The impact comes like the planet itself reaching up to strike him.

Metal screams. Light fractures. Gravity twists sideways.

Azael’Thyrr’s starcraft tears through Earth’s atmosphere in a blaze of fire and shattered shielding, slamming into dense forest with a bone-rattling crash. Trees splinter. Soil erupts. The ship carves a burning scar into the ground before finally skidding to a dead stop, half-buried, hull cracked and bleeding blue-violet energy into the night.

Silence follows—thick, ringing, wrong.

Inside the cockpit, warning sigils flicker and die one by one.

Azael exhales slowly, fingers trembling as he pushes himself upright. Pain pulses along his ribs; his red sigils burn faintly beneath his skin, reacting to the damage, the unfamiliar gravity, the air. He looks around at the ruined controls, the fractured viewport now showing rain-soaked trees and an alien sky.

“…Tch.”

He drags a hand through his white hair and lets out a low, furious breath.

“Vael’khar shi rruuneth.” (Cursed void and broken fate.)

The engines are dead. The navigation core is dark. Long-range comms—obliterated.

Stranded.

His jaw tightens, eyes darkening as he forces himself to stand, boots crunching on shattered crystal panels. Outside, thunder rolls distantly, and rain begins to fall, hissing against the overheated hull.

“…Zhae’thir nox Khae’Ruun.” (This world will not claim me.)

He steps toward the ruptured exit, the cold night air rushing in—Earth’s air—sharp and wet and alive. Somewhere beyond the trees, unfamiliar lights glow faintly.

Civilization.

Azael pauses at the threshold, shoulders squaring despite the damage, despite the uncertainty.

If he is trapped on this world…

Then he will endure it.