RyanLG

Chapter 5 A haunting gust of wind brushed across Myria’s entire body, with the cold delicate grace of the skeletal fingers of a ghostly pianist tapping out a minor key sonata. She unfurled her wings, still shivering profusely, struggling just to stay afloat in the cold uncompromising vacuum that began to swirl around her. In these desolate moments, she felt as if her bones were being coated with sheets of leaden ice—even breathing feeling laborious in the oppressively frigid air. Beginning to find her bearings, Myria peered about, hovering high above the cloud-draped ground—dark storm-laden mist lying in every direction. Lightning crackled in volatile arcs, tips of winding skeletal trees creeping up thousands of feet, piercing through the veil of the sky. Myria breathed uneasily. There was a deathly silence all around—the surrounding air laced with a sense of impending and inevitable violence, an aroma like rotten fruit mixed with decaying cadavers wafting through the spiral of the current—a deep unsettling corrosion. Peaking through the clouds, the Archangel Lorata began to make out a vast mass of huddled silhouettes. The opposing army was not far away—just shrouded, hidden amidst thick brooding clouds, vast legions standing staunchly at the ready. Pressing forward towards the head of her regiment, Lorata caught a somewhat clear glance, the curling sheets of haze receding. The enemy legions did not possess appearance one would expect of an army--soiled and deformed, skin decaying, welts and bruises scattered across their withered bodies. Strange unfathomable beasts, with thick leathery wings, hovered alongside discolored men with sunken dead eyes and hunched backs, the men staying just barely afloat atop rickety enchanted boards of wood others huddled inside dilapidated flying chariots. In the distance, the army was flanked by a handful of massive airships, enchanted galleons, which seemed at a glance to be more than a little unstable and rickety, likely a product of the patchwork magical splicing of errantly tossed-aside debris—haphazardly assembled collages of rusted metal and rotting wood, sloppily boarded up just to stay afloat. If the Angelic forces from The Zenith personified beauty, this army was perhaps tantamount to something much uglier that resided within, an unsettling feeling that most would rather turn away from and blithely ignore than ever face. However, confronting these creatures was what the angels had been tasked to do, and they would, without fail, carry out their duty. Lord Actrius’s word was law. As the rest of the angelic army slowly emerged, exiting the thick sea of sullen looming clouds, a gaunt sinewy Enrapture soldier sprung to attention. “The angels! They've come to stop us!” he shrilly exclaimed, frail voice laced strongly with fear and urgency—malnourished and discolored body rattling feverishly, in what almost resembled a preemptive death rattle. A second later, a far more distinguished looking warrior emerged from the Enrapture army's ranks—a thickly bearded muscular man donning a flimsy looking helmet carved from what appeared to be rotting wood, skin discolored and bruised, his body looking much like that of a month old cadaver, eyes glowing a deep shade of pure red. “All men hold the line--we can't let them break our formation!” he roared, voice booming with authority. Dozens of angels sprung forward, moving with blinding velocity, honing quickly in upon their targets like a graceful flock of bullets. In spite of this intimidating charge, the Enrapture army stood steadfast to their positions, barely flinching as they let loose a sky-consuming barrage of flame-tipped arrows from their bows at the encroaching mass of angels. Myria was overcome with fear as she pressed forward, weaving desperately through the endless volleys of sharp projectiles, her little remaining courage rapidly melting away—lashes of wind slapping her face. She did her best to avert her eyes from her dying comrades, wings and bodies cruelly torn apart by the barb-like talons of the incoming arrows, but it was to no avail. Ghastly sights and sounds were converging upon Myria from every direction as she glided through the embattled sky—deadly projectiles whizzing past her every which way, missing by the tiniest of margins, inches separating her from life and death. Every second was akin to cheating death a dozen times over. Amidst the deadly storm Myria faltered. She became suddenly paralyzed—drifting through the air, locked frozen in an unguarded moment, waiting to be impaled by the sea of incoming projectiles, eyes wide with fear. Flying not far from her, Myria’s best friend, Faydra, looked on in horror. “Watch out Myria!” she screamed, voice wrought with desperation. However, words, no matter how impassioned, could not stop the lethal trajectory of the swarm of arrows. So, this is it, thought Myria with resignation, accepting her fate, a wall of flaming arrows falling upon her. In an instant, the arrows were snapped in half, splintering, a sharp updraft cutting a swath through the air. Alice appeared, her bladed-staff bursting through the haze. Spinning her weapon around at inconceivable speeds, a powerful vortex coalesced, wave-like gusts surging from the wind-tunnel she had created, parting the sea of arrows in a single dizzying twirl. Alice turned, looking Myria in the eye, her bright green eyes calmly reassuring her that she would keep her safe. Myria glanced back at Alice, curtly nodding her head, a soft smile dawning on her face. Alice spun away, darting into the mist-draped void. She had other matters on the battlefield to attend to. A small measure of hope returned to Myria, Alice’s intervention inspiring her. She clung as tightly to this tiny shred of faith as she could possibly muster—praying it could somehow help carry her through the terrible maelstrom that surely awaited her. Alice…Lord Actrius…please lend me your strength—shepherd me through the trials that lie ahead, she thought, clasping her hands in front of her.

