The Fallen One

The sky wept as Azrael fell. His once-radiant wings, now singed and tattered, barely slowed his descent as he plummeted from the heavens. The stars turned their gaze away, ashamed to witness the disgrace of one who had once stood among them.

He struck the earth with a force that split the ground, yet no pain reached him—only silence. The celestial whispers that had once guided him were gone. The warmth of the divine light no longer embraced him. He was alone.

Azrael pulled himself up from the crater, his obsidian armor cracked but still clinging to his form. He touched his wings—what remained of them—now feathered in shades of deep crimson and shadow. Once a warrior of the Light, he had dared to question, to defy. Now, he was cast out, sentenced to wander the mortal world, neither angel nor man.

The air around him crackled, sensing his presence. Night creatures emerged from their hiding places, drawn to his dark aura. A raven landed on a nearby branch, tilting its head as if waiting for his command. He understood then—though he had lost the Light, he had not lost his purpose.

The heavens had forsaken him, but the world below had not. If the gods would not listen, then he would carve his own fate.

Azrael spread his broken wings and walked forward, into the abyss of his new existence.