Chained, p.17
Chained, page 17
He stopped next at a small crowd gathered around a paper-doll performance. Cut figures danced against a lit screen while a storyteller’s voice rose and fell, weaving a tale of heroes, monsters, love, and loss.
Kreyn watched, transfixed.
Stories.
Mortals told them so freely—without fear that remembering would hurt, without punishment for curiosity. They remembered because they could. Because stories were meant to be shared, not buried.
His throat tightened.
This realm… he thought.
I want to stay here.
If he could.
If he were allowed.
He didn’t know who he was.
He didn’t know what he had done.
He didn’t know what truth waited inside him.
But here—right now—none of that mattered.
He loved the noise.
The warmth.
The people.
He loved the fact that nothing was trying to crush him for existing.
As the paper figures danced and the storyteller’s voice carried on, Kreyn stood there among strangers, heart full in a way he had no memory of ever feeling before.
And for the first time, he allowed himself to think it without fear:
I love it here.
When the performance ended and the small crowd began to disperse, Kreyn rose slowly from where he had been standing. The echo of applause still rang faintly in his ears as he stepped back into the gentle flow of people moving through the street.
He walked on, unhurried, letting instinct guide his feet.
That was when he noticed the structure.
It stood a little apart from the market stalls and noise—a building of pale stone, simple yet dignified. Tall, narrow windows caught the sunlight and reflected it softly, as though the light itself lingered there longer than elsewhere. At its entrance, people dressed in white were beginning to emerge, their voices subdued, expressions calm, almost reverent.
A church.
Kreyn stopped without realizing it.
He watched as the people exited in small groups—some crying quietly, others lowered their head, some resting palms against their chests as if carrying something inward. Whatever had taken place inside that building had clearly touched them.
Something about the scene stirred inside in Kreyn’s chest.
Behind him, Caelum slowed his pace.
He remained several steps back, exactly as he had intended, eyes never leaving Kreyn. From this distance, he could see everything—the way Kreyn paused, the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his gaze softened as he took in the mortal world with open wonder.
Kreyn was alive in a way Caelum had not expected.
Not frantic.
Not reckless.
Not overwhelmed.
Simply… present.
Caelum felt the corner of his lips lift into a faint, unconscious smile.
Then—
Something tugged gently at his sleeve.
Caelum blinked and looked down.
A young girl stood beside him, no older than eight or nine, her dark hair tied back with a fraying ribbon. She carried a woven basket filled with flowers—fresh, vibrant, their colours impossible to ignore. She looked up at him with bright, hopeful eyes.
“Mister,” she said cheerfully, “you are so beautiful. Will you buy some of my flowers? They’d look much more beautiful because of you.”
Caelum froze.
For a heartbeat, his mind stalled completely.
Of all the things he had expected in the mortal realm—suspicion, fear, indifference—this had not been one of them.
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Soft, surprised, genuine.
“That’s quite a line,” he said, crouching slightly so he was closer to her height. “For someone your age, you already have talent. And skill. You’ll be very good at this.”
The girl beamed, clearly proud.
Encouraged, she lifted the basket a little higher. “Thank you, mister! I try really hard.”
Caelum glanced down at the flowers, then back at her. “Alright,” he said calmly. “How much for all of them?”
Her eyes widened so much he worried they might spill over with disbelief.
“All of them?” she asked.
He nodded.
She quickly told him the price, stumbling over the words in her excitement. Caelum reached into his pocket and handed her the coins without hesitation.
As she gathered the flowers to give them to him, she paused suddenly and looked up again.
“Mister,” she said shyly, “can I hug you? Just to say thank you?”
Caelum hesitated for exactly one second.
Then he lowered himself fully.
The girl wrapped her arms around him tightly, far tighter than he expected, and before he could react she pressed a quick kiss against his cheek.
“Thank you, beautiful mister!” she said brightly. “Thank you for buying all the flowers. Now I can go home and take care of my sick mother.”
She pulled away just as quickly, waving enthusiastically before turning and running down the street, her laughter trailing behind her as she disappeared into the crowd.
Caelum remained where he was.
For a long moment.
The warmth of the embrace lingered—light, fleeting, profoundly unfamiliar. No fear. No reverence. No obligation. Just gratitude.
He slowly straightened and looked down at the flowers in his hands.
Then he smiled.
Not the restrained, careful expression he wore out of habit—but something softer. Something human.
When Caelum straightened from where he stood, the first thing he did—without even consciously deciding to—was look for Kreyn.
He wasn’t there.
The space where Kreyn had been moments ago was empty, filled only by passing mortals and drifting noise. Caelum’s eyes swept the street once, then again, sharper this time. He took in details with surgical precision: faces, movements, directions of flow.
Nothing.
His brow furrowed.
He must have stepped into one of the shops, Caelum reasoned at first. It was the most logical explanation. Kreyn had been curious, easily drawn to sound and motion, and the stalls were everywhere.
