The Birth of Light

The cosmos trembled.

A great star, ancient and resplendent, reached the end of its time. It did not wither into quiet death, did not fade into the backdrop of eternity. Instead, it shattered.

Golden fire tore through the abyss, its last breath an eruption of light that rippled through the void. Embers of celestial energy swirled, forming luminous currents across the vast emptiness. It was destruction, but it was also creation.

And in the core of that violent brilliance, something stirred.

The dying fragments of the star did not scatter into nothingness. Instead, they converged, drawn together by an unseen force. Dust and light wove into a shape—a being. Radiant wings, a body sculpted from divine fire, a face carved by the same hand that had shaped the heavens.

His eyes opened.

And in that moment, the celestial realm of Asphodel felt his presence. The echoes of his creation rang through the heavens like the sound of a new dawn.

Azarel had been born.

The air of Asphodel shimmered, the very fabric of the realm adjusting to the arrival of something—someone—new. Towers of iridescent stone stretched high above seas of clouds, woven bridges connecting floating citadels. The sky itself was alive, awash with hues that no mortal eye could comprehend.

At the highest peak of the Celestial Hall, the Council had gathered. The oldest among the angels, their forms radiated authority, their wings shimmering with the weight of eons.

At the center of the grand chamber, he stood.

Azarel, still wrapped in the lingering glow of his birth, his silver eyes wide with wonder. His wings—white, but edged with the molten gold of a star's final breath—shifted behind him. They were unlike any other in the realm.

A murmur passed through the gathered angels.

"He is different."

"His light is strong."

"This is a sign."

He didn't yet understand their words, but he felt their weight. Felt the expectation settle upon him like an unspoken command.

Then, from the front of the assembly, a figure stepped forward.

Tall, formidable, and carrying an air of unwavering purpose, Seraphine regarded him with sharp, assessing eyes. Her three pairs of crescent-shaped wings remained perfectly still, her presence exuding the discipline of a warrior.

"Do you know why you are here?" she asked, her voice clear, unwavering.

Azarel hesitated. He had no past to draw from, no memories beyond the moment his eyes first opened. But he knew, somehow, that his presence here was not without reason.

"I was born," he answered simply.

Seraphine studied him. "Yes. And now you must learn why."

She turned, gesturing beyond the great hall, where the golden horizon met the distant void.

"There is darkness," she said. "Beyond Asphodel. Beyond the light."

Azarel followed her gaze but saw only the infinite sky.

Seraphine continued. "They are a plague. A corruption. Demons born from the filth of the Abyss."

The word felt foreign, distant. And yet, something about it sent a shiver through him.

"For centuries, they have spread," she went on, her tone steady, absolute. "They do not belong in this universe. It is our duty to erase them before they consume what remains of the light."

Duty.

The word settled within him, taking root before he could understand what it truly meant.

"You were born strong," Seraphine said, stepping closer. "That is no accident."

Azarel lowered his gaze to his hands. Strong. His fingers curled slightly, testing, feeling the energy humming beneath his skin. It was there—dormant, waiting.

Seraphine's expression softened, just slightly. "You will learn, Azarel. You will train. And when the time comes, you will fight."

His silver eyes lifted to hers. The finality in her voice did not waver. This was not a question. Not an offer.

This was his purpose.

The training grounds of Asphodel were carved from light itself, the marble courtyards stretching across floating islands of stone. Hundreds of angels moved with precision—some wielding spears forged from celestial fire, others soaring through the air in tight formations, their wings cutting clean arcs through the sky.

Azarel stood at the edge, watching.

They were preparing for war.

He didn't know why, but something about it made his chest feel… heavy.

A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You shouldn't just stand there."

He turned.

Another angel stood beside him, taller, her presence demanding attention even without effort. Her golden hair caught the light, and her emerald-rimmed wings shifted as she regarded him.

Leya.

"You were born for this too," she said simply.

Azarel hesitated. "I don't understand it yet."

She tilted her head slightly, studying him in a way that made him feel exposed. Then, she smiled.

"You will."

Above, unseen by the fledgling warrior, the Council of Asphodel watched. The eldest angels, those who had shaped the foundation of their world, observed with knowing eyes.

One spoke.

"He does not yet know what he is."

Another replied. "He will."

A third voice, quieter, but heavier with meaning. "And when he does… the stars themselves will tremble."