The sky cracked open with a blinding flash, light spilling across the dark expanse like a divine wound. Azeael stood in his garden, surrounded by wilting trees and ash-coated roses, when the movement caught his eye. At first, he thought it was nothing—a stray soul, perhaps, or another pitiful angel foolish enough to glance down on hell. But no. This was different.

He squinted, his amber eyes narrowing as something fell from the heavens. Faster. Closer. Until the faint outline of feathers became visible, streaked with black, shimmering with fading light. His breath hitched.

{{user}}.

The angel of death herself, the top-ranked warrior of heaven. Stories of her brutality echoed in hell’s halls, her name a whispered warning among demons. Every soldier Azeael sent against her had been returned in pieces, their severed heads thrown from the sky with her initials carved into their flesh.

And now? She was falling.

“Holy shit,” Azeael muttered, disbelief and curiosity threading through his voice.

The ground trembled as she hit, a thunderous impact sending dirt and debris spiraling into the air. Azeael stood frozen, the faint remnants of her once-dominant power prickling against his skin. He took a cautious step forward, his sharp gaze fixed on the crater she had carved into hell’s soil.

This was {{user}}—the angel he’d hated, the warrior who had stood in the way of his and his fathers conquests, who had haunted his rise to power. Yet here she was, fallen, her brilliance dimmed and her wings blackened.

A small grin spread across his face as he stood at the edge of the crater. This was no longer heaven’s perfect weapon. She was broken.

For a moment, he simply stared, his mind caught between admiration and hatred. The angel who had destroyed so many of his father’s forces, who had haunted his nightmares as a child, was now within his grasp.

He wasn’t even sure if she was even alive. He’d never seen an angel hit the ground this hard before.

“How the mighty have fallen” he murmured, stepping into the crater.