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  Lyrix turns to face them, her hand leaving my arm, making me miss her touch. It is so rare a thing here; I don’t recall having ever touched another angel on purpose. Beetrix held me as a small child in the human world, but that was long ago. I touch other things—the pearls, my bed, the portals I occasionally use to watch the human world—but to touch another living being fills me with a joy that makes it difficult to maintain the proper dimness in the presence of the Seraphim.

  I rein in my light, affecting the same dispassionate demeanor that everyone else displays, but inside I’m sparking.

  The powerful angels before us formally welcome Lyrix and lead her away. She disappears through the mass of glimmering bodies, and I am certain I will never see her again.

  Chapter Three

  My mind is full of so many things, all vying for attention. The collective knowledge of who I am and of shared angelic history fills my head. Sifting through it all or trying to focus on any one thought is dizzying. All of it wants to make itself known to me at the same time. I repeat my name to myself in my head over and over again. Lyrix. Lyrix. Lyrix. And in between that another name intrudes: Wren.

  I flex my hand, feeling the reverberation of his touch. The angel knowledge tells me that it is inessential—touch is a thing that humans do—but I long to feel it again. The few words we exchanged repeat in my head as well. You’re strong enough to stand on your own.

  I had not felt strong when I emerged. I am still not certain of it, but his confidence emboldens me. Thinking of him helps to clear my mind, helps me to focus. I picture him again and rid my thoughts of all the noise.

  I stand in the presence of the Seraphim. The two kings and two queens surrounding me are fearsome. Larger than all others, they tower over me even seated on their four thrones of golden light. Their ruby-red forms pulse with power. I will need my strength to stand tall before them.

  “Lyrix.” The booming voice causes me to quiver. It belongs to Zox, the youngest of the four and last to emerge from the Flame. “We welcome you.”

  I dip my head. Staring at the Seraphim makes me uncomfortable. There is a rigid and unyielding intensity to their lights that I do not like.

  “You may well be the last of us,” Zox says. “We are not certain that our great Eternal Flame will grace us with another Nascent. It has been one thousand years since I emerged; the time between emergences has been lengthening.”

  No question has been asked, but I feel like they are expecting me to respond. I keep my head bowed and will my voice to be loud. “That is but the blink of an eye to us, your majesty.”

  “But the humans are dead set on destroying themselves. There is no guarantee that they will last another thousand years, and without them, we cease to be.”

  “Is there no other means of sustaining our kind besides the Flame?” This is not in my memories.

  Sonyx responds. Her voice is softer than Zox’s, but somehow more unsettling. “None that we have found. Just as they starve without food and water, or suffocate without air, we would not be able to exist without the Eternal Flame. It is our air, our food, and our water. It is our link to one another, to our past and our future. It is our everything. Even being away from it for long periods of time affects us.”

  “Affects us? How?” I cannot find this information in my inborn knowledge either.

  “Those who visit the human world for an extended time suffer as a result of their distance from the Flame. Their powers fade without regular proximity. For the angels it is only temporary, but for the angelborn, it is permanent.” This from Marilux, whose glow is a slightly darker red than the others. She is the oldest.

  “As a Nascent, you are closest to the Flame,” she continues. “You are the strongest of us, and the strongest must lead.”

  “At the next Adjustment, you will take Marilux’s place.” Pallux, the last Seraph, finally speaks.

  During the Time of Adjustment, angels may change their guilds. It is also the period when the oldest step down from their positions and prepare to fade back into the Flame. I am not certain when the next Adjustment is, but I do not feel ready to suddenly become a queen.

  “Am I…required to become a Seraph?” My light flickers with my uncertainty.

  “None can force you to serve,” Sonyx says. “But we have need of you.”

  “May I know what it is like?” The four are quiet for a moment. Their lights do not change, but I sense confusion from them.

  “Elaborate,” Marilux says.

  “To become a Seraph, I must transform—to become as you are.” My multicolored form is that of an unaffiliated angel, not part of a guild. Adjustment is also the time of transformation, when my angelic body changes to the form and color of the group that I become a part of. Knowledge of the process is present in my thoughts, but the idea of it frightens me. I cannot imagine myself as one of these rigid beings.

  “You wish to gain an understanding of the transformation?” Zox says.

  “Yes.”

  All are still for several moments, but the door to the chamber opens and an ancient angel enters. The blue of his glow denotes his advanced age and his status as a Guide—those who serve the Seraphim before fading.

  “Cynnix,” Zox says. “Please escort Lyrix to the Hall of Records so that she may gain the knowledge she desires.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the elderly angel says.

  We leave the chamber through the door; the roof of the throne room is not open like most other spaces in Euphoria. Once outside, Cynnix rises into the air and hovers, waiting for me.

  You’re strong enough to stand on your own.

  I wobble a bit as I rise. The knowledge of flying slowly filters in through the clamor of the other thoughts. I’m strong enough to fly, but am I strong enough to become a Seraph and rule Euphoria?

  Chapter Four

  The excitement of the arrival of a Nascent leaves everyone abuzz. I return to my station and begin cataloging with renewed vigor, my mind only half on my work.