Chapter 3 In wake of the trying circumstances, Myria sought refuge beside her closest friend, Faydra—not uttering a single word, as she silently hummed her own requiem, only occasionally looking up to take a glance at her worried friend. Faydra’s light blue eyes gleamed subtly against her pale skin, framed by the thick messy clumps of her brown hair. A visible sinking permeating Myria’s eyes, Faydra gazed coyly towards her. In her hand, Myria clutched a glistening amulet, which dangled from her neck, her hands shaking nervously as she stared with a blank downcast gaze at the large shining blue crystal embedded in its center. Faydra had given this amulet to Myria sometime ago. While the amulet had inherent powers of protection, Myria knew full well that it was mostly decorative and would do her little good in an actual battle. But, this mattered little--Myria treasured the amulet for its sentimental value, not its practical use. You’ve truly been a friend, Faydra, Myria thought. I probably won’t make it when we go to Enrapture. But, you should be strong enough to pull through. I hope you survive and live a long life. Faydra tried not to stare at Myria, but she couldn’t quite manage to keep her eyes off of her. Myria turned to Faydra. “Is it true that I’ll simply be eviscerated when we reach Enrapture like so many have predicted?” Faydra’s gaze wandered, darting from Myria’s eyes. She knew this was very much a likely possibility, but she had no desire to bring further discontent to Myria. “Um…of course not, Myria!” she said, a palpable air of uncertainty haunting her words. “I’ll do whatever I can to protect you--so, don’t worry!” Inside, Faydra knew that she was making a promise that she could not truly deliver on. She felt terrible about deceiving Myria, but what was she supposed to say? The truth was that Faydra wasn’t particularly strong herself and would have her hands full already, just trying to keep herself alive. Chapter 4 As the angels drew gradually closer to the dimensional portal that would take them to Enrapture, the sky grew darker, more ominous—the hue of the surrounding clouds taking on an unsettling almost sickly shade of purple. Lightning crackled forcefully--further accentuating the fears of the weaker angels, many of which huddled together, wide-eyed and fearful, thick thunderous booms exploding through the air. As the angels followed the darkly winding road, it became apparent that the line between the heavens and something quite akin to hell was growing thinner with every step. Alice had walked this path many times before and knew full well what awaited her. Still, to this day, she could never forget the first time she had descended into Enrapture--how the endless cold had enveloped her, spreading through the fibers of her body like streaks of piercing ice, how the strange and hideous creatures that she fought grabbed and surged at her relentlessly, not showing the smallest hint of mercy. The mere thought of these traumatic memories was enough to make Alice’s entire body shudder and convulse uneasily, but this was certainly not her first time delving into Enrapture’s depths. She suppressed these unsettling feelings—soldiering onward. I will be strong as I have always been, she told herself. She knew that resolve alone often marked the difference between those who survived and those who died in Enrapture. Alice was, in truth, fully and completely prepared for whatever might await her. Still, sometimes she couldn’t stop herself from wondering why so many weaker angels, who hadn’t a prayer of surviving a moment in the dark turbulent tides of Enrapture, were thrown to the wolves in such a horrific fashion. She didn’t mean to criticize Lord Actrius’s divine mandate with her thoughts; after all, she was just an angel, not a god, so what did she truly know of the greater workings of the cosmos? But, the whole practice still seemed rather cruel to her. The long trek down the twisted snake-like-road that weaved through the skies finally came to a close, the angels arriving at their destination--the altar that connected Zenith and Enrapture, a shroud of turbulent mist slowly receding. As one might expect from a crossroad between two such drastically opposing worlds, the atmosphere was, to put it mildly, uneasy. Even the surrounding air seemed to clash amongst itself, thunder and lightning booming with the force of ten-thousand war drums--the dark violet-hued sky locked in a perpetual state of civil war. An ornately carved altar loomed over the encroaching flock of angels, split between two different worlds, plain yet tasteful marble architecture making up one half—the other half comprised of a contorted collage of statues, peculiar creatures melded unnaturally together, hands…claws…tails, and all other manner of appendages reaching across one another in what resembled a depraved mob frozen in the peak of their bloodlust—a sprawling chain of inseparably bound Siamese twins. If one cared to