The six members of the battered group advanced as fast as their depleted strength allowed. Half of them leaned on their companions to be able to walk. Their clothes bore various cuts and tears, and were stained with blood in many places, hidden behind dark, damp spots. Almost all of them had a broken bone, if not several. Some of their limbs hung limp, while the ones that remained intact bore the entire weight of their bodies in order to keep moving forward. Their faces were hidden behind a mask of fear and disbelief. They didn't dare look back; their only concern was moving forward as quickly as possible.

  "We won't be able to keep up this pace for much longer," said the tallest of them, carrying an unconscious companion over his shoulder.

  "We have no other choice," replied the leader of the group. "There isn't much further to go. We will make it. No one is giving up."

  His words were meant to encourage hope in the others. But exhaustion stripped his voice of the necessary dose of certainty he had intended. They continued walking in silence for a few minutes, managing their energy and focusing their attention on taking one more step, and then another, and so on.

  "There is another option," the tallest one insisted. "One of us should go ahead."

  "That would mean leaving someone behind," the leader replied sharply. "I won't allow it."

  "We aren't doing this for ourselves," another one of them, who had both wings broken, seconded the tallest one. "We must warn the others before it's too late. It's our responsibility."

  "Let me go..." suggested a bloodied angel with a barely audible voice. "I won't make it... and you must sound the alarm."

  "We will not abandon anyone," the group leader decreed. "And that is not an option. Now be quiet and save your strength."

  The discussion was settled. For a long hour, the tortuous march continued along a path that had been created only five years ago. In the end, they had no choice but to stop and redistribute the weight among themselves, swapping the support they offered each other so that no single group member's strength would be completely extinguished. They resumed their journey after a brief pause. Each step demanded a greater effort than the last, and their speed gradually declined. Their bodies, crisscrossed by terrible wounds, were being pushed in a way they hadn't been accustomed to for many millennia.

  The tall angel tripped and fell face-first to the ground. The unconscious companion resting on his shoulder rolled a few yards. The others stopped upon hearing the thud. The leader gently set down the angel leaning on him and approached the one who had tripped.

  "I can keep going, I swear. It was just a stumble," he said, his voice distorted by fear. "Don't leave me here."

  "I told you we will not abandon anyone," the leader assured him, holding out his hand. "Get up and keep moving. His life depends on you," he added, pointing to the angel who had rolled across the ground.

  The tall angel accepted the outstretched hand and stood up with difficulty. He went over to his unconscious companion, lifted him off the ground, and hoisted him over his other shoulder. The others had taken advantage of the moment to give their aching bodies a brief rest. The group leader risked taking a glance over his shoulder. The mass of black figures silhouetted against the horizon kept getting closer and closer. He still couldn't quite believe it. He didn't understand how it was possible for such a contingent to have crossed the Fog and reached The Threshold, but it was obvious they hadn't come for a visit. For a moment, he thought he could make out an angel waving at him from the front of the army. If his vision wasn't failing him, someone with white wings was raising their hand and waving it over their head. That made absolutely no sense; no angel would ever join the demons. Exhaustion had to be affecting his judgment. He cleared his head of any thought that didn't help him in the immediate task of escaping that army and reaching The Citadel. They resumed their march.

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  A long while passed, which seemed like an eternity to them, until they finally caught the silver gleams of The Citadel's outer wall. Its mere proximity conveyed a comforting sense of security by reminding them of its impregnable nature. Shortly after, they dropped heavily to the foot of its gates. They were exhausted, and their battered bodies begged for a rest before making a single move more. The group leader gathered the necessary strength to stagger over to the circular platform attached to the base of one of the two towers flanking the gate of The Citadel.

  "Open the gate," he said with great difficulty. "We need help... Hurry."

  Reddish smoke billowed from the platform and molded itself, taking the shape of the Guardian who was inside the tower.

  "Identify yourself," the Guardian said in a neutral tone.

  "I can't bring out my wings... one is broken... in three places." The explanation was necessary, since presenting one's wings was required for foolproof identification. "They are attac..."

  The leader couldn't finish his explanation. He collapsed to the ground.

  The Guardian formed of red smoke raised his eyebrows and looked around, trying to locate the rest of the group. It was an unprecedented situation. Never had a group of angels arrived in that state for millennia. The access protocols to The Citadel weren't overly strict, but ever since a demon had infiltrated the city, Ergon had raised security to alarming levels. No one could enter or leave without express authorization until they found the infiltrator. The smoke figure vanished.

  Shortly after, the runes on the gate turned off, and the stones that formed it became translucent, allowing passage through them. Several Guardians came out; the one who had spoken through a smoke image approached the group leader, who was lying at the foot of the platform, and helped him up.

  "What happened to you?" he asked in an alarmed tone upon seeing the state the six of them were in. The other Guardians were helping his companions. "Did you fight amongst yourselves? You have to tell me. I am taking a big risk by bypassing protocol."

  The group leader shook his head. He was struggling hard to maintain consciousness.

  "Why are you injured?" the Guardian continued interrogating, not understanding what could be the cause of this. If it wasn't a fight among themselves, what else could it be? "Isn't there a Healer in your group?"

  "He's... dead," the angel managed to say in a whisper.

  "What did you say?" the Guardian's eyebrows shot up again. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. "Who killed him?"

  "Demons... thousands... They... tore him apart."

  "That's impossible!" exclaimed the Guardian, astonished. "Call a Healer right now!" he ordered his companions.

  "You have to... sound the... alarm," the angel fought with all his might to make himself understood. Fear deformed his face. "Warn... Ergon. There is... an army..." and he fainted in his arms.

  The Guardian lifted him up without fully comprehending what was really happening. An army of demons in The Threshold. It had to be a mistake. The portals didn't allow the passage of many angels at the same time. An army would require entire days to get there, and they would have detected it in time to prevent them from crossing the Fog.

  But it wasn't a mistake. A black mass could be made out on the horizon, advancing directly toward The Citadel. The Guardian froze for an instant. He sharpened his sense of sight to the maximum and made out tiny black figures forming a great dark shadow.

  "Get Ergon and sound the alarm!" shouted the Guardian, turning around with the fainted angel in his arms. The ancient and tormenting memories of the War burst painfully into his head as he crossed the gate of The Citadel.