The first thing the world remembered… was the sound of chains breaking.
Not the sharp clang of metal snapping, but the deep, ancient crack of something older than steel—something built from law, from faith, from terror—splintering after an age of silence. The echo crawled across the northern sky like a waking heartbeat. Snow shivered from the mountains. The titans hidden beneath the frozen earth stirred, restless and suddenly aware of a presence they had not felt since time itself was young.
Deep in the heart of the world's most forsaken land, in a cavern swallowed by eternal frost, a single breath escaped a figure bound by a thousand celestial chains.
Azhurael opened their eyes.
Golden. Bright. Focused. Predatory.
Light bled from them, gold spilling across obsidian darkness like a sun rising where no sun belonged. For a moment, that light softened, almost confused—as if they were waking from a dream they could not remember.
Then the world trembled, and the confusion vanished.
Azhurael smiled.
It was small at first, slow and wicked, curling at the edges like a secret rediscovered. Genderless, ageless, elegant even in the quiet stillness, their body shifted between masculine and feminine contours with the ease of breathing—as if both forms were merely masks worn over the truth.
"I slept too long," they whispered. Their voice was layered—one tone rich and feminine, the other deep and masculine, both echoing over each other in perfect harmony. "And you all forgot me."
Chains cracked again. Azhurael moved a single finger, black talons tracing the air. Reality recoiled. The locks binding their wrists dissolved into dust, crumbling like old bones.
Outside the cavern, a blizzard screamed. But no snow touched the figure as they stepped forward, their shadow trailing behind them in a shape that did not match their body—stretched, twisted, crowned with horns far larger than their current form allowed.
Azhurael inhaled the cold air, tasting the world on their tongue.
Magic… muted.
Fear… ancient.
Life… unaware.
They tilted their head, amused. "How empty everything feels. As if someone scooped out its history and left only the shell behind."
They took another step. The cavern shook as if trying to hold them back.
"Pathetic."
Azhurael lifted their hand. With a simple swipe through the air, the entire cave split open like paper. Snow blasted inward, but the air around them remained warm, untouched—as if the world itself dared not offend them.
They walked into the frozen wasteland.
Wind howled across the tundra, whipping white curtains of snow into spirals. The sun was a pale smear behind clouds, casting no warmth at all. Jagged mountains rose like the ribs of a long-dead god, and beneath the ice, something enormous moved—a titan turning in its sleep.
Azhurael ignored it. Everything in this land belonged to them, whether the world remembered or not.
They brushed loose strands of long black hair—tinted with royal blue—back behind their shoulder. Their dress, elegant and impossibly clean despite the centuries, clung to their form like night silk, slit high, adorned with a regal black pendant set with a brilliant, demonic blue eye. The eye opened as if alive and looked around hungrily.
Azhurael laughed softly. "Yes, yes. You're awake too."
The pendant blinked.
Its whisper echoed in their mind. Feed me.
"Eventually," Azhurael murmured. "But first… I need a place to begin."
They looked across the snowy expanse. Every direction held desolation, but that suited them perfectly. A base built in the land no mortal dared to cross. A fortress carved into the world's fear.
Azhurael raised both hands.
The snowstorm froze midair. Every flake stopped, suspended like dust in amber. The land quieted. Azhurael dragged one finger through the frozen mist, shaping a sigil, then another, then a thousand more—each a word written in the original language of creation.
The storm shattered.
The ground cracked open, revealing a massive hollow beneath the ice. It stretched endlessly, an underground world untouched by mortal feet.
Azhurael stepped forward and the cavern lit with black-and-gold fire.
"This will do."
Their shadow fanned out behind them, splitting, writhing, forming outlines of bodies—dozens, then hundreds—shapes of future servants waiting to be molded. Some tall and elegant, some monstrous, some twisted, some beautiful.
Experimentation. Transformation. Creation.
Azhurael tasted the thought and smiled. "I will need subjects."
They turned, sensing the world moving. Far to the south, cities bustled, unaware that the oldest nightmare in history had opened its eyes. Armies marched. Kingdoms fought. Mages studied laws Azhurael had created and forgotten. Priests prayed to gods who no longer answered.
And across all those lands, faint threads of something tugged at them—souls whose fates were tangled with their own. Some would become allies. Some enemies. Some… lovers.
Azhurael touched their lips thoughtfully, amused curiosity gleaming in their eyes.
"Ah. I remember that feeling. Attachment. Fascinating, but temporary." They tilted their head. "Still… perhaps I'll allow myself the entertainment."
They stepped forward—and vanished.
Not teleported. Not traveled.
They simply willed themselves out of existence in one place and into existence somewhere else, appearing at the edge of a distant settlement—a small village tucked against a mountain, quiet and unaware.
Azhurael's form shifted subtly, the wind curling around them as their silhouette changed—slimmer, curved, hair falling longer as their feminine shape took over. Their dress shimmered into a darker, sharper version, adorned with golden accents shaped like curled talons, the heels rising on carved golden fingers.
The eye in their pendant glowed.
"Let's go hunting," they whispered.
The first scream came moments later.
Azhurael's shadow spread across the village like spilled ink. Lights flickered. People froze mid-step, trapped in illusions they could not see through. Reality bent around the intruder as easily as air, and Azhurael, glowing bright gold against the storming darkness, walked through their terror with the grace of a dancer.
Some they would erase.
Some they would reshape.
Some they would keep.
And one… one would catch their eye, tug at something in them they had not felt since before they sealed themselves away.
Azhurael paused before an old house, sensing the presence inside. A soul bright, young, defiant. A future thread tangled with theirs.
"How interesting," they murmured. "You might be useful."
They opened the door.
And the world shifted toward its first step into remembering what had been forgotten.
The Original One had returned.
And this time, they would not sleep.