The Fall from grace

The war council had ended, but Stormbringer could not shake the weight pressing on his soul. The angels were divided, whispers of Malachai's doctrine growing louder. He had spent centuries fighting battles beyond the celestial realm, but now, the war had come home.

Phersophene came to him that evening, her presence soft, familiar. The scent of night-blooming etherflowers surrounded her. "Walk with me," she said.

Stormbringer hesitated, but her voice was as he remembered—tender, inviting. He followed.

They wandered through the silver-lit corridors of the Celestial Keep, past murals of victories long past. She spoke of memories, of moments only they had shared. "Do you remember the first time we stood beneath the Everlight Tree?" she asked. "You told me you would protect me until the stars burned out."

Stormbringer smiled faintly. "And I meant it."

She reached for his hand, fingers cold against his warmth. "Then trust me now."

A shimmer of violet light flickered in her eyes.

The world around him shifted. The halls melted into a dreamscape of endless twilight. The Celestial Keep was gone. The stars twisted, their shapes unfamiliar.

Stormbringer staggered. "What is this?"

Phersophene stepped back, sorrow in her gaze. "A mercy."

And then the illusion deepened, drowning him in a world of shadows.

Stormbringer stood within the vision, trapped in endless echoes of his past. Phersophene's laughter. The warmth of battles won. The golden days when the angels stood as one.

Then—voices.

Low murmurs, the sound of footsteps.

Pain.

A blade plunged into his chest.

The illusion shattered like broken glass, reality flooding back in sharp clarity. Stormbringer gasped, his golden blood spilling over the cold marble floor. He looked down to see Malachai's hand gripping the hilt of the blade buried in his chest.

Malachai leaned in close, his voice like thunder before a storm. "You were in the way."

Stormbringer staggered, falling to his knees. The golden blood dripped from his wound, pooling beneath him. His vision blurred, but through it, he saw Phersophene watching—silent, her expression unreadable.

"Phersophene…" His voice was barely a whisper.

She turned away.

The angels who had sided with Malachai carried Stormbringer's body away from the Celestial Keep, beyond the reach of the heavens. They traveled to a distant, forsaken land, where no living soul could hear his name.

There, in a tomb of dark stone, they laid him to rest. His golden blood stained the altar where he was sealed, its glow fading with each passing moment. Malachai himself closed the crypt, ensuring that no one—angel or mortal—would disturb his remains.

As the last stone was placed, Phersophene lingered.

She traced her fingers over the cold surface, where once a friend—once a lover—had stood. A flicker of doubt crossed her face.

But it was too late.

The deed was done.

The Stormbringer had fallen.

The once legend, hero, savior and champion had fallen , is this his end or is there more.

The storm does not die ..... it only sleeps