A long time ago, in the fractured cradle of Fathomi, an angel plummeted from the celestial expanse, her descent a streak of fractured light against the roiling skies.
Unlike the countless souls that had been shattered and remade in this world's capricious forge, her individuality clung to her like a tattered shroud—memories of ethereal choirs, the boundless harmony of higher planes, and a purpose unmarred by the realm's entropy.
She awoke amid the ruins of a shattered spire, her eight wings unfurled in radiant splendor, each feather a conduit of divine grace that hummed with the echoes of creation itself.
But Fathomi was no paradise; it was a realm of ceaseless strife, where inhabitants clashed in futile wars over territories, pride, and even without reasons—their souls ground to dust by the inexorable grind of survival.
