In the beginning, there was balance.
Elysium, the Eternal Realm, stood at the pinnacle of creation—a domain of radiant skies and silver seas, of golden spires that pierced the heavens and fields of starlight where angels tread. It was the dwelling of the Almighty, the unseen but all-present God whose voice carried the weight of law and love alike.
From His will came the angels—beings that are of light, spirit, and harmony. Among them stood the Archangels, first creatures of the divine flame, each bearing a fragment of His glory. They govern the realms with wisdom and power, maintaining the great harmony that stretched from Elysium to the mortal realm.
And of all the Archangels, none shone brighter than Azrael.
Azrael was majesty incarnate. His wings were vast and silver-blue, his voice like a storm wrapped in music. He was the Flame of Dawn, Commander of the Ninth Choir, beloved by the Seraphim and revered across the heavens. His presence stirred awe. His deeds were legend.
But brilliance, unchecked, casts long shadows.
Azrael's devotion turned to ambition. His heart, once ablaze with purpose, grew heavy with questions. Why must only God rule? Why must the Archangels kneel, when they too bore divinity in their forms? The more he beheld the Almighty's silence, the more he heard his own voice in the silence—and mistook it for truth.
He began to whisper in the halls of starlight.
First to Samael, the Angel of Flame. Then to linael, Mistress of Secrets. Then others—thrones, dominos, sentinels, principal—each drawn by his vision of freedom. He promised not chaos, but liberation. Not rebellion, but ascension. He painted a world without chains. And they believed him.
In secret, they forged weapons—not of steel, but of soul and shadow. They sang songs in the forbidden tongue. They wove sigils that bent the fabric of the realms. And when their power could no longer be hidden, the heavens split.
The first blow was struck not by sword, but by word.
Azrael stood in the Council of Thrones and declared: "I will no longer serve!."
Lightning cracked across the skies of Elysium. Bells tolled. And war was born.
Michael, the First Archangel, drew his blazing spear. Raphael called upon the winds. Uriel summoned fire from the core of heaven. But Azrael stood unshakened, and behind him rose a host—a third of heaven's legions, cloaked now in blackened light.
They clashed across the Shining Fields. They warred in the Temple of Stars. They shattered skies and sundered firmaments. What was once beautiful became scarred. What was once eternal now echoed with the cries of battle.
Azrael's name, once sung in praise, was now spoken with dread.
And yet, he did not fall.
For he had tasted how power felt. And his fire would not go out.