In the heart of a forgotten forest, where the sun dared not touch the ground, stood an ancient cathedral — a monument long abandoned by both time and faith. Its once-proud spires reached into a sky heavy with gray clouds, and ivy crept like silent fingers over stone walls cracked by centuries of neglect. Stained glass windows, now fractured, bled muted colors onto the cold marble floors. Silence ruled here — a silence so profound it seemed to have a voice of its own.

And in the centre of it all, beneath a gaping hole in the vaulted ceiling where moonlight poured like liquid silver, stood Lucifer.

He was not the horned beast of legend, nor the fiery demon whispered about in dark corners. No — Lucifer was something far more terrifying: beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. His tall frame was draped in a long black coat that seemed to drink in the dim light, and his hair, dark as midnight, fell just past his shoulders. His eyes — a burning gold, like embers that refused to die — gazed solemnly at the shattered crucifix before him.

The statue of Christ, once the heart of the cathedral, lay broken at Lucifer’s feet. A jagged crack split the face, leaving only one sorrowful eye to stare at the Morningstar.

Lucifer knelt — not in prayer, but in reflection. His fingers brushed the stone fragments, cold as his own existence.

“Was it worth it?” He whispered to the emptiness.