The Thirteenth Commandment

Mud and blood clung to Malachai's pale skin, turning his once-pristine white hair into a tangled, filthy mess. His robes, once a symbol of divine order, were now torn and streaked with grime. He stood amidst the ruins, his body aching from the fall, his senses dulled by exhaustion.

He had never felt this *human* before.

Yet, before he could begin to comprehend his situation, the sound of shifting rubble snapped his focus.

A figure emerged from the shadows. Cloaked in ragged, dust-covered fabric, they moved cautiously, their face hidden behind a crude, metal mask. The only thing visible was their piercing gaze, watching Malachai with a mix of wariness and urgency.

"You don't have time to explain yourself." The stranger's voice was low, urgent. "We need to move. Now."

Malachai narrowed his eyes, his mind still reeling from the shock of his fall. "Why?"

The stranger stepped closer, glancing at the darkening sky. "Because if you stay out here after nightfall, you *die*."

Before Malachai could protest, the figure reached up and unfastened their mask, revealing their face.

A jagged, glowing mark ran across the side of their neck—a swirling, ember-like symbol that pulsed faintly under the dying sunlight. Malachai recognized it instantly.

The Mark of the Condemned.

It was the mark burned into those who were deemed unworthy by Heaven. Those rejected from the floating cities. The forsaken.

Malachai's golden eyes flickered. "You're marked."

The stranger gave a humorless smile. "Yeah. And you've got the look of something far worse."

Before Malachai could react, the stranger grabbed a handful of wet earth and smeared it into his hair. The cool grime stuck to his scalp, darkening his unnatural white strands.

Malachai stiffened, his first instinct to pull away, but the stranger shoved more mud onto his face and clothes without hesitation.

"You'll stand out," the stranger muttered. "And if you stand out, you'll get us both killed."

Malachai exhaled sharply, suppressing his annoyance. "You are touching me without permission."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather piss off a fallen angel than let the purifiers burn us alive." The stranger gave him a final once-over and nodded in satisfaction. "Good enough. Now, follow me. Keep your head down and act like a lost refugee."

Malachai clenched his jaw but didn't argue. He knew nothing of this world's current state—nothing of these purifiers, these marked ones, or why this stranger was so willing to help him.

And that uncertainty… unnerved him.

Even when he was an angel, he never cared for humans. He didn't hate them, nor did he love them. They were simply… there. Fragile creatures with fleeting lives. The duty of Heaven was to maintain order, not concern itself with the struggles of mortals.

Yet, here he was. Fallen, disguised, following a marked one into the depths of their world.

A world he had once believed was meant to burn.

---

The journey through the ruins was swift and silent. The stranger led him through crumbling alleyways, avoiding open streets and keeping to the shadows. They passed by what remained of human settlements—shattered homes, looted markets, the skeletal remains of vehicles long abandoned. The scent of decay lingered in the air, mixing with the faint, acrid smell of something burning in the distance.

After what felt like an eternity, they reached what looked like a hidden encampment, tucked away beneath the remains of a collapsed building. Fires flickered in makeshift pits, casting uneasy shadows against the walls. Dozens of people—thin, ragged, exhausted—moved about in silence, their eyes hollow with the weight of survival.

The stranger led Malachai past the weary gazes, straight to a small, worn-out tent near the back of the encampment. With a motion, he gestured for Malachai to step inside.

Malachai ducked under the cloth entrance, feeling the weight of the day settle over him. He turned to speak—but stopped.

The stranger was removing their heavy outer clothing, tossing the ragged cloak aside. As the fabric fell, Malachai's eyes widened.

The person standing before him was not a man. Not a warrior hardened by the wasteland.

They were a child.

A small boy, no older than ten, with sharp eyes and a wary expression.

He stepped off the makeshift stilts he had been walking on, his true height barely reaching Malachai's chest. He flexed his toes, relieved to be off the cumbersome contraptions, then turned to Malachai with an unimpressed look.

Malachai stared.

The boy crossed his arms. "What?"

Malachai's expression remained unreadable. "You're… small."

The boy rolled his eyes. "No shit."

A pause.

"…Why the stilts?"

The boy flopped onto a pile of blankets, stretching his arms with a yawn. "You think people take a kid seriously out there? It's easier to be left alone when you look like a grown man who'll stab you in the throat."

Malachai considered this for a moment. It was oddly… logical.

The boy watched him, seeming to assess his reaction. "You're confused, aren't you?"

Malachai met his gaze.

"Yes."

The boy smirked. "Good. Means you're paying attention."

Malachai had no response to that.

For the first time in his existence, he had no idea what to say.