He closed the door behind him, but the silence inside was not peace. It was weight. A stillness that pressed against his chest like an unseen hand. He tried to hum — the soft melody of an old hymn — but the notes died in his throat. In the days that followed, the angel remained quiet. He wandered the silver gardens of Vystriaa with his head low. He looked upon the singing choirs, but the songs seemed rehearsed now. He attended the worship halls, but their light felt colder. The joy he once found in simple things — in shared laughter, in holy meals, in the hush of dawn — began to blur like paint left too long in rain.He was deeply troubled and confused. His brother did not return. Not in body.
But his words did.
They moved like roots beneath his thoughts. Not loud. Just present. Whispering questions where none had ever been. "Is love still love when it is commanded?" "Did the Creator ever call you by name?" "What have you become... besides obedient?" And so, the angel — once content, once gracious — began to slip.
Not in defiance.
Not in hatred.
But in sorrow.
He did not join the rebels. Not openly. He merely walked further from the light — first by steps, then by absence. When the hymns rose, he no longer sang. When others gathered in praise, he stayed behind, saying nothing. The stars still burned above Vystriaa, but they no longer warmed him. He told no one. He wept in secret. He did not rage. He simply... stopped hoping. His brothers kept convincing him. He gave his complete trust to his brothers.
And when at last the day came, the sky tore open and the war in Heaven ended in silence, deceived not by pride, but by trust, he fell. Not with fury, but with tears. His smile faded as he descended, betrayed by those he called brothers, cast down by the very light he once embodied. The defeated were cast down not into death, but into exile. Like meteors burning in the void, the fallen angels plummeted from the heavens, their cries swallowed by the cold between worlds. They fell to a nameless planet, a place of dust, ruin, and forgotten time. But the punishment did not end with the fall. Angels loyal to the Throne followed in grim procession — not with mercy, but with chains of celestial fire.
Some fallen angels who crashed on the planet managed to fight their way to a temporary freedom allowing them escape while some where caught, hurled into the bottomless pits carved into the planet's crust — vast, black chasms with no echo, no end, only silence. There, they would remain, unseen, unheard, unremembered. In the chaos, beneath the shadow of ash and thunder, a lone fallen angel evaded the watchers. Wounded, wings scorched, heart trembling, he crawled through the wreckage of gods. Unseen and unbound, he vanished into the wild places of the planet . Unlike the others who embraced their fall with fire and fury, Raphael remained untouched by vengeance. He was lost, confused, filled with regret
They call him The Severed Flame, The Silent Watcher, The Healer Who Would Not Hate. And though his name is rarely spoken aloud, in places where miracles bloom from ashes, his presence is quietly felt.