Chained, p.15
Chained, page 15
Not now.
Not ever.
Chapter 16. Next Destination
Hours passed quietly.
The forest shifted around them as time moved forward—light changing angle, shadows stretching and softening—but Caelum did not wake until his body decided it was ready. When his eyes finally opened, awareness returned instantly, sharp and complete.
The first thing he did was search.
His gaze swept the clearing with instinctive precision, cataloguing movement, sound, presence. Only when he saw Kreyn did the tension in his chest ease—just slightly.
Kreyn was still there.
He sat on the opposite side of the same tree, back resting against the bark, head tilted forward, eyes closed. Not asleep—just resting. Waiting. The way someone does when they don’t want to miss the moment another wakes.
Caelum looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he stood.
He rolled his shoulders slowly, testing range and resistance. No stiffness. No ache. He inhaled deeply and exhaled once, then lifted his arms, stretching deliberately as power flowed back into familiar channels. He spread his wings wide.
Fully.
The motion was effortless.
Feathers unfurled smoothly, no tremor, no sagging, no pain pulling at the joints where injury had once lingered. He flexed them once, twice—sharp, precise movements meant to stress-test every muscle and tendon.
Nothing faltered.
Caelum allowed himself a small nod.
“Good,” he murmured. “That’s good.”
He folded his wings and moved a few meters away from the tree, boots silent against the forest floor. His eyes swept the surroundings again, this time not for Kreyn, but for signs of disturbance—ripples in the air, distortions in light, the subtle pressure that accompanied observation from higher realms.
There was nothing.
No celestial presence.
No infernal trace.
No watchers.
They haven’t realized yet, he thought. Or they’re still confirming.
Either way, time was a luxury he did not intend to waste.
He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace slowly, mind already shifting into strategy. Remaining here was not an option. Forests were neutral, yes—but not invisible. Heaven and Hell both observed patterns. Movement. Deviations.
They needed somewhere overlooked.
Somewhere dismissed.
Somewhere unimportant.
Caelum stopped mid-step.
His gaze dropped to the ground as the answer surfaced fully formed.
“The mortal realm,” he said quietly.
It was obvious in hindsight.
Heaven watched mortals when it suited purpose. Hell meddled when it amused or benefited them. But neither realm cared enough to maintain constant vigilance there. Mortals were background noise—fleeting, fragile, insignificant in the long scale of eternity.
Perfect.
“Yes,” Caelum continued, resolve sharpening. “We can hide there. At least for a while.”
He turned his head toward Kreyn.
The man stirred slightly at the sound of his voice but did not wake. Caelum studied him again—free of chains now, yet still burdened by absence. A being erased so thoroughly that even his own past recoiled from him.
Until he remembers, Caelum thought.
He would wait.
He had not endured the Oracle. Had not torn feathers from his own wings. Had not channelled light and darkness through his body—nearly tearing himself apart—just to abandon the truth now.
Whatever Heaven and Hell had done in the past, whatever they had buried beneath silence and collaboration, it would surface.
And when it did—
Caelum intended to be there.
He wanted to see it with his own eyes. To witness the truth unfiltered, undeniable, no longer controlled by doctrine or fear. And he wanted Kreyn there too—not as a prisoner, not as an execution target—but as the one who had been robbed of everything.
Please let me be right, Caelum thought quietly.
Please let this man be someone unjustly erased rather than the catastrophe they claimed.
Because if he was—
Then Heaven and Hell had committed something far worse than negligence.
They had committed a crime against existence itself.
Caelum straightened and turned back toward the tree.
It was time to move.
Caelum walked straight toward Kreyn without hesitation.
The forest floor barely stirred beneath his steps, his presence quiet but purposeful. He stopped in front of the tree where Kreyn rested and reached out, tapping his shoulder firmly—once.
“Wake up,” Caelum said. “It’s time to go.”
Kreyn stirred immediately, as if he had never truly fallen asleep. His eyes opened slowly at first, unfocused, then sharpened as awareness returned. For a brief moment, confusion flickered across his face—then memory rushed back all at once: the abyss, the fall, the wings, the light.
He pushed himself upright with a low grunt and stretched instinctively, rolling his shoulders, flexing his arms, working stiffness out of muscles that had been idle for far too long. His joints protested faintly, but nothing like before. No chains. No resistance. No sudden pain clawing at his head.
That alone still felt unreal.
Kreyn exhaled, then turned toward Caelum. “Where to?” he asked simply.
Caelum didn’t waste time.
“We’re going to the mortal realm,” he said. “It’s the only place where Heaven and Hell don’t constantly interfere. There, you might be able to remember something—without suppression. And we can remain hidden for a while.”
Kreyn studied him.
There were so many questions pressing at the edges of his mind—Why the mortal realm? How long is ‘a while’? What happens if they find us?—but he already knew how this would go.
Caelum would answer what he chose to answer.
Everything else would dissolve into silence.
So Kreyn didn’t push.
He simply nodded.
“Alright,” he said quietly.
There was a strange acceptance in his voice now. Not surrender—just understanding. If answers were going to come, they would come on Caelum’s terms, at least for now. And despite everything, Kreyn trusted him enough to follow.
Caelum turned away and took several steps into the clearing. He paused, then spread his wings fully.
They unfurled with a soft, powerful rush of air, feathers catching the light filtering through the trees. This time there was no hesitation in the movement, no stiffness, no pain shadowing the gesture. His wings were whole again—strong, steady, ready.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
“Hop on,” Caelum said. “We’re going straight to the mortal realm.”
Kreyn blinked.
Again?
He hesitated for half a second—just long enough for his stomach to twist in anticipation—then stepped forward. There was no point arguing this time. Walking wasn’t an option. Portals weren’t being offered.
Only wings.
“Guess I’m flying again,” Kreyn muttered under his breath as he moved closer.
He positioned himself carefully behind Caelum, far more mindful now, and wrapped his arms around him with deliberate caution—firm, steady, not panicked. He took a breath, grounding himself.
“Okay,” Kreyn said. “I’m ready.”
Caelum didn’t respond.
He simply bent his knees slightly, wings tensing, air gathering beneath them—
And then they lifted off.
The forest fell away beneath their feet as they ascended, rising toward a horizon Kreyn had never seen before. The world below blurred into colour and distance, and ahead of them lay a realm unknown to one—and forbidden to the other.
The mortal realm awaited.
And whatever truth Kreyn carried within him would no longer remain buried forever.
They flew for a long time.
Long enough that the sky subtly changed its texture—its colour deepening, its weight shifting, the air growing thicker and less forgiving. Kreyn felt it before he saw it: a pressure that wasn’t physical but existential, like pushing against a membrane that did not want to be crossed.
Ahead of them, the boundary loomed.
It wasn’t a wall or a gate in the way mortals might imagine, but a distortion—a vast, invisible threshold where realms overlapped without ever fully touching. Light bent strangely there. Sound thinned. Even Caelum’s steady rhythm altered, his wings beating with more effort, more precision.
Caelum spoke without turning his head.
“Hold on tight,” he said. “This will be a bumpy ride.”
Kreyn didn’t argue.
He tightened his grip instantly, wrapping both arms securely around Caelum’s neck, pressing his chest closer to the angel’s back. He tucked his head slightly, bracing himself, instincts screaming that something was about to go very wrong before it went right.
Caelum altered course sharply.
Instead of flying straight through the boundary—where the passage would be faster but far more visible—he veered into a difficult, jagged route. One that twisted through unstable currents and fractured layers of reality, where concealment mattered more than comfort.
The air turned violent.
They were jolted hard to the left, then suddenly pitched upward. Kreyn gasped as the force slammed into him, his stomach dropping as though gravity itself had momentarily forgotten its purpose.
“—!” He bit back a cry, clinging tighter.
Caelum’s wings expanded reflexively, feathers flaring outward to shield him. The edges of his wings took the brunt of the turbulence, absorbing violent shifts in pressure that would have torn an unprotected body apart. Each beat was controlled, precise, fighting against forces that pulled and twisted unpredictably.
It was not smooth.
Not even close.
But it was safe.
As safe as Caelum could make it.
The boundary resisted them fiercely, vibrating with a low, ominous hum that seemed to echo inside Kreyn’s skull. He squeezed his eyes shut, trusting Caelum entirely now, trusting that the angel would not let go—could not let go.
And then—
They were through.
The air changed instantly.
The crushing pressure vanished, replaced by something lighter, looser, more chaotic in a different way. The sky ahead widened, its colour richer, deeper—alive. Below them, land unfolded in sprawling, imperfect patterns: mountains, valleys, forests stretching endlessly.
The mortal realm.
Caelum did not slow until he was certain they were no longer being watched.
He angled downward sharply, wings folding just enough to descend quickly, aiming for a remote mountain range far from any settlements. Snow-capped peaks and jagged cliffs rose beneath them, untouched, silent, unclaimed.
He landed on a wide, rocky plateau nestled between ancient trees and exposed stone.
The moment his feet touched ground, Kreyn released his grip.
Too quickly.
His legs wobbled as he stepped back, dizziness washing over him in a delayed wave. The world tilted slightly, vision blurring at the edges as his body struggled to recalibrate after flight.
Caelum turned immediately. “Are you alright?”
Kreyn inhaled slowly, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… hazy.”
Caelum watched him for another second, ensuring he could stand on his own, before nodding once in return.
“We can’t stay like this,” Caelum said. “Our appearance will draw attention.”
Kreyn frowned. “So what do we—”
“We change,” Caelum interrupted. “To match the mortals.”
He glanced around the area once more, scanning for movement, then turned back to Kreyn.
“Wait here,” he added.
Before Kreyn could ask where he was going—or how—Caelum spread his wings and launched back into the air, vanishing into the sky with practiced ease.
Kreyn was left alone.
