The golden halls of Aetherion thrummed with a hymn that cut like a blade—sharp, cold, and devoid of grace.
The air shimmered with divine light, refracting off polished marble pillars that stretched into an endless vaulted sky.
Yet the radiance felt sterile, a mockery of warmth, as if the heavens themselves had forgotten how to feel.
Azareel knelt at the center of it all, his slender frame dwarfed by the towering silhouettes of his celestial kin.
His hands, bound by cords of searing light, trembled faintly—not from fear, but from the weight of sorrow pressing against his chest.
His white robe, once a symbol of purity, hung in tatters, stained with streaks of gold-flecked blood.
His long white hair, streaked with faded gold, spilled over his shoulders, tangled and damp with sweat.
His silver-gray eyes, flecked with rain-blue, glistened with unshed tears, reflecting the cold faces of those who judged him.
Around him stood his siblings—angels cloaked in radiant armor, their eyes like polished glass, their hearts as unyielding as the stone beneath their feet.
They did not look at him with pity or regret, only with the disdain reserved for something broken, something tainted.
Their voices wove a litany of condemnation, each word a lash against his already bruised spirit.
"Defiler of order," one spat, her voice a venomous melody.
"Betrayer of the divine," another hissed, his spear glinting as he stepped closer.
Azareel did not flinch.
He did not speak.
He only whispered, so softly it barely reached the air, "I'm sorry."
Not to them.
To the mortal girl whose fever he had cooled with a touch, her small hand clutching his as she smiled through her pain.
To the monster he had spared, its twisted form trembling under his gentle words, learning for the first time that it could be more than a nightmare.
To the winged child he had cradled, glowing with forbidden light, when all of Aetherion had turned away in disgust.
His sin was simple: to love without permission.
To offer kindness where the heavens demanded judgment.
And now, the cost was written in the steel blade hovering above him, its edge catching the light like a cruel promise.
Two of his brothers seized his shoulders, their grips bruising through his torn robe.
A third grasped his chin, forcing his tired eyes upward to meet the gaze of the Father of Light, the Architect of the Spheres.
The Father sat high upon a throne of mirrored crystal, his face a mask of flawless ivory, devoid of warmth or mercy.
His presence filled the hall like a winter storm, beautiful and unyielding.
"Azareel," the Father said, his voice like chimes ringing over a frozen lake, each syllable precise and piercing. "Do you understand what you have done?"
Azareel's lips parted, his breath shallow.
He nodded slowly, his voice barely a whisper. "I gave warmth where you demanded distance. I offered comfort where you taught judgment."
There was no bitterness in his tone, no defiance.
Only honesty, raw and unguarded, like a wound laid bare.
His words hung in the air, fragile and true, and for a moment, the hymns faltered, the light in the hall flickering as if uncertain.
That was worse.
The Father rose, his movements fluid.
The throne dimmed behind him, its silver sunlight coiling into his palms like liquid starfire.
He stepped forward, his shadow falling over Azareel like a shroud.
"You were the softest of us," he said, his voice colder now, sharp enough to cut.
"The weakest. And I tolerated it, believing your heart might yet align with our purpose. But mercy is a disease when left to fester. It spreads. It corrupts."
Azareel looked down at his bound hands, the cords of light burning red welts into his pale skin. His voice was barely audible, yet it carried a quiet resolve.
"Then let me die."
.
"AHAHAHahahahaha"
The angels laughed—a cruel, discordant sound that echoed off the marble.
A sister stepped forward, her golden hair blazing like a crown, her smile sharp as a blade.
"Oh, sweet Azareel," she sang, her voice dripping with mockery. "Death is a release. You don't get that."
Another brother leaned in, his breath hot against Azareel's ear.
"We're sending you where your little monsters belong," he sneered.
"To the Abyss."
"Maybe you'll heal them too," a third added, spitting at his feet, "while they're tearing your limbs apart. Slowly."
Azareel did not resist as they dragged him toward the altar of flame at the hall's center, its white fire roaring with divine wrath.
He did not scream when they pressed his face close to the flames, burning away his halo in a burst of searing light that left his head aching and bare.
But when they reached for his wings—those ragged, scarred remnants of his divinity—he flinched.
Not from pain, but from grief.
Those wings had once cradled dying children, shielding them from the cold as they slipped away.
They had fanned gentle breezes over frightened souls in war-torn fields, offering a moment of peace.
They had trembled beneath a mortal woman's kiss on a rainy mountain, her lips soft and fleeting, a memory he carried like a secret.
And now—
The blade descended with a sickening slick.
Metal bit through bone and sinew, and the first wing fell, its white feathers stained crimson as it struck the marble with a wet slap.
Azareel's body arched, his breath catching in a silent gasp, but no scream escaped his lips.
The second wing followed, the sound of cracking bone echoing through the hall like a gunshot.
A single tear slid down his cheek, glinting in the firelight, but his face remained blank, his sorrow too vast for cries.
Blood pooled beneath him, gold-flecked and shimmering, as they dragged him—broken, bleeding—to the edge of the Grand Sky.
The chasm yawned before him, a great void that marked the boundary between heaven and the Abyss.
Its depths swirled with shadows, a hungry maw that swallowed light and hope alike.
Azareel tried to stand, one last time.
His legs trembled, his stumps oozing blood, but he lifted his chin and turned to face them—his kin, his Father, the light that had forsaken him.
His silver eyes, dim but unbroken, met theirs.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice barely holding. "I still… I still don't hate you."
A long silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
The angels' faces twisted—some with rage, others with unease, as if his words had pierced something they refused to name.
And then.
The Father's foot struck his chest, swift and merciless...
and Azareel fell.
Down.
Down.
Down.
The sky unraveled above him like torn silk, stars spinning into streaks of white as the wind screamed through his ears.
His blood trailed behind him, red and gold ribbons twisting in the air, marking his descent like a comet's tail.
He clutched his chest, his breathing ragged, as the warmth of heaven faded, replaced by a creeping cold that tasted of rust and rot.
The clouds below turned to ash, parting to reveal a nightmare landscape.
Jagged bones pierced the sky, remnants of forgotten beasts.
Floating islands of twisted black iron loomed, their surfaces pitted with scars and pulsing with faint, sickly light.
Crimson rivers snaked through the void, their surfaces rippling with screaming faces—souls trapped in eternal torment.
And deeper still, something pulsed beneath the surface of the world, like a beating, broken heart.
The Abyss.
Where monsters go to be forgotten.
Where angels go to die.
Azareel closed his eyes, his body twisting midair as the darkness rushed to claim him.
The stumps on his back wept blood, each drop a silent prayer.
His lips moved, forming one last whisper, fragile but defiant, as the Abyss opened like a mouth to swallow him whole.
"Please… let me still be kind."