The storm had passed, but the echoes of it lingered.
Ashes clung to the air like ghosts refusing to fade, and the palace, though saved, smelled faintly of smoke and sorrow. Servants whispered about miracles — how the princess was found untouched in the flames, how the fire had bowed before her. Some called it divine mercy. Others called it witchcraft.
But none knew the truth.
None saw the shadow that stood upon the northern cliffs that night — watching the palace from afar.
Lucifer.
Rain still fell softly, sliding down his bare skin. The fire had not scarred him; no earthly flame could. Yet something inside him burned all the same.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, golden light flickering beneath his skin like caged lightning.
He could still feel her heartbeat against him. The warmth of her breath. The way her eyes had searched his — with fear, yes, but also with something dangerous. Trust.
That word alone made him tremble.
He was the Morning Star, once radiant among angels — now a name cursed in every tongue. He was not meant to save. He was meant to destroy.
Yet tonight, he had carried a mortal in his arms like a guardian.
He had shielded her from flames — when once, he was the flame.
"What have you done?" he whispered to the wind.
The heavens did not answer, but he felt their gaze — cold and merciless. A low growl escaped his throat, reverberating through the night.
"You watch me from your golden thrones," he said bitterly, his voice rising. "You call this weakness… mercy. But you made me this way! You gave me fire — and then cursed me for burning!"
His laughter cracked like thunder, but there was no joy in it. Only madness, sorrow, and something close to despair.
A faint light shimmered across the clouds — distant, divine. The voice that once commanded stars now whispered into his mind:
You grow too close to what you defied.
Lucifer lifted his head sharply. "She is nothing," he hissed. "A fragile mortal child with no power, no crown worth my ruin."
But even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie.
He had watched her weep in silence. He had seen her kindness, her loneliness — her defiance against a world that had forgotten her.
And in that reflection of sorrow, he had seen himself.
The rain thickened, cold and relentless. His wings — invisible to mortal eyes — unfurled in fury, dark feathers stretching across the storm like torn shadows. The sky shuddered as he roared his grief.
"If love is the weapon you choose to break me with," he shouted to the heavens, "then I will wield it first!"
Lightning split the sky, as if in warning.
But he only smiled — a slow, haunted smile, filled with pain and defiance.
Below, in the palace, Isabel stirred in her sleep. Her fingers still clutched the glowing gem she had taken unknowingly from his neck. Its light pulsed faintly — like a heartbeat calling to another across the dark.
And somewhere in the storm, the fallen one watched — torn between damnation and something far more dangerous.
The storm had passed, but the echoes of it lingered.
Ashes clung to the air like ghosts refusing to fade, and the palace, though saved, smelled faintly of smoke and sorrow. Servants whispered about miracles — how the princess was found untouched in the flames, how the fire had bowed before her. Some called it divine mercy. Others called it witchcraft.
But none knew the truth.
None saw the shadow that stood upon the northern cliffs that night — watching the palace from afar.
Lucifer.
Rain still fell softly, sliding down his bare skin. The fire had not scarred him; no earthly flame could. Yet something inside him burned all the same.
He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened, golden light flickering beneath his skin like caged lightning.
He could still feel her heartbeat against him. The warmth of her breath. The way her eyes had searched his — with fear, yes, but also with something dangerous. Trust.
That word alone made him tremble.
He was the Morning Star, once radiant among angels — now a name cursed in every tongue. He was not meant to save. He was meant to destroy.
Yet tonight, he had carried a mortal in his arms like a guardian.
He had shielded her from flames — when once, he was the flame.
"What have you done?" he whispered to the wind.
The heavens did not answer, but he felt their gaze — cold and merciless. A low growl escaped his throat, reverberating through the night.
"You watch me from your golden thrones," he said bitterly, his voice rising. "You call this weakness… mercy. But you made me this way! You gave me fire — and then cursed me for burning!"
His laughter cracked like thunder, but there was no joy in it. Only madness, sorrow, and something close to despair.
A faint light shimmered across the clouds — distant, divine. The voice that once commanded stars now whispered into his mind:
You grow too close to what you defied.
Lucifer lifted his head sharply. "She is nothing," he hissed. "A fragile mortal child with no power, no crown worth my ruin."
But even as he spoke, he knew it was a lie.
He had watched her weep in silence. He had seen her kindness, her loneliness — her defiance against a world that had forgotten her.
And in that reflection of sorrow, he had seen himself.
The rain thickened, cold and relentless. His wings — invisible to mortal eyes — unfurled in fury, dark feathers stretching across the storm like torn shadows. The sky shuddered as he roared his grief.
"If love is the weapon you choose to break me with," he shouted to the heavens, "then I will wield it first!"
Lightning split the sky, as if in warning.
But he only smiled — a slow, haunted smile, filled with pain and defiance.
Below, in the palace, Isabel stirred in her sleep. Her fingers still clutched the glowing gem she had taken unknowingly from his neck. Its light pulsed faintly — like a heartbeat calling to another across the dark.
And somewhere in the storm, the fallen one watched — torn between damnation and something far more dangerous.