In the Era of Genesis, before Heaven learned the meaning of fear, there existed an angel who did not belong.
His name was Azazel.
He stood upon the white causeways of the Empyrean, where the sky was neither blue nor gold but something purer an endless radiance that had no source and required none. Beneath his feet, the bridges of Heaven were formed from crystallized hymns, each step echoing with soft choral resonance. Angels passed him by in waves of light and feathers, wings brushing wings, voices murmuring prayers that sustained creation itself.
And yet, around Azazel, there was silence.
Not imposed.
Chosen.
Azazel wore a coat.
It was long and white, tailored with unnatural precision, its fabric untouched by the glow of Heaven. Where other angels adorned themselves in robes of scripture, armor of virtue, or nothing at all, Azazel's coat seemed… mundane. Mortal. Almost defiant.
The hem brushed against his calves as he walked, the faint whisper of cloth far louder than any hymn.
His hair long, pure white fell freely down his back, unbound by halos or circlets. His eyes were golden, but unlike the radiant gold of most angels, his gaze was deep, contemplative, as though always fixed on something far beyond Heaven's horizon.
Other angels noticed.
They always did.
But none approached.
There was an unspoken understanding among Heaven's host: Azazel was different, and difference was something Heaven did not know how to forgive.
"He doesn't sing."
The whisper came from a cherub perched atop a pillar of light.
"I heard he can," another replied softly. "He simply chooses not to."
"Why?"
The question lingered unanswered, dissolving into the endless sky.
Azazel heard them all.
He always did.
But he did not turn.
The truth was simple Azazel loved Heaven, but he did not worship it.
And Heaven, in turn, did not know what to do with an angel who loved without kneeling.
The Hall of Genesis loomed ahead.
It was the first structure ever formed in Heaven, the place where existence itself had been defined through divine decree. Vast pillars spiraled upward into infinity, carved with the first laws of reality: Time, Light, Order, Eternity.
Every angel gathered there knew what this meant.
A proclamation.
A command.
Azazel stepped into the hall alongside tens of thousands of angels. Wings folded, halos brightened, voices hushed. At the center, a dais of blinding radiance awaited the voice of Heaven's Will.
Azazel stood straight, hands in his coat pockets.
He looked bored.
"You look like you're about to walk out."
The voice was warm, musical, and entirely too familiar.
Azazel did not need to turn to know who it was.
"Ariel," he said calmly.
She drifted down beside him, wings shimmering in hues of rose and dawn. Her hair—long, impossibly long—flowed like liquid light, pink strands reaching all the way to her feet. Her violet eyes sparkled with curiosity, affection, and something dangerously close to defiance.
She was the Angel of Love.
Love in its purest, most terrifying form.
"You always do this," she teased softly.
"Every time Heaven calls us, you look like you're weighing whether existence is worth staying for."
Azazel glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "And every time, you're the one who notices."
Ariel smiled.
That smile had undone wars before they ever began.
"You're thinking again," she said. "That's dangerous here."
"Thinking is the only thing that keeps this place honest," Azazel replied.
Ariel laughed quietly, leaning closer. "You'd make a terrible obedient angel."
"I know."
Their shoulders brushed.
Heaven trembled just a little.
The light intensified.
The proclamation began.
A voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere, layered with countless harmonies.
It spoke not in words but in absolute certainty.
KNEEL.
Every angel fell to one knee.
Every angel except one.
Azazel remained standing.
The silence that followed was not empty it was catastrophic.
The light faltered. Pillars cracked. The very hymns beneath their feet stuttered.
Ariel froze.
Slowly, she looked up at him.
"Azazel…" she whispered.
He did not look at the throne.
He looked at her.
"Do you hear it?" he asked softly.
"Hear what?"
"The fear."
The command came again, sharper, absolute.
KNEEL. OR BE UNMADE.
Lucifer stepped forward then, wings blazing, defiance carved into every line of his form. He spoke of freedom, of will, of rebellion.
Azazel did not listen.
He turned around.
The act alone sent shockwaves through Heaven.
Angels gasped.
Ariel's breath caught.
Azazel faced her fully now. For the first time, his golden eyes softened—not with doubt, but with sorrow.
"I won't force you," he said quietly. "If you stay, I won't blame you."
Ariel stared at him, violet eyes trembling.
"You're leaving," she said.
"Yes."
"And you won't come back."
"No."
He extended his hand.
"If you follow," he continued, "you will fall.
You will lose everything Heaven gave you."
Ariel did not hesitate.
She took his hand.
The moment their fingers intertwined, Heaven screamed.
The Fall was not fire.
It was absence.
Azazel felt the laws unravel around him. Light inverted. Order shattered. His wings burned not away, but into something else. Pain exploded through his back as new feathers erupted, darker, sharper, screaming with abyssal resonance.
Six wings unfolded.
Not radiant.
Not gentle.
Black.
Each feather honed like a blade, edges glimmering with void.
His halo shattered into ash.
His golden eyes collapsed inward, becoming something bottomless abyssal, swallowing light instead of reflecting it.
Black horns tore through his skull, sharp and curved, the tips glowing faintly crimson as if stained by a sin that did not yet exist.
His white coat burned away and yet, when the void expelled him, he was still wearing one.
A black coat.
Long. Heavy. Perfectly fitted.
Miasma poured from his hair, now long and black, reaching his waist like a living shadow. It breathed, pulsed, whispered.
Azazel laughed.
It echoed endlessly.
A second presence fell beside him.
"Ariel!"
He turned just in time to catch her.
Her wings shattered and reformed, darker yet still beautiful. Her hair deepened to a rich dark pink, cascading all the way to her feet. Violet eyes shimmered, unbroken.
She was trembling but smiling.
"I told you," she whispered, clutching his coat. "Love follows."
Azazel pulled her close, six wings folding protectively around them.
Around them, countless other angels fell some screaming, some laughing, some silent. The void drank them all.
Below, something vast stirred.
Hell was being born.
And somewhere in that newborn abyss, an unspoken law etched itself into existence:
Azazel would never kneel again.
High above, Heaven sealed its gates.
Below, Hell took its first breath.
And the fallen angel in the black coat smiled wistful, energetic, mysterious already gathering followers who would one day worship his name with fanatic devotion.
The Duke of the Abyss had descended.
And this was only the beginning.