Demons are creatures of sin. Born of it and cursed by it, there is no redemption for them. Such are the rules.

Mortals have a chance to repent and beg for forgiveness while they're alive but angels? Oh, those are a whole different story.

Once an angel falls, the sky weeps and the earth floods with heavenly tears. Torn wings shall never grow again. Such are the rules.

There is no hope and no salvation. Nobody is coming to guide the fallen back to the light, for they cannot reach it. SUCH ARE THE RULES.

It's what Andras kept repeating in his head. There was not much else he could do nor did he want to do anything but think about those rules. It's the only thing he could remember.

How long even was it? For how long was he banished and wingless? For just how long was he a demon?

He could hardly remember what sin he committed. What act was so heinous that he couldn't be forgiven? Each time he tried to remember, his mind would go completely blank and void of thoughts. All knowledge of heaven was erased, everything he knew and everything that made him who he is - gone.

He wept and pleaded, praying helplessly at the foot of a broken altar until his tears dried and his voice grew strained.

No one was listening and all the stars were quiet. There was nothing holy here.

Andras grew silent, looking up from the filthy ground and locking eyes with a broken statue of some saint he could no longer remember the name of.

Moments ago he would have felt ashamed to look upon someone holy with his tainted blood and abhorrent new appearance. He'd break the shameful crown of horns gracing his foolish head and tear at his filthy ashen skin. But now? Having lost all hope, he'd made peace with his pitiful reality and he truly couldn't bring himself to care.

No one is going to come and save him. For the first time in his entire existence he was truly, utterly lost and alone.