Nobody was around to see the man touch down on that grassy knoll in the middle of the plains and sit down tiredly, in full view of the world. The man was Delgon, the thirteenth angel, the balance keeper, one of the last of his kind. He glided down as if the very air obeyed him alone, for his kind had wings only in legend and myth. Running his fingers through the sun-warmed grass, he felt the cool spring wind in his face, carrying the scents of flowers and trees... and of burning villages and war. He wanted to cry for all the innocent lives that had been lost over the years. Sighing and closing his eyes, Delgon reveled in the feeling of… aliveness that he could feel emanating from everything around him. He breathed in deep, letting the feeling wash over him and ease his inner sorrow and turmoil. Being the angel of Fate, he could feel his death approaching, a dark cloud on his thoughts, and knew it was soon, but not exactly when. He had lost that sense because he had given up most of his abilities when he left his sword with her. It didn't matter anyway; he couldn't beat all six of them. Even if he hadn’t given up his powers it would have been an impossible fight. The tired man only wished he could have done more.

A strong gust of wind churned the air over the endless plain, sending oscillating shades of green across the treetops as the leaves tossed and turned. The fresh wind pressed against Delgon, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck and sending shivers of… something down his spine. Anticipation? Worry? Dread? All three perhaps? Opening his eyes, he looked out over the plain, his eyes sucking details in greedily. Birds of prey circled high, searching eagerly for their next meal, maybe a hare, or a field mouse. The plain stretched for miles, almost to the edge of the horizon in all directions but towards the forest. He could see the wafting smoke of a far off campfire, the herds of cattle and sheep traversing the fertile fields of these lands. They stopped often to chew lazily on the lush green grass, standing perfectly still, as though contemplating the meaning of the universe. Clouds drifted by in a cerulean sky, gorged and puffy in the humid weather that followed winter. A single tear crawled its way down the left side of Delgon’s face, the only indication of his inner suffering. It fell like a small crystal through the air, landing on the soft soil and resting there for a moment, perfect and whole, before being absorbed into the earth. Delgon closed his eyes again, not being able to stand the beauty of the sight before him, and the thought that they would destroy all of this eventually, if someone didn’t stop them.

Delgon didn’t move, waiting for them, the six dark angels, enemies of all that is good. But Delgon knew that only one of them was truly evil, the Angel of Death, Damon, their leader. The other’s minds have been twisted, as one would mold clay, by the power held in their swords, and the convoluted, cunning words of their leader. He had made them believe that they themselves were evil, when it was really decided by them whether or not the power of their swords was meant for darkness.

The thirteen swords are instruments of pure power that embody all the hate and pain of the human race, as well as their joy and triumph. The indestructible weapons will last to the end of the world, and most likely beyond. They were forged a thousand years ago using the fire at our planet’s core by an ancient race that’s now almost extinct. This race, the angels, only has thirteen members left, and soon, Delgon knew, there would be twelve.

Finally they came, with not a sound to announce their arrival, aside from the slightest rustle of cloth, as light a sound as a flower spore carried in the breeze makes. Delgon relaxed, accepting what was to come, and never once moved from his spot, or tried to defend himself, trying to not give them the satisfaction of showing his fear. Not a sound escaped him as Damon walked forward and slid his weapon into Delgon's chest. The thirteenth angel’s life began to fade, and he was finally at peace with himself, knowing that Damon had not won quite yet. He hoped that whoever next brandished the sword of Fate would be able to succeed where he had failed so miserably.

Delgon opened his eyes one last time so that he might bid this life farewell. But when he saw the black weapon protruding from his chest, and the man wielding it, a tenseness and fear not born of his approaching death gripped him.

“No,” he gasped out. “You’re…” Blood rose to his mouth, spilling over his lips, gagging him. The thirteenth angel managed to choke out one last word as he departed the world.

“…Impossible…”

The last thing Delgon ever heard was the man’s dark laughter.

Damon placed his booted foot on Delgon’s chest and pushed, the body sliding along the weapon with a wet sucking sound, then falling free to land on its back in the grass. The wound ran freely, as the blood hadn’t congealed yet, and the grass below and around the body was slowly stained a deep crimson red. A dark red slick ran down Damon’s weapon, barely visible against the impenetrable black of the metal. Drops slowly fell from the tip of the murderous instrument to stain the once elegant clothes Delgon wore. The Angel of Death knelt, wiping it off, transferring the blood of his enemy onto the emerald grass, then stood, returning it to the equally black scabbard strapped across his back. He noted Delgon’s sword wasn’t on his body, and then uttered one command:

“Go.”

The five others turned from the bloody scene, heeding their master’s word, searching endlessly throughout the entire plain and bordering woods for the entire day, but the sword of Fate was nowhere to be found. The Angel of Death remained standing over the body, on top of the once beautiful hill, staring down at the calm, slightly smiling face of one of the last of a dying breed, as though waiting for him to wake up. The wind started to grow in power, and the sky started to darken, as though the very world was screaming out against this vile act. The five returned, bearing news that the sword was nowhere to be found. The darkest angel gave no sign he had heard, his posture remaining unchanged for some time. All of a sudden he turned, throwing back his head, his long black hair whipping about in the now raging wind, bellowing his anger to the heavens.

At that moment, many miles away in the Forest of the Abandoned, the headquarters of the Machrian resistance, a young human girl named Relna awoke in a cold sweat.