Caelum continued walking at an unhurried pace, scanning side streets, glancing briefly into open storefronts as he passed. He didn’t want to draw attention by moving too fast. Not yet.
But Kreyn did not appear.
A few more steps.
Still nothing.
Caelum’s stride lengthened slightly.
He shouldn’t be this far, he thought. It didn’t take long to buy the flowers. He couldn’t have vanished that quickly.
The calm calculation began to fracture.
His pace shifted from measured to brisk.
His gaze sharpened, no longer merely observing but hunting—tracking patterns, predicting paths, searching for disruption where Kreyn’s presence should have been. His awareness expanded outward, brushing against the edges of his suppressed senses.
Nothing.
A pulse of unease struck his chest.
Did he leave?
The thought surfaced uninvited, ugly and sharp.
Did he escape?
Caelum’s jaw tightened.
Was it all an act?
The confusion? The fear? The trust?
A darker thought followed, one he despised even as it took shape.
Have I been manipulated?
His heart began to beat faster, each pulse heavy with accusation—against Kreyn, against himself.
He had broken protocol.
He had defied Heaven’s silence.
He had performed a forbidden ritual that nearly killed him.
And now—
The prisoner was gone.
Slipped out of his sight.
Vanished.
This is not good, Caelum thought coldly.
Very deliberately, he forced himself to stop.
Panic was useless. Anger was worse. He drew in a slow breath, then another, locking his emotions behind discipline forged over centuries. Losing control would not bring Kreyn back.
Nearby, a small group of women admired the flowers he still carried. Without thinking, Caelum stepped toward them and placed the entire bundle into their hands.
“For you,” he said flatly.
They laughed in surprise, giggling as they accepted them, murmuring thanks—but Caelum did not wait for their response. He turned away immediately, already scanning the crowd again, moving through alleys, around corners, eyes sharp, mind racing.
I let him slip.
The realization burned.
He hated the feeling crawling up his spine—the sense of having been outmanoeuvred, not by power, but by trust. He hated that a part of him wanted to shout, to tear the air apart and demand answers from the sky itself.
But he didn’t.
He chose calm.
Then—
A voice cut through the noise.
“Someone’s fainted! Help!”
Caelum’s head snapped toward the sound instantly.
Without hesitation, he moved in that direction, pushing through the gathering crowd. Mortals parted instinctively before him—not out of fear, but because something in his presence demanded space.
As he broke through the circle of onlookers, his heart stopped.
Kreyn lay on the ground.
Collapsed.
His body was curled slightly on its side, one hand clutching at his chest, the other braced weakly against the cobblestone. His breathing was heavy and uneven, chest rising and falling too fast, too shallow. His face was pale, eyes half-lidded, unfocused.
For a fraction of a second, the world went silent for Caelum.
“No…” he breathed.
He dropped to one knee beside Kreyn, every trace of suspicion evaporating in an instant, replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.
You didn’t run, he realized.
You didn’t escape.
You fell.
Caelum’s hand hovered just above Kreyn’s shoulder, afraid—truly afraid—of what he might find when he touched him.
The crowd murmured around them, unaware that an escaped prisoner and an angel who had defied Heaven knelt together on mortal ground, balanced on the edge of something far more dangerous than discovery.
Caelum swallowed hard.
And for the first time since leaving the abyss, fear—not duty—gripped his heart.
Chapter 19. The First Memory
Caelum did not hesitate.
The moment he confirmed that Kreyn was breathing—uneven but present—he slipped one arm beneath his shoulders and the other under his knees and lifted him from the ground. Kreyn was lighter than he should have been, his body tense in a way that spoke of strain rather than rest. His breathing rasped against Caelum’s chest as Caelum turned sharply and began moving back toward the inn.
The crowd parted instinctively.
No one stopped him. No one questioned the urgency in his stride, the grim focus in his expression. Even without wings, even without revealing power, there was something unmistakable in the way he moved—decisive, commanding, unyielding.
By the time he reached the inn, Kreyn’s head had fallen limply against his shoulder.
Caelum pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside.
The innkeeper looked up immediately, alarm flashing across his face. “What happened?” he asked, already moving around the counter.
“He collapsed,” Caelum said shortly. His voice was controlled, but there was an edge beneath it—tight, restrained. “I don’t know the reason.”
The innkeeper glanced at Kreyn’s pale face, at the way his chest rose and fell too fast. “I’ll fetch water,” he said quickly.
“I’ll need a basin of warm water,” Caelum added, already turning toward the stairs. “A towel. A pitcher of water and a glass.”
The innkeeper nodded without hesitation. “I’ll bring it up.”
Caelum inclined his head slightly. “Thank you.”
He took the stairs two at a time, careful not to jostle Kreyn despite the urgency in his steps. When he reached the room, he pushed the door open and crossed straight to the bed, lowering Kreyn onto it with more care than he allowed himself to acknowledge.
