The once-mighty Lucifer struggled to recover; his powers had withered under the weight of the punishment he endured. His wings, once radiant with celestial fire, now trembled weakly, and his essence dimmed like dying embers.
The forest was silent, except for the whispering wind that carried the scent of ash and dew. Every leaf seemed to recoil from him, the fallen son, as if nature itself recognized the taint that clung to his broken form. The ground beneath him was damp with the memory of his fall, where celestial fire had scorched the earth and left nothing but charred soil and faint traces of light.
He could still hear the echoes of divine fury — the crack of thunder, the cold decree of the heavens, the shattering of wings. It replayed in his mind like an unending hymn of condemnation. Each breath burned in his chest, each heartbeat a reminder of what he had lost. The air, once his servant, now pressed against him like chains.
Lucifer — the Morning Star, the Bringer of Light — reduced to a trembling creature crawling in the dust. His glory had been stripped away, his voice silenced beneath divine judgment. He tried to lift himself, but his strength faltered; his hands dug into the soil, leaving clawed marks in frustration.
When he sensed the footsteps of approaching humans, panic flickered through him. With the last remnants of his strength, he transformed — his body twisting into the form of a dragon-serpent, scales dark as midnight and eyes glowing faintly red. He could not vanish, his powers too frail, and so he hissed in defiance as fear seized the air.
The sound of rustling skirts and gasps broke through the silence. The scent of fear was thick — sweet and sharp. To him, it was familiar. Once, mortals had trembled at his name; now, they fled at the sight of a dying beast.
The maids' screams shattered the silence. They fled in terror at the sight of the wounded beast, their cries echoing through the forest. Yet among them stood a figure who did not run.
A little princess, no older than sixteen, stepped forward. Her name was Isabel, and unlike the others, her eyes did not reflect fear — only curiosity and compassion. She saw not a monster, but a creature in pain.
Lucifer's vision swam. The princess presence glimmered faintly — a light, pure and soft, brushing against the darkness that clung to him. It irritated him. Yet, something about it was… unfamiliar. Mortals had cursed his name, priests had raised their swords, kings had condemned him in their temples. But this one — this fragile, small creature — looked at him as if she saw him, not the form he wore.
Against the frantic pleas of her maids, Isabel lifted the wounded dragon-serpent into her arms. Its body was heavy and cold, yet she held it close as though protecting it from the world.
Her Little frame trembled under his weight, but her eyes stayed steady. The serpent's scales were slick with blood and soot, each breath shallow, each movement weak. Yet she did not recoil. To her, he wasn't terrifying; he was simply alone.
"Let's take him home," she said softly, her voice steady with determination.
Lucifer's consciousness wavered. Home? The word echoed mockingly in his fading mind. What home could there be for one cast out of Heaven? Yet her tone carried no judgment, no fear. It was pure — stubborn, even. As her maids hesitated in horror, Isabel turned, commanding them in that innocent way children do when they believe in something utterly. And somehow,they obeyed.
In her chamber, Isabel placed the creature on a soft velvet pillow. The glow of the evening sun spilled through the windows, wrapping the room in warmth. She opened her little first-aid box and began cleaning the wounds carefully, her small hands trembling but resolute.
The room smelled of rose oil and old parchment. Dolls lined the shelves, golden curtains fluttered lightly against the wind. It was a place of innocence — a world untouched by sin. And yet there, on the floor, lay the embodiment of rebellion and wrath.
Lucifer stirred faintly, his heavy gaze drawn to the movement of her hands. She was clumsy, her bandages uneven, her efforts simple — yet each touch carried warmth, the kind he hadn't felt since the dawn of creation. Her heartbeat echoed faintly, quick and delicate, like the flutter of a bird.
The dragon's crimson eyes watched her every move — proud, unyielding, filled with fury and disbelief.
Inwardly, his thoughts hissed with venom. How dare she touch me. How dare she treat me like a wounded pet. But his body was too weak to resist, too broken to strike. The rage that once set heavens ablaze now burned dimly — a shadow of its former glory.
"Don't worry," Isabel said with a gentle smile. "I'll take care of you."
Her voice was soft, filled with warmth he could not comprehend. She spoke to him as if he were human — as if she could not sense the dark energy that clung to his form.
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "You can call me Isabel," she continued, dabbing gently at his wounds. "And what should I call you?"
Her hand brushed against his scales, and his pride bristled.
Don't touch me like that, human, his thoughts burned in silence. Who said I'm your pet? Wait until I recover — you'll regret this.
But Isabel only giggled, unfazed by his silent glare. "Hmm… I'll call you Yan."
The dragon turned his head away sharply, clearly disapproving.
Her laughter filled the chamber, light and musical. "You don't like it?" she teased. "What about Xavier? It means 'new house' or maybe… 'brightness.'"
The sound of that name pierced something deep within him. Brightness. The irony bit at his heart like frost. He, who once bore the title Morning Star, now reduced to this. Still, the girl's tone carried no mockery — only kindness. And for reasons beyond his understanding, he found himself unable to hate it.
For a moment, the dragon-serpent's gaze softened. What an irony, he thought bitterly. If only she knew — I am no symbol of light. I am the forsaken one.
"Xavier it is, then," Isabel declared with satisfaction, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
And for the first time in centuries, the fallen Lucifer felt something stir within him — something he could not name.