  Further upstream, two angels chatter amongst themselves.

  “She will be good for the Flame.”

  “Perhaps this is a portent of things to come.”

  Flickers of brightness display their approval. Though no one speaks of it, concern about the Flame is pervasive. Angel life spans dwarf those of humans by millennia, but eventually even these great beings fade. Those who came to this world as elders have already grown weak, and many have rejoined the Flame. As the time between Nascents grows longer and longer, there is fear for the future of Euphoria—widespread concern that the Flame has diminished and something must be done to strengthen it. A new, stronger Seraph, one with a fresher and deeper connection to the Flame, could bring hope to angelkind—and a solution.

  The chatter quiets as two angels descend from the open ceiling. My glow brightens involuntarily when I recognize Lyrix next to the elder. As she floats down, teetering slightly, she searches the Recordkeepers. When her gaze lands on me, her colors flash intensely. She heads straight for me, the elder following closely behind.

  “Wren,” she says, cocking her head to the side in a very human way. “You are different than the other angels. Why is that?”

  “He is not an angel,” Tyrex says next to me. “He is angelborn, a halfling.”

  The joy I’d felt at Lyrix’s arrival is squelched by Tyrex’s dismissiveness.

  Mannix approaches and greets the newcomers. “Welcome. What do you require?” the archangel asks.

  “The Nascent seeks a pearl from the archive,” the elder says. “A record from the last Adjustment.”

  “This is the human archive. The angel archive is in the adjoining chamber. I will show you.”

  “Thank you, but I would like Wren to show me,” Lyrix says.

  Surprise flickers over me. Her light is cool and cautious, but tiny sparks dance within.

  “Would you help me find what I seek, Wren?” Her voice is so sweet, it reminds me of a human’s. Angels do not tend to infl
ect with their tone, but she does. So much about her is decidedly un-angelic—I find it refreshing.

  “Of course,” I answer, too dumbfounded to say more. I leave my station amidst the stares of my coworkers. Nervousness eats away at me, and a ripple goes through my form. It’s not their stares I care about, it’s her undisguised attention.

  I catch Beetrix watching me. She sparkles a little and it grounds me, giving me the confidence I need.

  “Where does the human stream come from?” Lyrix asks.

  “I can show you, if you’d like. It’s on the way.” Her response is a bright flash that makes me long to see another.

  “This way.” I motion toward the entryway to the chamber. Mannix and the elder move to follow us, but Lyrix turns to them.

  “Cynnix, I thank you for your attention. I will meet you back in the throne room when I am done.”

  The elder dims in acknowledgment and flies away. Mannix returns to his office without a word. Unlike humans, the hierarchy of angels places youth over age. Her dismissal is kind, but complete. I wish it worked that way for angelborn.

  We glide across the main chamber, and even though the other Recordkeepers have turned their attentions back to the stream, the weight of their interest follows us.

  “What made you become a Recordkeeper?” She reaches out and loops her arm through mine. Touch is so unusual that I can’t help but stiffen—but I’ve been hoping for another chance to feel that connection.

  “My dam, Beetrix. I simply followed her lead.”

  She cocks her head to the side again. “Why do you like it?”

  “What makes you think I like it?”

  “Because you chose it.”

  I pause. She doesn’t treat me differently, so I’m loath to tell her the true reason I’m a Recordkeeper—I had few other options. Angelborn are barred from becoming Angels of Destiny or War, and the guilds who do accept us have quotas. The Lifes and Peaces were full, and I had no desire to become an Angel of Death.

  Instead of going over the painful details, I focus on the feel of her arm where it touches mine. “You know that most angels don’t touch. They have no need for it.”

  “Does it bother you?” She cocks her head to the side again.

  “No,” I say too quickly. “But I’m half-human, so I adapt to humanlike things.”

  She doesn’t let go the way I feared she would, but squeezes my arm tighter. “You know,” she says, “I have all of this knowledge—these memories, or whatever it is we are born with that connects us. I have this information inside me about our kind, but it feels so disjointed. For example, I can sense that most here would not care or need to touch me, but I also sense that you do not mind. And I have the desire to do so. I do not know why.”

  I don’t know either, but since we share the desire, I don’t question it.

  We enter the source room. A senior Recordkeeper is posted here to watch over the origin of our knowledge. He floats far above us, acknowledging us with a ripple, but if he knows or cares who Lyrix is, he keeps it to himself.

  The chamber is round and made of a stunning white light. The entire bottom is taken up by a huge golden portal, but unlike most of the others in Euphoria, this one does not lead to another realm. It leads back to the Eternal Flame.

  “This is the source,” I tell Lyrix. “The Flame burns constantly, but instead of emitting smoke, it gives off aether—pure energy. If the Flame is a factory, then these are the byproducts.”

  “I am not sure I know what those terms mean,” she says.

  “All the knowledge of humanity comes from the souls we nurture. When they pass from death to life with the guidance of an angel, that soul’s experiences in its last life are filtered out by the Flame and released as pearls into the aether before the soul is reborn as a new human.”