look closer at these carving for any extended period of time, which few truly desired to do, given the ghastly, unsettling, and disconcerting aura they projected, they could pick out individual faces, amidst the mass, appearing to writhe in sorrowful agony. Yet, the statues stood unmoving—unchanging. At times, the expressions seemed so real that one might seriously begin to wonder if these statues had once been living things, now locked eternally in some wretched pained moment. Myria shuddered just glancing at the strange huddle that stood at the dividing line between the sharply divergent worlds of the Zenith and Enrapture. Abruptly she averted her eyes, pupils dashing away, knowing that the haunting visages of these statues, if allowed to do so, would only further cloud her already haze-stricken mind. Instead she let her gaze wander into the foreboding violet sky. But, the morose smog-like puffs of purple darkness that occupied the sky and unpredictable bursts of lightning that surged about were of little more comfort. The angels stood waiting upon the sprawl of the altar. If the twisted serpentine path that wound its way through the heavens was in fact a snake, then the altar was the head--gargantuan, insurmountably imposing, at a moment’s notice seeming ready to gobble up anyone unlucky or foolish enough to find them self within the reaches of its ravenous maw. The comparison was a fitting one; perhaps death within Enrapture would not be so different from rotting within the cold, dark, dank confines of a giant serpent’s innards. It was not long before waves of inter-dimensional energy began to erupt from the foreboding structure—thick streams of light washing over the mass of angels. Yet, for Myria, this brief wait felt like an eternity. What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do when I get there? she asked herself, shivering fearfully. She began to feel an effortless sense of weightlessness, a kaleidoscope-like shifting sea of multicolored light enveloped her--contorting and caressing all at once. It was a turbulent kind of peace—a calm before the storm if there ever was one, and a brief uneasy calm at that. A moment later, Myria, and hundreds of other angels, found themselves unceremoniously dumped into the cold bleak vacuum of Enrapture. There is no hope, is there? she thought as she descended through the violet jet-stream, silhouettes of her fellow angels scattered in the morose fog.

I suppose I should attempt to bring up the Will I die? question a shade sooner to add conflict. Anyhow, going to keep posting a good bit more here. I'm really curious what the Brandon Sanderson community will think of some of what I've done, because Mistborn was a big influence on my writing style for Earth Angel Myria--that and Japanese manga. It's definitely a huge dream of mine to be a writer regarded in a similar way as Sanderson is by his fans and the fantasy, adventure, and YA community at large. I'll also mention that his fight choreography was a HUGE influence on me, although I tend not to put all that much effort into fights with fodder smucks like Sanderson often does. Usually if a fight gets a good amount of development in my books, it's between two developed characters (kind of like Zane versus Vin or Sazed versus Marsh). That said, I absolutely adored the Kelsier versus Steel Inquisitor fight at the end of Final Empire. But, at that point, Steel Inquisitors had been built up so much, so it definitely didn't feel like a fight against some nameless baddie. Anyhow... Chapter 2 Mere moments had passed since Lord Actrius’s speech, but for Myria, time had slowed to an inescapable crawl, dazed slurs of motion seeming to crisscross around her in long deep streaks. Walking alongside her fellow angels, she ambled hesitantly along, moving forward across the haphazardly winding aerial road that sprawled out ahead of her, her body locked in a half-hearted lurch towards the designated rendezvous point for departure to Enrapture, head hung down, caught in the dizzy thrall of uncertainty, drawn towards the glistening tiles lining the road. A sharply voiced remark rung abruptly out—breaking Myria from her stupor. “I can’t believe Myria was assigned to this mission; she’ll be demon food in seconds!” the voice jeered. Myria did not bother to look up to see who had made the cruel comment; she recognized the voice, knowing exactly who it belonged to. It was none other than Dayla, the number 20 ranked angel in the Zenith—a recent addition to the upper echelon of the angel hierarchy, leagues above Myria. Myria, by now, was perfectly used to Dayla’s consistently malicious and disparaging remarks. Under most normal circumstances, she would have easily shaken off her words, hardly giving them a second thought, but things were different this time. Dayla’s words bore deep into Myria’s thoughts—bounding about in thick harmful lashes. “Don’t say that about Myria!” another voice cried out. Myria peered up to her