#oc:danyl

“What did you come here for wretch? Don’t you understand when you’re unwanted?” He growls, very aware that the king stands at the doorway above him, weapon pointed their way. The prince has been sent to ensure his mother’s safety, and now this fight is between them.

Noite laughs, throwing out his arms in an extravagant gesture. His grin is sickening and Max can feel his wings and fingers twitch and ache to throw himself at him. But he resists, standing his ground. He’s not a child anymore.

“Unwanted? Oh dearest Maximilian, you hurt me. Were we not friends once? Very good friends if I remember correctly,” The broken doctor steps closer, reaching out a hand. Max growls a warning, flames flaring higher and his wings spreading as if to block his son from view. Noite clicks his tongue, his smile falling as he pulls his hand back a small bit.

“I’ve only come to right a wrong old friend. To destroy the people who destroyed my family,” He growls, face turning towards the king at the top of the stairs, steadily shooting down any of the undead guard that try to make their way up. Max sends a flash his way, clipping him and making him hiss in pain.

“You’d do well not to take your attention off your opponent old friend,” Max spits, nothing but hatred in his words. “I’m telling you now, this is not a fight you can win. You know as well as I do that should word of your... tactics get to a certain someone, they will do far worse than I could ever dream of. Turn around. Go back from whence you came and never return,”

There’s a moment’s pause before Noite steps closer, looming over Max’s 6’2” form. The Angel is unintimidated, standing strong and simply raising a hand.

“Noite. I know what you believe, but you know you’re wrong. Look what your anger and hatred has turned you into. Do you think this is what Opal would have wanted?” The Angel lowers his voice, feeling a sense of victory in the flash of pain in the man’s eyes. For a brief moment he feels he may be breaking through before there’s a pain in his side and he’s thrown aside by one of the grotesque shadebeasts. He growls, kicking at it and prying it’s mouth off his side as Noite raises his voice.

“I had thought you of all people would understand Angel! Had these corrupt, disgusting creatures have taken your son from you, perhaps you’d realize who you’re protecting!” He cries, Max crying out in pain as the creature’s teeth sink into a different part of his body, the flames spreading as his body rushes to heal itself.

He struggles as Noite looms above him, crouching down and ignoring the shots ringing out from the top of the stairs.

“You’ll be glad old friend. I know how you cared for Opal as if he were your own,” He grins, putting a hand to Max’s chin as he struggles. “You can see him again. While I was gone, exiled and alone, I found a way. I saved him when you all wished to abandon my boy into the ground,”

Max stares, horror crossing his face as he fights yet harder, shoving the beast away if only to be tackled back down.

“Noite! Noite, tell me you didn’t!”

“Oh I did!” He laughs, grinning wildly and turning up towards the stairs once again, locking eyes with the king.

“Did you hear Windrow? I did what you stopped me from, I saved him! Do you wish to see my son again old friend? Perhaps Praesidio will like to see his brother. That’s what they called each other is it not?” He grins, the smoke raising around him and slowly taking shape.

Max watches on in horror as a falsehood of the boy he watched grow alongside his own children forms beside the creature that used to be his father. It’s eyes form first from the mass, cold and empty, and then it’s body slowly takes shape. Heavy limbs, partially crafted from wood as if hobbled together, replaced. It’s stance is wrong, but when it turns to look at the Angel, it’s face... it’s face is perfect. It’s the face of that boy he watched get sick and fade away as his father was running fool’s errands, trying to cheat death.

As he watches, seeing Noite hold the miserable, broken creature to his chest and begin to gloat, to laugh wildly, he feels a rage even stronger than before rise in his chest, filling his throat with fire. In moments, a voice echoes in his head and things go blank.

“Foolish creature,”

Max cries out, the sound echoing with a strength that doesn’t belong to the young Angel, Windrow knows that much. The king stands down his weapon for a moment, staring on in amazement as he sees a ball of flame explode from his ambassador, sending the Shadebeast pinning him flying into the wall with a loud yelp, crumpling to the ground in a whimpering heap. When Max stands, there’s something wrong. It takes Windrow a moment to see it fully through the dust and chaos before him.

The young man’s head is ringed with a halo of flame, the magic tracing patterns in his skin that are familiar. His eyes are black as he stares at the creature before him, throwing himself his way and managing to get Noite slammed to the ground, wings splayed behind him.

“Do you believe the natural order your plaything? You seem to think yourself worthy of choosing what lives and dies,” Noite struggles, shocked that he’s being controlled. Shocked that these flames burn so badly.

“W-who-“

“You should not have come here, you disgusting thing,” Max growls, his voice changed, stronger than his own has ever been. He barely seems himself at all. Noite struggles violently, screaming out in rage as he begins to see that once again, he will lose.

Opal, or the version of him that has been created, comes running to his father’s defense, but he is quickly thrown aside by a ball of flame, left crumpled to the ground. He gasps, Noite looking toward him.

He doesn’t get a chance to speak, screaming out as the flames seem to burn through his body, lighting him from the inside out. The undead creatures around him scream with him in a gruesome chorus, Max’s eyes staying on his face.