Kreyn’s body sank into the mattress, limbs slack. His breathing was still laboured, chest rising sharply, lips parted as if drawing air alone required effort. His eyes remained closed, lashes casting faint shadows against his skin.
Caelum stood over him for a moment, unmoving.
What happened to you? he thought.
Just moments ago, Kreyn had been alive with wonder—absorbing the sound of voices, the warmth of the sun, the movement of people. Caelum had seen it. Had even smiled at it.
Then he had looked away.
And when he looked back, Kreyn was gone.
Not fleeing.
Not hiding.
Collapsed.
Caelum dragged a hand through his hair slowly, the gesture tight with frustration and something sharper beneath it.
Did the church trigger something?
A memory? A suppression?
Did the mortal realm awaken something the abyss had kept dormant?
His thoughts spiralled, colliding with one another.
And then came the guilt.
Cold. Heavy. Relentless.
He had thought—if only for a moment—that Kreyn had betrayed him. That he had escaped. That everything had been an act. That the prisoner had manipulated him into defying Heaven, into performing a forbidden ritual that had nearly cost him his life.
Caelum’s jaw tightened.
He hated himself for that moment of suspicion.
But he did not deny it.
Kreyn was a prisoner.
A being sealed away by both Heaven and Hell.
A question wrapped in danger and silence.
Caution was not cruelty. It was survival.
Still—
Looking at Kreyn now, pale and struggling even in unconsciousness, Caelum felt the weight of that doubt press down on him. If Kreyn were truly a criminal, truly the destruction Heaven had warned him about, then why did he look like this?
Fragile.
Overwhelmed.
Human.
Caelum closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself.
I need the truth, he thought. But not like this.
The knock at the door pulled him back.
The innkeeper entered quietly, carrying the basin, towel, pitcher, and glass as promised. He set them down without comment, casting one more concerned glance at Kreyn before leaving them alone.
The door closed softly behind him.
Caelum moved to the bedside and sat down, lifting the towel and dipping it into the warm water. As he wrung it out carefully, his gaze never left Kreyn’s face.
“Whatever you are,” he murmured under his breath, more to himself than to the unconscious man, “you didn’t deserve to collapse alone in the street.”
He reached out, gently pressing the cool cloth to Kreyn’s forehead.
And for the first time since they entered the mortal realm, Caelum felt something unfamiliar twist in his chest—
Not duty.
Not suspicion.
But concern.
Caelum pressed the warm cloth gently against Kreyn’s face, careful not to startle him even in unconsciousness. He moved slowly, deliberately, as though every touch mattered. The cloth glided over Kreyn’s brow, his cheeks, the curve of his jaw, easing away sweat and grime left from the street. He shifted to Kreyn’s neck, dabbing lightly, then down to his arms and hands, wiping away dirt that clung beneath his nails and along his knuckles.
Kreyn didn’t stir.
His breathing gradually steadied, though it remained deeper than normal, as if his body were still recovering from something unseen. His lashes fluttered once, then settled again.
Caelum straightened slowly.
He crossed the room and stopped by the window, resting one hand against the frame as he looked out over the town below. Lanterns had begun to glow as dusk crept in, their warm light spilling onto the streets. Voices rose and fell in familiar rhythms—laughter, bargaining, footsteps, life continuing exactly as it always had.
The world did not pause.
He turned his head slightly, eyes returning to the bed.
Kreyn lay there unmoving, small somehow against the mattress, stripped of chains but still bound by questions he couldn’t answer. For a long moment, Caelum simply watched him.
Did you remember something? he wondered silently.
If so—what?
A face?
A name?
A moment too heavy for the mind to hold?
Why did you collapse?
Caelum’s brow furrowed. He had been so certain. So confident that the abyss itself had been the source of Kreyn’s pain—that once removed from its influence, the punishment would stop. That outside of it, memory would no longer be met with agony.
But now…
Was I wrong?
Had Kreyn tried to remember again? Had something stirred the moment he saw that church, those people dressed in white, carrying grief on their shoulders? Or had the sheer weight of freedom—light, sound, sensation—overwhelmed a body that had known nothing but darkness?
Caelum turned his gaze back to the window, watching the town move.
Children ran through the streets. Merchants packed away wares. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone argued over the price of bread. Somewhere, a song drifted faintly into the evening air.
And here, in this quiet room, a man lay unconscious.
A man who had only just tasted freedom after an unknown eternity.
A man who remembered nothing—no past, no crimes, no identity.
A hollow one.
A confused one.
A once-chained soul left alone in darkness for reasons no one would explain.
Caelum’s hand tightened against the window frame.
“I promised myself this would be different,” he murmured quietly.
He turned back fully, eyes resting on Kreyn once more.
Whatever had happened, Caelum knew one thing with absolute certainty:
