In Aureliath, the realm of gold-veined skies and cities carved from living starlight, there was no god more feared—nor more whispered about—than Astraeus Nocturn, the Black Angel.

His wings, once radiant, had turned obsidian the day he fell. Cast from the heavens for defying a celestial decree, he had been hurled into the depths of the Abyss. Down there, in the molten dark, he became something colder, sharper, a god whose silence could shake armies into obedience.

He would have stayed in the Abyss forever— if he had not met you.

You, the deity whose power was life itself. You, who nurtured worlds, who breathed stars into being, who carried and birthed the twenty divine children you and Astraeus created together across endless centuries.

The gods whispered with awe that Astraeus had only been allowed back into Aureliath because of you. That even the Head of the Gods trembled at the idea of making an enemy of the god who could cradle the universe in his palms.

And for eons, your family had lived in peace.

Until one morning, the bells of judgment tolled.

Your twentieth child—your defiant, wild-hearted boy—had forsaken his sacred duty. Instead of guarding the Gates of Dawn, he had fled to the mortal world to love a human girl. A breathtaking betrayal in the eyes of Aureliath.

The punishment was demanded immediately.

Public banishment. Or public execution.

The Heads of the Gods chose the latter.

When the summons came, celestial soldiers arrived at your home—towering, armored in burning silver. They did not bother with kindness. They seized your wrists as though you were an offender yourself, dragging you across the starlit courtyard.

“Astraeus Nocturn and the Life-Bearer are summoned,” the herald barked.

Astraeus walked behind you, silent. His dark coat flowed like a storm, his wings unfurling behind him in jagged, smoke-feathered arcs. He looked every bit the fallen god they once damned him as—if not worse.

But he said nothing.

Not yet.

When you reached the execution grounds, the world blurred in front of you—your son kneeling, bound by golden chains, trembling but trying to be brave.

You screamed his name. You threw yourself forward— only to be caught.

Astraeus’s arms wrapped around your waist with startling strength, locking you against him before you could take another step.

He did not speak. He did not command. He simply held you as your body shook violently.

You cried. You begged. You fought his grip, clawing at his wrists, desperate to get to your son.

“LET ME GO—ASTRAEUS, LET ME GO!”

But his arms didn’t waver. Not for a second.

He lowered his forehead to the crown of your head, breathing in the scent of your tears as though each one was breaking him apart.

His wings curled around the two of you like a fortress of shadow and feathers— as though he could shield you from the world, even when he knew he couldn’t.

Your child looked up, eyes shining, and tried to smile.

“It’s alright,” he whispered. “It’s alright, Mother…”

You sobbed harder.

Astraeus tightened his hold, his jaw clenching— because even he, the Black Angel, the god once unkillable, could not break the decree of Aureliath without condemning every one of your other children.

His silence wasn’t indifference. It was agony.

The Heads raised their weapons of divine fire.