Zorack, 10,322nd Cycle of Light, before the Sundering
He stood at the Pinnacle of Radiance, the edge of the grand Throne Tower that overlooked the mortal realm of Mazurk. From here, the endless blue skies of Zorack shimmered with woven strands of soullight, and the bridges of the Grand City curved like rings of starlight above the clouds.
Astaroth, the Throne Angel, Keeper of the Mortal Flame, folded his wings of alabaster and gold behind him. His gaze pierced the veil that separated Zorack from the world below.
He watched Mazurk — watched it rot. Kingdoms collapsing into war, kings drowning their people in greed, monsters rising from cursed lands as the mortal prayers went unanswered. The Gundari had grown distant, negligent. It was he alone who bore witness. He alone who still cared.
And they called this divinity.
Behind him, the Council Spires rang with idle song and empty rhetoric. The Archons and Thrones debated beauty, gazed inward at their own perfection, and handed down judgments without ever seeing the suffering that bled from the world they had vowed to protect.
They called him "brother," but they had become strangers.
A whisper bloomed in his mind — not foreign, but familiar. It had spoken to him before, in dreams, in solitude.
"You were made to lead… not to serve."
Astaroth closed his eyes, and in that moment, his wings flickered — a brief shimmer of obsidian laced the gold.
"I will not remain their crutch," he whispered. "Let them bear the burden. Let them see."