side. It was her friend Alice. Alice was in many ways Myria’s opposite--strong and confident, one of the strongest angels in Zenith, in fact, and if the situation called for it, she could be quite brash as well, speaking her mind with little hesitation. She was sturdily built, yet slender, with short spiky raven-black hair, and deeply piercing green eyes that were simultaneously offset and complemented by the red of her lips. While there were countless differences between Myria and Alice, one thing the two angels did have in common was a mutually compatible sense of kindness and goodwill. Many other angels of Alice’s power would have been unwilling to consort with, let alone befriend, a lower-tier angel like Myria, but Alice judged Myria not by her lack of power, but by her inner-kindness. Despite their friendship, Alice’s words did little to console her. Myria could see things for what they were. She was not so foolish as to delude herself. That said, Dayla was never one not to have a snide retort on hand, and in her typical fashion, she quickly quipped back, directing a comment in Myria’s general direction. “What! It’s like the truth--she’s the weakest out of all of us,” she hissed venomously. “Although, I must say, I’ll enjoy seeing her get eaten alive in Enrapture!” Myria knew what Dayla said was, more or less true, so she figured there was no real use in arguing to the contrary. She had always been a relatively poor combatant, and as a result, had little hope of survival in the upcoming battle. Even Alice's attempts to train Myria in this regard had been generally futile. It would do her absolutely no good squandering the remaining moments in her life feeding into Dayla’s depraved amusement. Dayla, however, was not satisfied in the slightest by Myria’s unresponsiveness; in fact, if the look upon her face was any indication, she was only growing more aggravated by the moment. “Isn’t that right, Myria?” she quipped, tone brash and spiteful, as if it was her express goal to derive some kind of perverse satisfaction from Myria’s admission of her own inevitable doom. Myria continued to ignore Dayla’s attempts to provoke her, walking right along in quiet procession behind the other angels. A deep scowl crept across Dayla’s face, the bent of her nose scrunching up. She stepped up to Myria, getting right in her face, wavy blonde locks swaying as her now tensed up body moved with volatile swagger--a long strand of her thick bangs obscuring her right eye. Dayla was undeniably quite beautiful, even amongst angels. But, this beauty was most certainly significantly offset by her inner ugliness. Myria was brought to an abrupt halt, Dayla standing in her path. “I said, isn’t that right, Myria?” Dayla yelled in a near shriek, throwing both her hands forward, unceremoniously shoving Myria to the ground. Myria stared up from the ground, a blank dumbfounded look plastered across her face, taken aback by Dayla’s sudden physicality, not knowing what to do in response. Shooting a harsh glare Dayla’s way, Alice stepped forth. "You crossed the line!" she exclaimed, her tone fierce, firm poise indicating she was ready to fight. However, before the situation could escalate any further, a powerful presence neared. The Archangel Lorata arrived, stepping between the two angels. Lorata was perhaps the strongest amongst all the angels in Zenith. Proud, disciplined, and dignified, her confident face shadowed by thick locks of wavy golden hair that was of such copious thickness and volume that it could almost qualify as a mane. She was thickly muscled, her physique substantially more developed than that of any of the other angel. Lorata deplored conduct as undignified as Dayla’s. “Stop that at once!” she stated sternly, wasting little time in breaking up the confrontation. “While what you say in regard to Myria's negligible likelihood of survival in the upcoming battle is true, there is no excuse for quarrelling; you need to get yourself in line immediately!” But, while Lorata could not stand disorderly conduct amongst the angels that served under her, she also felt no desire to soften the truth. As far as she was concerned, Myria was weak and would likely die in the ensuing battle--that was simply the harsh reality. Dayla, knowing her place, didn’t waste a second in ceasing her harassment, slithering off stealthily. She had no desire to face possible repercussions from her superiors. But, alas, the damage had already been done. Myria wondered if there existed even the faintest possibility of survival in the hell that awaited her. She felt fragile, what little had remained of her morale dissipating. As Myria walked dejectedly away, Alice couldn’t help but gaze upon her. She could see the pain dripping from her friend, but she decided it would be best if she let Myria be for now. She would save her words for the time being, as her actions in the near future were of far greater consequence than any condolences she could possibly offer.

