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| Birth of an Angel |
As Reapers close in, an angel and a scholar fight to protect their unborn child — the last Nephilim. In a sacred birth filled with light, pain, and prophecy, a war ignites before the child can take his first breath. Read the full story below »
“Keep pushing, Kristi-el.”
Alexander Felton knelt at his wife’s side, his voice thick with urgency. The baby was coming two weeks early — right as they fled from the Reapers, soldiers of Satan’s Army. These fanatics hunted Nephilim, the offspring of humans and angels — beings chosen by God to guide the Chosen Ones and protect the balance of faith.
They had barely escaped New York alive. Now, deep in rural South Carolina, they’d found shelter in a long-abandoned house on church grounds. No midwife. No doctor. No safety. And Alexander — a scholar, not a soldier — knew nothing about childbirth.
But Kristi-el was an angel. And their child, by all accounts, was divine.
___
Legend said the Nephilim were once cursed — until God lifted the punishment by creating a new breed of messengers, angels who could walk among mortals and even travel through time. Their child would be something sacred… and hunted.
Kristi-el gritted her teeth and let out a strangled cry. Sweat poured down her face as she collapsed back against the mattress. Pain wracked her body.
Alexander’s panic surged. The walls felt like they were closing in. Outside, the howls of Reapers echoed across the trees, too close for comfort.
But then Kristi-el’s eyes met his — glowing faintly, strong despite her pain. “We can do this,” she said, her voice steady, almost serene.
Alexander took her hand. Together, they faced the impossible.
Moments later, their child entered the world with a cry that pierced the tension in the air. A rush of awe swept through Alexander as he gazed at the squirming infant — dark tufts of hair, delicate features, and a faint radiant glow around his tiny form.
Kristi-el cradled him, exhaustion forgotten, and flipped the baby gently onto his stomach.
“There,” she whispered. In the center of his back was a small, pouch-like marking — the space where his wings would one day emerge. “God will decide when they’re ready.”
The child was perfect.
Alexander gently tapped the newborn’s back. The boy let out a cry that filled the room like a chorus. Alexander cut the umbilical cord with trembling hands and laid him in a warm blanket beside his mother.
Then the light intensified.
The baby’s face glowed. The walls began to tremble. Kristi-el turned her gaze toward the ceiling as a soft rumble passed through the house.
“The angels are celebrating Joshuel’s arrival,” she said calmly.
The light faded. The house stilled. Peace returned — for a moment.
___
A noise outside shattered it all.
Leaves crunched beneath booted feet. Alexander’s head snapped toward the window. Reapers — hooded figures moving through the trees with predatory speed — were closing in.
“They found us,” he muttered.
Kristi-el remained calm, her arms wrapped tightly around Joshu-el. “We have time,” she whispered. “Don’t you want to hold your son?”
Alexander hesitated — just for a second. Then he stepped forward, smiling despite himself. “I don’t want to break him.”
But joy was fleeting.
The front door exploded inward with a crash.
___
They fled out the back.
Into the forest. Into the dark. The wind clawed at them, and the branches tore their clothes as they ran, gasping, stumbling, clutching their miracle child.
The Reapers were gaining.
Alexander spun to Kristi-el. “Go. Take him. I’ll hold them off.”
Her eyes widened. “No, we stay together—”
“There’s no time!” he snapped. “I won’t let them take him.”
He turned to face the oncoming Reapers, grabbing a branch as a makeshift weapon. Kristi-el kissed his cheek through her tears, whispered a prayer, and vanished into the trees with Joshu-el.
___
Then the earth split open.
A fiery hand of red ash shot up from the soil and wrapped around Alexander’s legs, dragging him down. He screamed as he sank — first to his knees, then to his chest. He clawed at the earth, gasping, but the Reapers held him fast.
The wind screamed. The trees shook. Thunder cracked across the sky, and a thick fog rolled in, swallowing the world in cold silence.
And then, out of the cracked earth, it rose.
A figure made of ash, towering twenty feet tall. Its red eyes burned beneath a hooded cloak, and in one hand, it carried a massive, obsidian blade.
Antioch.
The name rang like a curse in Alexander’s soul. This was the demon responsible for all of it. Kristi-el’s pain. Joshuel’s danger. The Reapers' endless pursuit.
Alexander looked to the sky.
“God, please... intervene.”
Antioch stepped forward, voice like crushed stone. “What can He possibly do? I am Antioch. I will end your life, Kristi-el’s... and your son’s.”
The sword came down in one clean arc.
Alexander Felton, father of the last Nephilim, died with his prayer unfinished — his head cast into the earth, his body buried in silence.
TO BE CONTINUED…
With Kristi-el gone and the Reapers closing in, Obadiah takes the child and runs. But even angels bleed, and time may be his only escape.
Enjoy more heartfelt stories from the Obadiah: Clipped Wing series—each one crafted to uplift, inspire, and reflect God's presence in everyday life. Read more stories »
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