The rain had ceased by dawn, but the world did not feel clean.
A pale mist clung to the gardens, veiling the rose beds where Azrael had stood the night before. The air was heavy — too still, too waiting — as if creation itself held its breath.
Inside his chamber, Azrael sat upon the floor, stripped of the wanderer's cloak. The room around him was dim, the shutters drawn tight, but the faintest sliver of morning light still crept through the cracks — and it hurt.
It burned.
He looked down at his hands. His palms shimmered faintly, a residue of light that refused to fade, yet among that glow, something darker had begun to creep — veins of black fire, twisting up his wrists like ink spilled in holy water.
He knew what it meant.
He had felt it only once before — when another angel had defied the Word.
Heaven was beginning to mark him.
Azrael clenched his fists, forcing the light back into his skin. Pain lanced through him, a hiss of air escaping his lips. The blackness retreated, but not fully. It would return, and next time, it would not fade.
He rose, moving toward the window, his every step trembling beneath invisible weight. The sky outside was no longer blue — it was an unnatural gray, a pall that dimmed even the sun's warmth.
Birds circled high above the palace walls, confused, unsettled. Then — as Azrael watched — one falcon suddenly faltered in flight, feathers molting midair. The wind caught them, tossing them like petals.
They glimmered white for a moment, then darkened — turning black before touching the ground.
The first sign.
Heaven was no longer silent.
---
That same morning, Queen Lyra awoke to find her room cold and shadowed, the hearth long dead. Her sleep had been restless — haunted by dreams of falling stars and voices whispering her name through the dark.
She sat up slowly, brushing hair from her face. The light from the windows seemed… wrong. Duller, as though the sun had dimmed itself.
A maid entered with her morning tray, but her hands shook. "Your Majesty… forgive me, but… the sky…"
Lyra turned toward the balcony.
Outside, the courtyard was filled with murmuring voices. Nobles, guards, servants — all gazing upward, mouths parted in awe or fear.
She stepped outside.
And saw them.
Hundreds — no, thousands — of feathers drifting down from the heavens. But they were not white. They were gray and black, some still faintly glowing, like dying embers. They fell over the city like snow.
"The heavens are mourning," whispered someone below. "It's a curse. The gods are angry."
Lyra's heart pounded. She remembered the rain, the stranger, the silver glint of his eyes beneath the moonlight. She remembered how the air had felt charged — divine, dangerous.
Her fingers curled against the balcony's edge.
What have I done?
Sera rushed to her side, clutching her cloak. "Your Majesty, the High Priest requests your presence. He says the omens must be read at once."
Lyra nodded absently, eyes still on the falling feathers.
For an instant, she thought she saw one drifting differently — slower, glowing faintly gold as it descended toward her.
She reached out a hand.
The feather landed upon her palm — soft, warm. For a moment, it was pure white. Then, before her eyes, it darkened to shadow.
A whisper passed through her mind — not in words, but feeling.
Sorrow.
Sorrow and love entwined.
She gasped and dropped it.
Sera stared. "Majesty?"
Lyra forced a smile. "It's nothing." But her hand trembled as she turned away.
---
Far below the palace, in the ancient catacombs beneath Elaris, the High Priest knelt before the sacred mirror of Eos — the relic said to reflect the will of Heaven.
Today, the mirror was black.
Not cracked, not dim — black. As though the light itself had been devoured.
He stood abruptly, the sound of his robes scraping stone echoing in the chamber. "This is no mortal plague. This is retribution."
His apprentice looked up, pale. "From whom, Master?"
The old man hesitated — then whispered, "An angel walks among us."
---
Azrael wandered the palace gardens again at dusk, hidden by shadow. He could feel the change in the air — the tremor between worlds. Heaven was watching. The silence between the stars was no longer empty; it pulsed, alive with unseen judgment.
He knelt by the fountain, dipping his fingers into the water. The reflection that met him was not wholly his own. For a heartbeat, the image rippled, revealing wings — enormous, magnificent — their edges blackened by shadow.
The fall had begun.
He shut his eyes, breath ragged. "I didn't mean for this," he whispered to the wind. "She was… I only wanted to understand her."
But even as he said it, he knew the truth. Understanding was never all he wanted.
He looked to the heavens — and found them empty. No stars. No light. Only a blank sky where the constellations had vanished.
He could almost hear the voices of his brethren — distant, sorrowful, condemning.
And yet, amid that divine silence, another voice called to him — soft, human.
"Aris?"
He turned.
Lyra stood a few paces away, her gown of dusk-blue silk shimmering faintly in the half-light. Her face was pale, but her eyes were bright, filled with something that terrified him — trust.
"Something's happening," she said. "The priests are afraid. The stars are gone."
Azrael hesitated. "Then fear with them."
She stepped closer. "And you?"
He smiled faintly, though his eyes betrayed pain. "I was made to fear nothing."
"Then why do you look like a man who's lost everything?"
Her words pierced him. For the first time, he had no defense. No false name could save him from what she saw.
The wind rose, catching the black feathers scattered across the garden. They lifted, swirling around them like a storm made of ash.
Lyra reached out, pressing her palm against his chest — right over his heart. "Tell me what this means."
He wanted to tell her everything — about the decree, about the child she was destined to bear, about the command to end her life before prophecy could breathe. But his tongue was bound by divine law. The truth would unmake her before its time.
Instead, he whispered, "It means Heaven is angry."
"Because of me?"
His eyes flickered. "Because of us."
The word hung between them like thunder.
The last light faded from the sky. Somewhere far above, the first peal of celestial thunder echoed — not from the clouds, but from the stars themselves.
Azrael fell to his knees, gripping his chest as pain seared through him — the punishment of disobedience made flesh. Lyra knelt beside him, terrified.
"Aris! What's happening to you?"
"Go," he gasped. "You must go."
But she didn't. She stayed. She wrapped her arms around him as the unseen fire tore through his veins.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the storm inside him stilled.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw her face — close, luminous in the dark.
And above them, for the first time that night, a single star burned through the black sky.
Faint. Defiant.
Refusing to vanish.
Azrael looked up at it, breath shaking.
Heaven had not turned fully away.
Not yet.