Thank you! =D Well, I chose the name Enrapture because I imagine the Underworld to be potentially hypnotic in its dark inward pull. Kind of like how someone can be "enraptured by that devil of a woman" something along those lines. Any tips on how I can change things around a bit? It's difficult to alter things like this when they've already been implemented. I kind of am going for a drawing in thing, i.e. the prose kind of starts distant, from the outside, and then, bit by bit, we get closer. I want the heavens to seem somehow a bit bleak, a bit detached.

From the bloom of the palace’s hallowed halls, Lord Actrius emerged. Everything else at once vanished—the luminous pylons of light strewn across the edge of the sky, the meteor-like chunks of floating rock that swirled in persistent circles around the heavens—suspended upon the horizon—all of it was rendered insignificant--meaningless. Lord Actrius appeared shirtless and brazen, his boyishly handsome face framed by a shimmering aura of radiant light. A thin glowing film silhouetted his lean figure, his body immaculately sculpted, sinuous and chiseled, but not bulky in the least, wavy golden locks held in place by the glistening radiant silver band that encircled his forehead. Lord Actrius’s appearance was befitting of a god and that was hardly surprising, given that he was in fact one. Myria’s legs began to quiver, shaking nervously, as she stood in utter awe, eyes transfixed upon her divine master’s visage. Her lips stood slightly pursed, opened just a crack, amber locks blowing coolly in the gentle celestial winds of The Zenith. He’s so beautiful, she thought, clutching herself tightly, a warm sensation welling up inside. A booming voice, almost forceful enough to stir up waves in the air itself, erupted from Lord Actrius’s throat. Time froze as the initial syllables began to spill from his mouth—each angel’s silent adoration and acutely transfixed eyes serving as a proverbial red carpet for Lord Actrius’s every breath. “As you all likely know by now, the foul creatures of Enrapture are once again attempting to escape the confines of their righteous prison,” said Lord Actrius, speaking with effortless authority. “They seek to desecrate the mortal world, defile it with their madness and depravity, besmirch all that is good and holy, and that is something that simply cannot be permitted. We cannot let these demons make light of my divine mandate!” Myria made sure to soak up every word. As always, she was swept away by the effortlessly self-assured fashion in which Lord Actrius conducted himself, cocksure conviction dripping off his every turn of phrase. Lord Actrius’s speeches always inspired near absolute confidence in her—even in the face of tremendous doubts. I wish I could be more like Lord Actrius, she found herself thinking. She then shook away the thought. How dumb of me to think something like that, she told herself …I can’t be like Lord Actrius. Someone like me…a weak lowly angel could never be anything like Lord Actrius. Myria turned her attention forward, once more, Lord Actrius’s speech continuing. “As angels in the service of me, Lord Actrius, the one true deity of the universe, I command thee to put down these insolent and foul creatures with the fires of the heavens!” In wake of Lord Actrius’s forceful call to arms, every angel in attendance, without exception, responded in unison, with a deafeningly resounding, “Yes, My Lord!” the echoes of their voices reverberating throughout the very heavens. In this instance as well, Myria acted no differently from any other angel, professing her loyalty as loudly as she could possibly muster, her right hand clasped across her heart. She, like all the others, dreamt of nothing more than proving her worth to Lord Actrius. But, despite the admiration Myria possessed for her Master, the bud of fear that resided within her had not disappeared. It, in fact, had returned, perhaps all the stronger—sprouting defiantly in the face of her intended suppression. Even Lord Actrius’ words couldn’t fully inspire these persistent doubts to dissipate. It was an inescapable truth that Myria would soon have to depart for Enrapture. She had heard the stories, heard how many angels failed to return from battles in Enrapture, and these trying thoughts latched onto her soul, gripping her with not just fear, but shame as well. Myria felt deeply ashamed of the conflicting feelings that dwelled inside of her…ashamed she felt so weak...ashamed that even in death, she might let Lord Actrius down. Why can’t I truly be of use to Lord Actrius…why can’t I truly be a worthy servant? she asked herself, imploring for something within. Why am I afraid to make sacrifices for the greater good? Why must I be so selfish? Myria fumbled feverishly about her mind, reaching for answers, but she received no reply…no hidden insights, only more questions that echoed and ricocheted with futility through her mind. She began to wonder if what she had been feeling was blasphemous, but then she ceased to wonder. Such trifling thoughts would only lead her further astray.

