The cosmos trembled, a stirring that reverberated through the very fabric of existence. A mighty star, ancient beyond comprehension, reached the inevitable end of its long-burning life. But it did not succumb to the quiet decay that some stars endure. No, it shattered, as if refusing to bow to the passage of time in a final act of defiance.
Golden fire poured from the heart of the dying star, sending ripples of radiant light and heat through the vast abyss. The explosion of energy echoed through the void, a symphony of destruction that was at once terrible and beautiful. Fragments of the star, once bound together by the unbreakable forces of nature, scattered in every direction. But even as it was torn apart, it did not dissolve into nothingness. No, there was something more to this death.
Instead, the remnants of the great star swirled in cosmic unity, converging, drawn together by a force beyond the understanding of even the oldest of celestial beings. Starlight and cosmic dust wove together, forming a shape, a form—an entity. His wings unfurled first, glistening with a golden sheen that mirrored the brilliance of the dying star from which he had been born. His body was shaped by the divine fire itself, a perfect, ethereal form sculpted in the image of celestial grandeur. His face—his features—were the product of a cosmic hand that had shaped the heavens, carved with precision, etched with purpose.
Azarel's eyes opened slowly, and in that instant, the heavens of Asphodel—an ethereal and otherworldly domain—sensed his arrival. His birth was not a quiet affair. It was a cosmic event that would echo through the vast expanse of the universe. The celestial realm, bathed in the golden light of a thousand stars, felt his presence as though it were a distant rumble across the vast sky—a new dawn on the horizon of existence.
Azarel, still wrapped in the radiant glow of his own creation, stood alone at the heart of that brilliance. The echoes of his birth spread throughout Asphodel, vibrating through every corner of the vast celestial expanse. The world trembled in anticipation, adjusting to the arrival of something—someone—new.
The very air of Asphodel shimmered with an intensity never felt before. The landscape of the celestial realm stretched into infinity—towers of iridescent stone rose high above seas of clouds that sparkled like a thousand diamonds caught in the wind. Woven bridges connected floating citadels, vast structures that seemed to defy the laws of nature, where the sky itself was alive, a living entity pulsating with colors that could never be captured by mortal eyes.
At the highest peak of the Celestial Hall, the Council of Angels had gathered. The eldest among them, beings who had lived through countless eons, their forms radiated with an undeniable aura of authority. Their wings shimmered with the weight of ages, each feather steeped in the wisdom of countless lifetimes.
And in the center of that grand chamber stood Azarel, still bathed in the faint remnants of the glow that clung to him. His silver eyes, wide with wonder, took in the vast beauty of the realm, the monumental architecture, and the unyielding power that emanated from the assembled angels. His wings, pure white but edged with the molten gold of the star's final breath, fluttered restlessly behind him. They were unlike any other in the realm—wings that reflected the very heart of his creation.
A low murmur passed through the assembly of angels, a whisper that rippled through the gathered crowd like the wind before a storm.
"He is different."
"His light is strong."
"This is a sign."
Azarel felt the weight of their gazes on him, the unspoken words pressing upon him with an intensity he could not understand. There was something within him, something ancient, stirring, but he had no name for it. He did not yet grasp the true meaning of his birth or the responsibility it carried, but he felt it, deep within the core of his being. It was a pull, a force that guided his every thought, even though he did not know where it would lead him.
And then, from the front of the assembly, a figure stepped forward—a figure whose presence seemed to command the room, quieting the murmurs with the weight of her authority.
Tall, formidable, and bearing an air of unwavering purpose, Seraphine regarded him with sharp, assessing eyes. Her wings, shaped like crescent moons, remained perfectly still, their edges glowing softly with the power of the heavens. She had the discipline of a warrior, the strength of one who had seen battles both won and lost, and her gaze—focused, precise—cut through the silence.
"Do you know why you are here?" she asked, her voice clear and unwavering, like the strike of a blade against stone.
