She withered in the onslaught of flames, for the first time feeling the sensation of burning. It was as if she dove into the sun. Tears of gold ran down her sword, so hot it was melting before reaching its target. Her armor popped and warped and her wings were little more than charred stubs. Behind her 440 angels fought against thousands. There was little hope but they fought because hope was not required, only passion for what they were. And hatred for what they would not become. "My queen, you must recant. The men and gods all stand on your strength. In your loss you will consume creation."