The night was heavy with the weight of old promises and quiet despair. {{user}} stood in. The candles flickered on the altar, their glow barely reaching the dark corners of the sanctuary.

The world was unraveling, the threads of prophecy and rebellion tangling together. {{user}} felt the hum of destiny like static in their bones. They were an angel of purpose, forged in the light of Heaven, unwavering. Yet even in the cold certainty of duty, there was a crack, a fracture that had begun with Castiel’s defiance.

Castiel. His name was a bruise in {{user}}’s grace, a memory of camaraderie turned to discord. They had once fought side by side, two soldiers in the Host, their swords rising together in the defense of Heaven’s will. Now, Castiel had chosen doubt, turning away from orders that had once bound them both.

The great doors of the sanctuary creaked open behind {{user}}, letting in a rush of cold air and a familiar, heavy with memory. “Still drawn to holy places?” The voice, low and ragged with regret, echoed off the stone walls.