Ash and Echoes

Azrael wandered through a land draped in twilight, where the sun refused to shine and the stars flickered like dying embers. The wind carried whispers—echoes of a world that had once known him as a guardian, a protector. Now, he was a shadow, a name spoken in hushed tones.

The mortal realm was different than he had imagined. The ground beneath his feet pulsed with a strange energy, not divine, not infernal, but something in between. He could feel the life of the world, raw and untamed, shifting beneath him. He reached out, letting his fingers graze the withered bark of a tree. At his touch, it blackened further, its last breath of life stolen by his presence.

A curse. That's what the heavens had given him in place of their grace.

A sound broke the silence. The crunch of footsteps on brittle leaves. Azrael turned, his crimson eyes catching movement between the trees. A figure, cloaked in tattered robes, stood at the edge of the clearing. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, but their presence burned like a candle in the dark.

"You are not the first to fall," the stranger said, voice neither warm nor cold. "And you will not be the last."

Azrael did not move. "Who are you?"

"A guide," they answered. "For those who have lost their way."

"I have not lost my way," Azrael growled. "I was cast out."

The figure stepped closer, and for the first time, Azrael saw the glint of golden runes etched into their hands. Ancient magic. Forbidden knowledge.

"The heavens discard their broken pieces," the stranger murmured. "But down here… we reshape them."

Something in Azrael stirred, a hunger not for vengeance, but for purpose. If the heavens would not have him, then perhaps the world below would.

The figure extended a hand. "Come, fallen one. Let us show you what it means to rise again."

Azrael hesitated, then took the first step toward his new fate.