“Never return.”

The Shade ghost before them lets out one last scream before disappearing into smoke, the bodies of the guards dropping to the ground and the crumpled forms of the Shadebeasts and Opal dissipating with him. Max stays there a moment, on his knees, staring at the spot where Noite just was before the flames fade away and he crumples, crashing to the ground.

“Max! Linkoln!” Windrow cries, rushing to make his way down the stairs. Praesidio comes running with the palace doctor, everyone left alive hurrying to gather the fallen men and rush them to treatment. Windrow stares on, steadying his shaking hand as he watches the rush. He takes a deep breath, putting the terrified thoughts out of his mind and rushing to help. After all, a good king should care for his people.

It takes over a week for the bodies to be properly buried and cared for, there’s a mourning parade and every guard that was felled is given the highest honors. Max heals quickly, and he and his other two children are rarely seen, always visiting with Linkoln until he’s released from the hospital three days after the incident. The melancholy of the city has darkened further, combined with a deep fear. The ever peaceful city has been shaken to it’s core and now, as Windrow stands looking out his window, he hopes he can find some way to fix it soon. It kills him to see his people so unhappy. He sighs, closing his eyes before speaking over his shoulder.

“You ensured none of them could rise again?”

“Of course. They can rest well now,” A smooth voice answers. Firae steps up beside him, arms folded behind their back. He nods, looking down.

“You saved us again. I... don’t know how to thank you,” He looks up at the elegant skydancer, earning a small smile.

“Simply continue to make this city a kind and gentle place, for the living and the dead, and we will be happy. And take care of all who enter. Leave the bad ones to us,”

The king hums, sighing at the answer from the deity. He looks back out at the city below, barely blinking at the sound of wings as Firae disappears. He simply has to make this a home.

The air is already filled with the scent of cooking food, jovial voices breaking through the chill morning air as everyone prepares for the annual Festival of Angels. This festival, to celebrate the kind and generous Mother, is always one that excites everyone in the city. People from all over come within Melody’s walls to visit and take part in the food, the games, the attractions of the festival. One merchant carefully organizes the Blessed Pendants sitting on her display, her tail wrapped around the pole that holds up the bright red canopy of her stand.

She hums a mimic of the Mother’s song as she works, making sure each and every pendant is perfectly clear and free of scratches, the smoke trailing up from the cigarette between her painted lips rising to mix with the steam and smoke from the cooking fires that surround her. Inside of the crystal clear resin of the pendants are single, perfect petals, said to be plucked from the Mother’s garden. And of course, the merchant selling them is no cheat, to her knowledge, they come from exactly that place. 

Her supplier is the tall, scrappy dragon that’s said to be a servant of the Mother herself, and who, quite honestly, is a much kinder soul than the naga once thought. The jeweler is able to get as many flowers as she’d like from the Mother’s garden, for only the price of company and a listening ear, which she is more than happy to provide. The woman finishes organizing her things and moves to sit behind her counter, stretching with a quiet groan. 

As her large, beautifully brown eyes scan the large, circular market, she takes in the competition. Some of the other merchants are people she’s known her whole life, others, newcomers who have come simply to see the festival and the sights of the city. It’s in the moments like these that she can appreciate it’s dilapidated beauty for what it is, and truly take it in. The way the ivy climbs up the buildings, how rose bushes seem to grow from the stones themselves, allowed to be wild and overgrown. She smiles to herself as she leans back on her palms, waiting patiently until the festival is due to begin. 

Meanwhile, as the preparations for the next few days of festivities goes on, a king and queen anxiously prepare themselves. Danyl, the beautiful queen of Melody, sits back at her vanity with a sigh as her husband gently places his hands on her shoulders. 

“Whatever could be wrong my petal? The Festival of Angels is about to start! This has always been your favorite time of year,” Windrow leans down to kiss her cheek, the queen’s graceful hand moving to cup his as she allows a small smile to come to her lips. 

“I’m not sure darling... I just have a bad feeling about this year. I’m not sure what it is but something feels... off,” She turns her emerald eyes up to his face as he comes around to crouch beside her chair, gently tucking a strand of her hair back into place.

Windrow studies her for a moment, frowning a little at seeing his love so upset, before simply kneeling beside her and bringing her hand up to his lips. 

“My dear, if you don’t want to, or are scared, we don’t have to make an appearance this year. We can always stay right here, in our home, together. Anything to make you happy,” He smiles, gently rubbing her hand between his. 

The queen looks over his face, smiling a little wider before shaking her head and laughing a bit at herself. 

“No, no, we’ll have our guards, I’m sure everything will be just fine. I’m merely worrying too much. Come, we should finish getting ready,” 

What the king and queen don’t know, is as they are finishing getting ready for their appearance, and the merchants are organizing their wares, a lone man sits at the edge of the city, changing the bandages on his shoulder and allowing the rage boiling inside of him to grow ever hotter. And as he takes to jotting down runes into the dirt for a summoning, the queen’s heart grows ever heavier. She can’t help but feel as though something is going to go very, very wrong.