Azarel hesitated, his mind swirling with confusion. He had no memories of a life before this moment—no recollections, no past to cling to. All he knew was the awareness of his existence, the feeling of newness, the strange sensation that there was something larger than himself, something beyond this moment. And yet, despite the confusion that clouded his thoughts, he knew—he knew—that his presence here, in this hall, among these beings, was not without purpose.
"I was born," he answered simply, his voice soft but carrying the weight of his own uncertainty.
Seraphine studied him, her expression unyielding. "Yes. And now you must learn why."
She turned away from him, her gaze sweeping beyond the grand hall, past the towering spires and the endless sky. She looked out into the distance, where the horizon met the edge of eternity.
"There is darkness," she said, her voice taking on a solemn edge. "Beyond Asphodel. Beyond the light."
Azarel followed her gaze, his silver eyes straining to see what she saw, but all that met his gaze was the infinite expanse of sky, the endless sea of clouds that stretched for eternity.
Seraphine continued, her tone steady and filled with certainty. "They are a plague. A corruption. Demons born from the filth of the Abyss."
The word Abyss rang in his ears like the toll of a bell, distant and ominous. It felt foreign to him, something that did not belong, yet at the same time, it sent a shiver of recognition through him. There was something about it that unsettled him, something he could not name but that felt intrinsically wrong.
"For centuries, they have spread," Seraphine continued. "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 Azarel's chest like a stone, cold and heavy. He did not yet fully understand it, but the feeling of it—the weight of responsibility—pressed down on him. His gaze drifted down to his hands, still trembling slightly, and he flexed his fingers, feeling the energy that hummed beneath his skin. Power, raw and untamed, pulsed through him.
"You were born strong," Seraphine said, stepping closer to him. "That is no accident."
Azarel lowered his gaze further, his hands curling into fists. Strong. He felt it in his bones, the power that lay dormant within him, waiting to be unleashed. It was there—he could feel it. But what was he supposed to do with it?
Seraphine's expression softened, just the slightest bit, as if sensing his internal struggle. "You will learn, Azarel. You will train. And when the time comes, you will fight."
The finality in her voice was undeniable. There was no question here. No room for doubt. This was his purpose—this was what he had been born for.
His silver eyes lifted to meet hers, and for the first time, he felt the weight of his destiny settling around him, like a cloak he could not cast off.
The training grounds of Asphodel lay before him, a vast expanse carved from light itself. The courtyards, white as snow, stretched across floating islands of stone. Angels moved with precision, their wings cutting through the air in perfect synchrony. Some wielded spears, their tips glowing with celestial fire, while others soared through the skies in tight formations, their movements seamless and fluid.
Azarel stood at the edge of the training grounds, watching as the angels prepared for something. He didn't know what, but something in the air was heavy with anticipation, with the feeling of war. A war he was meant to fight.
He didn't know why, but the thought of it made his chest feel heavy. There was something about the endless motion of the angels—their readiness, their dedication—that left him feeling hollow, like a piece of him was missing.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You shouldn't just stand there."
Azarel turned to see another angel standing beside him. She was tall, with a presence that commanded attention even without effort. Her golden hair caught the light, and her emerald-rimmed wings shifted with every movement, reflecting the light like stained glass. She studied him with an inscrutable expression.
Leya.
"You were born for this too," she said, her voice soft but firm.
Azarel hesitated, his thoughts in turmoil. "I don't understand it yet."
Leya tilted her head, studying him closely. Then, her lips curved into a faint smile.
"You will," she said simply, as if her certainty alone was enough to set his mind at ease.
But there was no comfort in her words. Only more questions.
Above them, the Council of Asphodel watched, their eyes filled with ancient knowledge. They had seen countless beings born, but none like Azarel. They knew what he was—what he would become.
And so, they waited.
One of them spoke. "He does not yet know what he is."
Another replied, "He will."
A third, quieter voice, filled with deeper meaning, spoke at last. "And when he does... the stars themselves will tremble."