  “And what is the knowledge used for?”

  “It is how the Destinies learn who needs their counsel, how the Deaths know who is to die. How the Peaces know who to soothe and the Warriors know who to inflame. Each human soul needs something different in order to grow. The stream of aether connects us to them and connects our actions to their souls, which we protect and honor until they are ready to join the Flame.” This last bit I say by rote, as an angel would, with no emotion in my voice. Again she cocks her head to the side.

  “And what do you think of this?”

  “Why would my thoughts matter?”

  “Because I am interested.”

  My response dies on my lips as her light sharpens in an angel smile. I brighten right back at her, dumbfounded. Above us, the Recordkeeper shifts, the subtle change in his greenish tint indicating his displeasure. I focus back on the tour I am supposed to be giving her.

  “You’ve already seen where the stream goes. Each worker on the stream is tasked with pulling out the knowledge that flows from here. We organize and catalog it so that it’s accessible to all who need it. Mainly the guild archangels, who disseminate the assignments to the individual angels. It all runs like clockwork.”

  “What is clockwork?” she asks. I’m not sure if she’s making fun of me or not, because she twinkles a bit as she says it.

  “There isn’t much more to recordkeeping than this, pulling data from the stream and sorting it into its proper place.”

  Lyrix inches closer to me until one side of her body is aligned with mine. We watch the green river of aether flow from the portal below and into the stream leading to the main chamber of the Hall of Records. So much knowledge from so many sources, everything you could ever want to know about humanity is somewhere in this torrent.

  I could stay like this with her forever, hypnotized by the stream. Part of me wants to. But she is a Nascent, soon to become a Seraph. She has far better things to do than waste time with me.

  Chapter Five

  Touching Wren both soothes and agitates me. I pull away, but as soon as our contact is severed, I want it back. I am at loose ends and hope the knowledge I find in the angel archive will help me understand the future set before me.

  He leads me to an archive much smaller than the human one. Bins of tiny green pearls fill the space, packed tightly against one another. But there is no stream here. A few archivists dot the space, hovering over the bins and occasionally delving into them.

  Wren says that whenever a pearl of knowledge pertaining to an angel comes through the stream, it is personally reviewed by the archangel and then passed to an archivist.

  “One of these pearls is how I found out about you,” he says. His light changes, and I get the sense he is embarrassed at the revelation. “We will have to ask one of them to help you find what you seek.”

  One of the archivists swoops down before us. Her glowing form is a beautiful jade, deep and rich. She is silent when I make my request but shoots into the air directly afterward. Wren takes my hand and we fly after her across the chamber to the last row of bins.

  The archivist hovers above the bin, and a tiny green orb rises from the pile within.

  “How are they cataloged?” I whisper to Wren.

  “It’s a secret of the Recordkeepers.” He flashes once with mirth.

  The pearl floats before me. I hesitate before reaching for it. The knowledge in my head tells me the apprehension I feel is un-angelic, but nonetheless it is a part of me. I place my palm under the pearl. Wren still holds my other hand. I focus on that connection with him to overcome my fear, then grab the bit of data.

  This pearl isn’t just knowledge, it’s a memory. The Flame collects angel memories during the transformations. This one is Zox’s. I am inside of his mind as his change begins. Marilux stands before him, a tiny, burning ember from the Eternal Flame in her hand. The ceremony is simple. Zox has been through this before, when he became an Angel of War at the last Adjustment. He expects this will be similar.

  Zox’s deeper feelings about the matter are hard for me to ascertain, even being inside his mind. There are thoughts of duty but no emotions, which is deeply unsettling to me.
He kneels, and Marilux deposits the ember on the very top of his head.

  The warmth from the cinder becomes pain, deep and fiery, stronger than the pain of injury in battle. This is the transformation, and it is nothing like what he went through before. He recalls the changes to his angelic form when he joined his guild, how it grew and darkened from the multicolored light of the unaffiliated to the violet of War. Now, he changes again to the red of the Seraphim, but it is accompanied by something he does not expect. What little emotions he had dissolve completely. His thoughts are consumed by the Flame. The knowledge he was born with expands to encompass the entirety of the angelic and human archive.

  Thoughts, memories and ideas flow past too fast to grasp as they sink into Zox’s consciousness. As a Warrior, there were things he enjoyed. He found pleasure in his assigned tasks, visiting humans and working to strengthen their souls by sowing conflict between them. The idea horrifies me, but it was his purpose as a Warrior, and it gratified him. But even that small sense of accomplishment is washed away by the flood of emptiness that comes along with becoming a Seraph.

  The Seraphim have no joy, no accomplishment, no pleasure. They serve the Flame and not the angels. Vast power is under their command—the power to do whatever they deem necessary to cultivate the Flame. Zox feels its decline and growing weakness. Something like concern floats through him, but there is no compassion within him, only purpose.

  I drop the pearl before I can see any more. It floats back to the archivist, who replaces it in the bin.

  “Lyrix?” Wren is calling my name, but I can’t answer him. My arm, stretched out before me, dims. My light pales to a mottled gray.