The sky above the mortal realm burned with a muted crimson, clouds twisting like smoke caught in a slow, deliberate dance. At the highest spire of the Celestial Citadel, a figure stood alone, draped in robes that seemed to drink in the dim light. Every inch of him radiated authority, power, and an almost unbearable charisma—the kind that made even the bravest kneel without thought.
Azeriel, the human god, fed on the raw essence of emotion—fear, love, longing, despair. His eyes, sharp and fathomless, glimmered with a predatory intelligence. He had watched centuries pass, realms rise and fall, and yet nothing had drawn his interest… until now.
"My spirit princess," he murmured to the empty wind, voice like velvet laced with steel. "So hidden, so formidable… and yet, so untamed. Perfect."
He stepped closer to the edge, letting the world spread beneath him like a canvas of opportunity. "You will be my weapon, my masterpiece… whether you know it or not."
A flicker of movement in the mortal realm caught his attention—distant, fleeting, but precise. Even across the chasm of planes, he sensed her pulse, her magic, her potential. She had been trained, tempered, scarred, and yet untouched by him. Yet.
Azeriel smiled faintly, the shadow of a god who knew the threads of fate but wove them to his own design. "The world will bend for you… or because of you. And I will ensure it bends the way I desire."
In that cold silence, the promise of inevitability lingered—a new arc of power, intrigue, and danger, waiting to descend upon the Spirit Princess.