The Thirteenth Commandment

Malachai leaned against a jagged rock, arms crossed, staring at the endless wasteland beyond the cliff. The moon hung low, casting a dull silver glow over the camp below. Riven sat beside him, legs swinging over the edge, watching the dim lanterns flicker like fireflies in the dark.

"So?" Riven asked, breaking the silence. "What's your story?"

Malachai exhaled, gaze unwavering. "I fell."

Riven snorted. "No shit. I saw that part."

Malachai turned his head slightly, his pale face unreadable. "I don't remember much before waking up in the dirt. Just glimpses. A place of light. A fall that never ended."

Riven tilted his head, skeptical. "That's it? No grand tale about running from a crime lord? Escaping some freaky cult? C'mon, man, give me something."

Malachai stayed silent. How could he explain that he had once stood among the divine? That the sky itself had cast him down, rejecting his very existence? That the thing they prayed to, the thing that had built Heaven, had deemed him unworthy?

Before he could form a response, a sudden, sharp wail shattered the quiet.

A siren.

Riven bolted upright. "Shit."

Below, the camp exploded into movement. Figures dashed between tents, grabbing weapons, securing supplies. The few guards standing watch raised their guns, pointing them toward the horizon.

Malachai followed their gaze.

A line of figures approached in the distance, silhouettes moving with eerie precision. Not raiders. Not wild beasts.

Something worse.

"They found us," Riven muttered, voice tight. "Hunters."

Malachai felt an unfamiliar sensation creeping up his spine—an instinct, a memory buried deep. These weren't just men. They were Heaven's enforcers, blessed with divine strength, tasked with purging the unworthy.

Riven grabbed Malachai's sleeve. "Come on. We need to blend in."

They scrambled down the cliffside, slipping into the chaos of the camp. People were whispering, murmuring prayers, hiding children beneath tarps and crates. A man stepped forward—a weathered elder with a heavy fur cloak. He held up a hand, signaling for silence.

The Hunters stopped at the camp's entrance. Their leader, a tall, armored figure, stepped forward, his silver mask glinting under the firelight. His voice rang out, cold and absolute.

"By divine decree, this settlement is to be searched. Any unclean beings among you will be dealt with accordingly."

A murmur ran through the crowd. The elder raised his chin. "We are all survivors here. There are no unclean among us."

The Hunter was unmoved. "That is not for you to decide."

His helmet shifted—just slightly—but Malachai felt it. The weight of an unseen gaze locking onto him.

His heart pounded. Did they know? Could they sense him?

The Hunter took a slow step forward.

The camp held its breath.

Malachai clenched his fists, ready for what came next.

Judgment had arrived.