael’s dark wings appeared beside him, each powerful beat cutting through the air like a blade. In just weeks, Michael had transformed a quindecim ceremonial guards into Caeligati—the start of their fighting force. It wasn’t enough, Uriel knew. But it was something.
As they flew, Uriel stole a glance at his second-in-command. They had been friends first—long before they bore the weight of archangelic titles—and despite everything, that bond still held.
Unable to resist, Uriel spoke up. “Thanks.”
Instead of offering Uriel an escape route, he could have invited another person to join him.
Michael’s low laugh filled the space between them, warm despite the chill of the high winds.
“She’s really determined to become the Praeses’ vita, isn’t she?”
Uriel groaned. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that.”
“Persistent? She’s been tracking you like a bloodhawk since Aloysius’s funeral.”
“She’s not my type.”
“Right, I forgot.” Michael’s grin split through the grimness like sunlight between storm clouds. “Your type is painted on canvas.”
“Exactly,” Uriel retorted with a hint of amusement. “Watch out, she’ll be coming after you next.”
Michael laughed again, and for a brief moment, they were just two friends soaring above the world—untouched by war, untouched by grief.
But reality never stayed away for long.
Caelum is shielded. Lysander’s voice slipped into the bond, calm and certain.
Uriel glanced back just in time to see Lysander’s illusion settle over their city. The glass domes, the marble spires, the cascading bridges—everything blurred into the sky, invisible to the eye. Only angels would find their way home now, navigating by instinct and memory.
Gabriel’s voice followed, brisk and clear. Citizens are ordered indoors. Caeligati are mobilized.
I have eyes on the pod, Sama'el reported, his mind already humming with adrenaline. They’re headed for the White Plains, about an hour northwest of Caelum.
Uriel’s wings stiffened. The White Plains—what did the Djinni possibly want there?
Keep your distance, Uriel warned, already knowing Sama'el wouldn’t listen. Do not engage.
They’re hunting something, Sama'el’s mind flared. Or someone.
Uriel’s stomach twisted, the thin veneer of control fracturing as his skin took on a faint glow of the aether. Before Uriel could send a warning, the vision struck. It hit like ice cracking underfoot—sharp, unstoppable, forcing him either to suffocate or to surrender.
Uriel’s vision snapped into focus, brutal and immediate.
He saw the wreckage clearly—a twisted husk embedded in snow, smoke curling like dark veins against the bright light. Metal buckled and gave way under his feet. Sama'el stood amidst shattered Djinni corpses, his sword slicked with dark blood.
As the last enemy lunged, Uriel sensed Sama'el’s heartbeats as if they were his own, each pulse counting down to tragedy. The Djinni moved quicker, blade gleaming, and Uriel knew with aching certainty: Sama'el would be too slow.
He tried to hold the moment still—willing the vision to pause—but the future was a storm, not a sculpture. Slippery. Feral.
Uriel’s breath tore free in a ragged gasp, wings faltering. Michael’s hand caught his arm, steadying him mid-air. His skin tingled violently, as if every nerve had been peeled raw—his daemon retreating into shadow, wounded and snarling.
The aether backlash left him blinking spots from his vision, heart hammering as the weight of what he’d seen lodged itself behind his sternum.
“What did you see?” Michael’s voice was low, but there was no hiding the fear beneath it.
“Sama'el.” Uriel’s voice shook. “He’s going to die.”
Michael didn’t argue, only reached into the bond to see the vision for himself. Uriel struggled to judge the right amount of information to disclose, but in moments like this, there was no room for doubt.
Keep your distance, Uriel sent again, desperate now. Do not engage.
Michael signalled Uriel to remain silent. If anything triggered Sama'el’s impulsive behaviour, it was authority; especially his.
She’s barely getting away, Sama'el’s voice came back, sharp with injustice. An angel. Alone.
Stay with your squadron, Michael muttered. Everyone’s accounted for.
Gabriel’s mind swept through Caelum, fast and sure. Confirmed. No one’s missing.
Then who is she? Sama'el demanded.
Without waiting for an answer, Sama'el severed the connection entirely, but not before burrowing into Michael’s aether. Left unchecked, Sama'el was likely to try crashing the pod, risking his own safety.
“He’s going to get himself killed,” Michael cursed under his breath.
“You need to reach him first.” Uriel’s voice was raw—visions rarely changed. But he couldn’t bear another loss. None of them could.
Michael’s skin flared with golden light as he poured his aether into his flight, wings beating hard enough to crack air. He dove into the darkening sky, two shadows racing fate itself.
Uriel followed at his own speed, too slow, heart pounding.
They were near-immortal, but near wasn’t good enough.
Virginie Joly handles Wings of Defiance with fortified prose. Complicated regulations surrounding archangel ascension, the consequences of a Draconian shapeshifting into a dragon while pregnant—Joly explains these concepts and more without losing the galloping pace of the plot. The twists and turns in the text feel divinely guided.
Wings of Defiance has two main characters: Uriel, one of seven archangels in Luneria, and Sestra, a Draconian hybrid who distrusts archangels as a result of long-term trauma. Joly uses Sestra’s hybrid powers as a metaphor for resilience. Adapting to trauma enables us to survive the harshest environments. Likewise, power loses purpose in the wake of threat, and the reader, through Sestra’s story, learns that lesson too. “We choose who we are,” the book reminds us, so guard yourself against “letting your wounds speak” for you.
At the center of our story stands the fated but resisted love between the two main characters, similar to that of Feyre’s and Rhysand’s in the A Court of Thorns and Roses series. Imagine if, when Feyre met him, Rhysand had just escaped Amarantha, and they had to work together to overthrow her, to save others in danger.
Unlike other romances, which drag out the will-they-won’t-they romance to the point of exhaustion, we have a clear obstacle to love in Sestra’s newly fled trauma—but Sestra’s attraction to Uriel makes that obstacle transparent. Uriel waits almost comfortably for Sestra because she is his vita, his soulmate. The love in this book embodies a section of the Bible often read at weddings: “Love is patient; love is kind…”
Despite this biblical allusion—and despite the existence of archangels in this world, many named after the beings in Christian folklore—Wings of Defiance is not Christian fiction. This deviation will come as a relief for those accustomed to the heat of modern paranormal romance.
There is heat, indeed, in Uriel’s anticipation. There is heat in Sestra’s longing. In their touch.
However, this novel is fantasy beyond its archangels, dragons, and fae folk: Every interaction that Sestra and Uriel have together breaks the bonds of reality, even in Luneria. They fly together and land more gracefully than the most skilled archangels ever have, despite the fact that Sestra is still learning how to use her wings. Uriel gives Sestra orgasm after orgasm, despite her inexperience and hatred of her own body. She has sudden access to the uninhibited pleasure that few recent trauma survivors do. Perhaps the soulmate connection she feels with Uriel grants her the psychological safety that only decades of therapy can provide. Once the romance heats up, Joly also wears out the metaphor of fire as passion, as well as the phrase “he held her as if she was something [precious/sacred/holy], because she was.”
Despite this, I was still warmed (and tingled) by their devotion.
Meanwhile, Luneria is still at war with the Djinni. Thank goodness a sequel stands on the horizon. This reader is very much looking forward to Wings of Ash.