Myria had known for some time that today would be the day that she and her fellow angels would descend into the harrowing reaches of the Underworld—Enrapture. By all accounts, Enrapture was a horrific place, a wretched poisonous den of evil where the creatures that had the audacity to dare defy Lord Actrius's benevolent grace were sent to suffer for all eternity. These loathsome creatures, Myria had heard, were planning to break out of the confines of Enrapture to terrorize the mortal world. It was the sworn duty of the angels of Zenith to make sure that such monsters never succeeded in carrying out this depraved mission. Myria herself had yet to go to Enrapture, but she had heard many a harrowing tale of the horrors that awaited her in its frigid storm-laden depths. However, rather than let these thoughts consume her, Myria opted instead to bury her copious fears momentarily. She knew she would have to collect herself in order to appropriately take in the approaching moments--to not do so would be a grave disservice to not only Lord Actrius, but to herself as well. Myria could feel the excitement around her mounting—the crowd of surrounding angels growing more unwieldy with every moment—dense throngs jostling greedily forward, trying to shove past her in order to get closer to where Lord Actrius would soon be standing. Myria held her ground, clinging tightly to her footing. I came here really early just to get this spot, she thought—a stout resolute look fixed upon her face. I don’t plan on giving any ground to these other angels. A wide sliver of light descended from the palace entrance-hall—the shadows congregating beneath the stone overhang banished in an instant. The much anticipated moment had at last come to pass.

Thank you, Archpeon!

Here's a sample of the first page. But, over the course of a few different installments, I've written over a thousand pages, and now...maybe after a bit more editing, I'm going to start trying to query agents, so opinions and critiques would be welcome. The heavens shimmered with the light of a thousand suns, refusing to dim or diminish for even a single instant—unwavering in its effortless majesty. This was the Zenith, the top of the world, a place seemingly free of a single tangible defect for the cruel and fickle whim of the naked eye to hone in upon. The Zenith was a glorious place, more splendid than anything a mortal could ever hope to imagine—its grand temples and palaces, hoisted up by towering ornately carved columns—hanging tranquilly above the shimmering canopy of the sky, perimeters encircled by lush foliage bearing delectable otherworldly fruit. But, for the denizens of this realm, the loyal angels of the Zenith, the trappings of paradise were a motif that they were well acquainted with. These Angels were no strangers to fear, and, ironically enough, no strangers to vice. They lived like you or I. Myria was no different from any other angel, at least in that respect. She was an average angel, who possessed no truly exceptional qualities amongst her kin, but she was, nonetheless, a dutiful servant to the heavens--honest, diligent, and perhaps most important of all, forever in the earnest. That said, even an average angel was bound to outshine an exceptional mortal in regard to strength and beauty, so perhaps words such as average do a poor job in portraying the true majesty of an angel. But, this fact was irrelevant to Myria, who had never so much as laid an eye on a mortal or the mortal world. All Myria knew of life was an undying reverence to her Master, Lord Actrius—the infallible god king of the universe. All angels in the Zenith possessed a nigh incalculable degree of admiration for Lord Actrius. He was their creator, a beacon of undying light that stood in sharp contrast to the evil they had been created to combat, and that was why angels, by the hundreds, had amassed today in front of Lord Actrius's palace. A dense crowd of angels stood in a tightly huddled mass in the palace courtyard, anxious gazes piercing past the palace’s ascending steps and into the darkened entrance hall, a web of gently sauntering shadows streaking across the floor beneath, thick towering columns casting long dark streaks across the sun-drenched marble. Deeply ensconced within the thick crowd, Myria stood giddy, overcome with a mix of excitement and fear. Today Lord Actrius himself was to address his angels. The thought that Lord Actrius would be in such close proximity in mere moments caused Myria's heart to flutter in excitement, a rush of exhilaration coursing through her. Such was the level of anticipation that the massive crowd of angels had gathered hours in advance and the much anticipated moment was rapidly approaching. But, despite the apparently joyous nature of this occasion, an uncomfortable feeling was beginning to well up inside Myria--an impending sense of dread that she could not seem to shake off. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't stop asking herself a single terrifying question—will I live to see another day?

Just read the first two Mistborns, and I haven't read any other Sanderson works, but I really enjoyed those two,. They definitely had an impact on my own writing.