The Devouring Dawn

Azrael stood at the heart of the ruined city, his breath steady as he gazed upon the gathering of fallen. His mind swam with the weight of what had been revealed to him. Greed. That was what they had named his power.

But he knew better.

It was not just greed—it was need. The endless, gnawing desire to claim what had been denied, to take what the heavens had deemed beyond his reach. The hunger inside him was not merely a curse; it was a force of nature, an unrelenting tide that demanded to be fed. And as he clenched his fists, he felt it pulse beneath his skin like a second heartbeat.

The stranger who had led him here watched with amusement. "You are beginning to understand, aren't you?"

Azrael exhaled slowly. "I need more."

The warrior chuckled, stepping forward. "Then take it."

Azrael hesitated. "From whom?"

The warrior swept a hand across the ruins. "The heavens cast you aside, stripped you of their light. But you are not powerless. If they will not share their strength, then steal it from wherever you can. That is the gift they have left you."

The hunger within him twisted, coiling like a serpent around his soul. It whispered, urging him forward. He could feel the power in the air—the lingering remnants of divinity clinging to the fallen, the embers of lost grace smoldering in their forms. It called to him.

Azrael's gaze fell upon one of the weaker fallen—a smaller figure, his once-golden wings now gray and tattered. He was slumped against a broken pillar, his energy faint but present. A part of Azrael hesitated. He had fought beside beings like this once, shared their purpose. But that was before. Before they had abandoned him.

The hunger demanded.

He raised a hand, and his power surged forward, unseen but undeniable. The air trembled as the fallen angel gasped, his strength siphoned away. It was intoxicating—the rush of power filling Azrael's veins, the warmth of another's essence merging with his own. His wings shuddered, the black feathers flaring as they absorbed the stolen energy.

The fallen angel collapsed to his knees, breath shallow. He looked up at Azrael with a mix of fear and awe. "You… you took it…"

Azrael withdrew his hand, his body trembling from the rush. "I had to."

The warrior grinned. "Did you?"

Azrael did not answer. The hunger within him was quiet now, satisfied but not sated. He had taken what he needed, but he knew it would not be enough. It would never be enough.

The stranger stepped forward. "You see now, don't you? This world does not reward those who wait. It belongs to those who claim it."

Azrael closed his eyes. He had spent lifetimes believing in the order of the heavens, in the divine purpose he had been given. But purpose had not saved him. Devotion had not spared him from the fall.

Perhaps it was time to carve his own fate.

When he opened his eyes again, the firelight reflected in their crimson depths. He turned to the warrior. "Tell me… where can I find more?"

The warrior's grin widened. "There is a kingdom to the east, where men still pray to the Light for salvation. They build their churches, whisper their pleas, believing the heavens will answer them."

Azrael's wings unfurled. "And do they?"

The warrior shook his head. "Not anymore."

A slow smile crept across Azrael's face. The heavens had turned their backs on these people, just as they had turned their backs on him. But he was still here. And if the gods would not grant them their blessings, then he would take what they had left behind.

As he stepped forward, the gathered fallen bowed their heads. They could feel it—the shift in the air, the awakening of something old and forgotten.

Azrael was no longer a castaway, no longer a nameless exile wandering the world without purpose.

He was hunger given form.

And the world would learn to fear the devouring dawn.