He exhaled and sat down heavily on a fallen tree trunk nearby, fingers curling against the rough bark. The mountain air was crisp, sharp, filled with unfamiliar scents—pine, stone, wind. Everything felt real here in a way the abyss never had.
Time passed.
Again, Kreyn couldn’t tell how long. The sun shifted slightly, shadows stretching. Hunger didn’t claw at him, but a quiet curiosity stirred—Should I be hungry? Should I need food?
Eventually, Caelum returned.
He landed softly this time, carrying folded garments in one arm and a small bundle in the other. Fabric. Containers. Food.
He approached Kreyn and set everything down between them.
Caelum’s gaze lingered on Kreyn for a moment longer than usual.
He still didn’t know what Kreyn was.
Not angel.
Not demon.
And likely not mortal.
No mortal could survive the abyss—not physically, not mentally. And Kreyn hadn’t shown any true dependence on mortal necessities so far. No hunger. No exhaustion in the way mortals experienced it.
Still, Caelum had brought food.
Any being could eat mortal food, even if they didn’t need it.
He handed Kreyn the clothes and a portion of the provisions.
“Change,” Caelum said. “Before we head to the nearest town.”
Kreyn accepted them, then hesitated. “What about you? How will you—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Because Caelum’s wings were… disappearing.
Not vanishing violently, not being torn away—but folding inward, dissolving into light that seeped seamlessly into his back until there was nothing left but the outline of a man. No feathers. No trace.
Kreyn stared.
“…You can hide your wings?” he said slowly.
Caelum didn’t answer.
Kreyn shook his head in disbelief. “You have self-healing, you can hide your wings… that’s incredibly useful.”
Still no response.
Caelum had already begun changing his clothes, movements efficient, unbothered by Kreyn’s commentary. Eventually, Kreyn followed suit, pulling on the mortal garments—simple, practical, unfamiliar but comfortable enough.
Once they were dressed, Caelum pushed the food toward him again.
“Eat,” he said. “You need to get used to mortal food.”
Kreyn looked down at it, then back up at Caelum.
This realm was different.
This life would be different.
And whatever he truly was—whatever truth lay buried inside him—this was where it would begin to surface.
Slowly, Kreyn reached for the food.
And took his first real step into the mortal world.
Chapter 17. You And I
Caelum turned to Kreyn once more, his expression composed, eyes sharp despite the calm he projected.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Kreyn inhaled deeply, letting the cool mountain air fill his lungs. He glanced once at the vast landscape behind them—the peaks, the sky, the place where flight had carried him across impossible boundaries—and then nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”
Caelum did not spread his wings.
That alone caught Kreyn off guard.
Kreyn waited, half-expecting the familiar rush of air, the grounding weight of Caelum’s back beneath his arms. Instead, Caelum simply turned and began walking down the mountain path, his steps steady, unhurried.
Kreyn frowned and hurried after him. “We’re… walking?”
“Yes,” Caelum replied without looking back.
Kreyn blinked. “Wouldn’t flying be faster? Easier?”
Caelum slowed just enough to speak clearly. “We don’t draw attention. We act like mortals. We move like mortals.”
Kreyn fell silent.
That word again—mortals.
He followed, adjusting his pace, feeling the uneven ground beneath his feet, the way gravity tugged at his body in a way that felt different than in the abyss. Every step grounded him further in this realm. The path wound downward through rock and soil, trees thinning as the slope softened into roads worn smooth by countless footsteps.
Eventually, rooftops appeared.
A town.
Not large, not grand—just a cluster of buildings gathered together, smoke rising lazily from chimneys, the distant hum of voices drifting through the air. Life, ordinary and unremarkable, unfolding without knowledge of the realms layered above and below it.
They entered the town side by side.
No gates stopped them. No guards questioned them. Mortals passed by without a second glance—at first.
Then Kreyn noticed it.
Heads turning.
Lingering looks.
A pause in conversation here. A second glance there.
Caelum drew attention like gravity.
His presence was subtle but undeniable—his posture too perfect, his movements too precise. His golden hair caught the sunlight in a way that seemed almost unfair, framing a face sculpted with impossible symmetry. Even dressed in mortal clothing, even with his wings hidden, he looked like something that didn’t belong.
Kreyn leaned closer and whispered, barely containing a smile, “So much for blending in.”
Caelum glanced sideways at him.
For a moment, Kreyn thought he might bristle—but instead, Caelum’s lips curved into the smallest smile. Barely there. Almost secret.
They continued walking.
The town revealed itself in pieces—market stalls, laughter, the scent of baked bread and roasting meat. Kreyn took it all in quietly, overwhelmed by the sheer normalcy of it. This was a world that went on regardless of gods, angels, prisons, and forgotten truths.
Eventually, Caelum stopped in front of an inn.
It was modest but well-kept, its wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze. Inside, warmth and noise greeted them—the crackle of a hearth, murmured conversations, the clink of mugs against tables.
The innkeeper looked up—and froze.
