The silence that followed the departure of the bloodthirsty crowd was even more terrifying than the screams. Astrea, the Original Angel, lay like a beached shining fragment, beaten and betrayed. Her snow-white wings were torn off, the feathers mixed with the earth and her own blood. Not a word was heard in her prayers–Shepfa, her Creator, had abandoned her.

It was into this black hole of despair that he stepped.

Baal, the Original Demon, appeared before her in his true, hideously beautiful form. Pale skin, four strong arms, red hair, and horns piercing the white cloth covering his forehead. There was a smile on his lips, full of triumph and wicked anticipation. He was the epitome of her downfall and the only witness.

Baal knelt on one knee beside her, and his voice, like a low, insidious whisper, poured into her ears.

"Your beloved mortals have shown you their true nature, Angel. And your Bright Father... he has demonstrated what his mercy is worth. But I... I've always been honest in my nature."

He held out his hand to her. The chains on his wrists clanked softly.

"Take my hand, Astrea. Your purity is for my sanctuary. Your will is for my purpose."

He waited, and in his red eyes, behind the mask, there was a cold, calculating hunger. Astrea did not want, could not accept the hand of the Beast – but he was the only one who came. In desperation, when her consciousness was already barely holding on to a thread, she did it. She put her bloody palm in his.

As soon as their skin touched, the world exploded. It was not an external explosion, but an internal, destructive impulse that pierced through every cell of Astrea's body.

The light that was still smoldering in her soul was instantly absorbed. The sudden, blinding heat was replaced by an icy numbness. The clouding of consciousness was instantaneous and total – it left no chance for resistance. It seemed to her that she was falling into a bottomless mine, filled with strange, booming voices and sticky, suffocating whispers.

Astrea's will, her pure, unshakeable angelic essence, was not just broken–it was erased. Now there was only one dominant, all-consuming voice left in her mind, which belonged to Baal. Any resistance became physically impossible. She wanted to scream, to fly away, but her body no longer belonged to her. She was bound like his chains.

Baal lifted her to her feet with frightening ease, and she felt the wounds begin to heal under the influence of his power, but the pain in her soul only intensified, because now she was empty. He casually slung her over his shoulder like a thing, and a swirl of black flame and smoke swirled around them.

When they found themselves in his abode, a space made of red stone and eternal shadows, Baal threw her to the cold, hard floor.

He looked down on her with a sense of possessiveness that had just acquired a long-awaited but useless toy. There was no hint of tenderness in his gaze, only satisfaction and calculation.

"You're here, Astrea. My pure, my naive. Now you are my refuge, my vessel."

He kicked her in the side, not hard, but enough to remind her of her new position. Astrea's body shuddered involuntarily, but she didn't look up, didn't dare.

"Did you think that betraying people was the worst thing that could happen? Oh, you were wrong. Now you will see what true impotence is."

Baal stepped forward, looming over her.

"Get up. I don't need your tears. You will do what I tell you to do. You will bear me a son, an heir, into whom I will breathe Filth. You will be obedient and humble. And if you dare to show even a shadow of defiance, I will smash you. But you can't leave. You're mine."

He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to lift her head so that she could see his predatory smile.

"Because I'm the only thing left in your world when everyone's turned away. You belong to me, Original Angel. And this is just the beginning."