Dear father watched him march up that hill, wielding the sword of the angel mikael. It was the first time he’d been face to face with the thorn in his side who called himself the prophet. Having somehow escaped the isle of [REDACTED] and encountering the child, the prophet’s quest to summon mikael had caused a shift in the land, one which would topple his empire.
“Little boy,” he hissed, “you have caused me pain for far too long. Tonight, I slay you and end your foolish dreams. I will bathe in your soft blood.”
The prophet paid the machine no mind, and drew his sword. The spirits of the fallen watched on as the black cat crept around dear father’s shoulders, and they were swallowed by the night.