The Seraph and Her Wolf: Chapter 5
For nearly eighty years, Seraphim thrived.
The island nation, born of elemental harmony and human trust, became a symbol of what the world could be when it chose unity over fear. Children from across Earth came to study under Seraph mentors. Trade routes flourished. Scientists collaborated. And for a generation, the word "Seraph" meant something sacred.
But peace, like fire, is delicate. And the colder the world grew outside Seraphim's warmth, the more envy began to burn.
It started with whispers.
First in war rooms. Then in political circles. Then in homes. The Seraphs are too powerful. They can manipulate fire and minds. They have floating cities and weapons we don't understand. They cannot have children of their own—so they transform humans instead. Are we next?
What had once made the Seraphs noble—rescuing dying children, turning them into something reborn—was twisted by fear into something monstrous. Words like "biological modification", "manipulation of minors", and "genetic contamination" began to appear in official briefings.
When a Seraph-born girl from the Aero clan accidentally lost control of a wind surge and injured a diplomat's son, the news cycle lit up for weeks. What was once seen as a tragic accident became a political weapon.
Miya Blaze-Breeze and Damian Breeze-Blaze stood before the World Council again and again, trying to reason, trying to remind them of everything the Seraphs had done to protect the Earth.
But no one wanted to remember.
They only saw the wings now. The glowing eyes. The power.
They saw angels who had lived too long among mortals—and they were afraid.
The first strike was silent.
A virus.
Not one meant to kill, but to observe—to infiltrate the Seraphim communication network and gather data on its people, its energy patterns, its military structure. But the Seraphs discovered it. And when they did, they tried to respond with diplomacy.
The message they sent was never answered.
Instead, the skies turned red.
Missiles, drones, electromagnetic pulses. Saboteurs posing as refugees. Coordinated strikes from five different nations, under the guise of "planetary security."
The Flame Island was the first to fall. The volcano that had once been their home was targeted with seismic disruptors, collapsing its core and triggering an eruption so massive it split the island in two.
The Aqua Seraphs tried to contain the rising sea levels with barriers of ice and redirected currents. They drowned saving the humans who had launched the bombs.
The Aero clan held their skies for three days before air-to-air assault drones wiped out their final defense towers.
The Geo Seraphs turned the forest into stone and the stone into barricades—but nothing could stop the heatwave weapon that scorched their land into dust.
The Storm Island was struck with a solar disruption wave—every conductor fried, every Seraph caught mid-transformation turned to ash in a burst of lightning they couldn't control.
And the central island—the heart of Seraphim, where the Lobos protected the balance—was attacked last.
It wasn't just fire or bombs.
It was betrayal.
AI systems developed with Seraph technology turned against them. Weaponized satellites reprogrammed to rain down particle beams. Chemical payloads activated in key infrastructure zones. The very machines Seraphs had helped build became their executioners.
Damian stood atop the crumbling bridge connecting the Flame and Lobo islands, blood trailing down his brow. His aqua energy pulsed feebly, flickering with the weight of exhaustion. His armor was cracked. His breathing ragged.
"Miya!" He screamed into the chaos, but there was no answer.
The sky above him churned with unnatural light. Ember clouds and blackened wind. The volcano groaned in the distance—a roar of death.
He turned and sprinted back across the failing bridge, trying to reach the last evac unit. Children—half-transformed Seraphs—were being loaded into pods by surviving Lobos and warriors.
But time had run out.
The mountains split.
A tremor shattered the edge of the central island and sent him tumbling into the sea.
Miya lay beneath the ruins of the Aero observatory, her body pinned under metal and stone. Her flame was gone. It had burned through everything she had to protect the eastern corridor.
A weak cough escaped her lips as she opened her eyes to darkness.
She saw only one thing through the cracks of the shattered dome—stars. So many stars. Cold. Unfeeling.
She remembered what they had named this place.
Seraphim.
She wanted to laugh.
Then everything went black.
When the assault was over, all six islands were left in ruins. Survivors—if they could be called that—scattered. Some swam to distant shores. Others were pulled into military holding facilities. Some ran, hid, or fought... and fell.
No one knew what happened to Miya and Damian.
Official reports declared them Missing in Action.
Unofficial whispers said they had died defending their people.
And so the golden era ended not with ceremony, but with silence.
Months passed.
Winter crept in.
The world returned to order—its own brand of broken, fearful order.
And somewhere in the wreckage of an old Seraph safehouse, buried beneath what was once a tunnel for smuggling out transformed children, a fire sparked again.
Miya opened her eyes.
Damian was already awake, sitting beside her, his hands covered in blood and ice burns.
"You're alive." She whispered.
He smiled weakly. "That's one of us."
They said nothing for a long time.
There was no one left to speak to.
Then Damian looked up and said, "We should've died."
"But we didn't." Miya murmured.
He nodded.
"That has to mean something."
They began again—not as leaders, but as survivors.
No banners. No fanfare.
They found others like them—Seraphs with shattered wings, humans who had turned away from the violence, children who had lost everything.
They built fires in broken places. Shared food in silence. Taught old knowledge to new minds.
And in time, they gave themselves a name.
Not a kingdom. Not a government.
A promise.
Phoenix.
A place for the broken, the burned, and the betrayed.
A place to rise again.
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