Azrael soared above the ruined city, his wings spread wide, the cold night air whipping against his face. Power surged through his veins, the remnants of Seraphiel's stolen strength still fresh within him. He had won. He had bested his mentor, the one who had once stood above him, the one who had dared to pity him. He had proven himself superior.
And yet, there was an unease festering within him.
He should have killed Seraphiel. He had the chance, the perfect opportunity to end the one being who still knew him, who could warn the heavens of what he had become. But something had stayed his hand—greed, perhaps. Or was it something else?
No, he thought, shaking his head. It was mercy. A twisted smile played on his lips. Even after everything, after his betrayal and fall, he still had more mercy in his heart than those who had cast him down.
But greed—greed was his fuel now, his fire. He would show them all. The heavens had sought to destroy him, to erase him from existence. Now, he would do the same to them.
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden shift in the air. A disturbance. A trap.
Before he could react, the sky above him tore open.
A golden spear, glowing with divine radiance, hurtled toward him like a comet. He barely twisted in time, the spear slicing through his wing. Pain seared through him as he tumbled through the air, crashing into the ruins below with enough force to shatter the stone beneath him. Dust and debris clouded the air as he forced himself up, wincing as blood dripped from his wounded wing.
A voice boomed from above.
"Azrael. You have strayed too far."
Through the swirling dust, four figures descended from the heavens, their presence suffocating, their light unbearable. Archangels. The very beings that had once fought beside him, now standing against him.
Michael, the Warrior. His golden armor gleamed under the moonlight, his expression unreadable.
Gabriel, the Messenger. Her white robes billowed in the wind, her silver eyes filled with sorrow.
Raphael, the Healer. He held no weapon, but his power radiated through the air, crackling like lightning.
And Uriel, the Judge. His sword was already drawn, his face set in grim determination.
Azrael clenched his fists. He had expected retribution—but not so soon, and not like this. He had underestimated them. His greed had blinded him.
Michael stepped forward. "Surrender. Now. There is no victory for you here."
Azrael wiped the blood from his mouth and grinned. "I don't need victory. I only need survival."
With that, he moved.
The ruins exploded as he launched himself at them, his dark fire erupting from his hands. But the archangels were faster. Michael blocked his attack with his shield, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Gabriel's voice rang through the air, her words infused with power, slowing Azrael's movements, forcing him to his knees.
Raphael raised his hands, the air around Azrael tightening like an invisible cage. The very power he had stolen from Seraphiel burned within him, resisting their divine presence. His vision blurred as the pain surged through his body. He had been arrogant. He had thought himself untouchable.
Uriel raised his blade, the tip aimed at Azrael's heart. "This is the end."
Time seemed to slow.
Was this it? Was this how he would die? After everything?
No.
No!
The hunger within him roared to life, latching onto his desperation, his fury. He reached deep, grasping at the very power that had made him fall in the first place. He felt the greed surge, twisting, consuming. He could feel them—the archangels, their strength, their essence.
And he took it.
A shockwave blasted outward. The archangels staggered as tendrils of shadow lashed out, draining them. Michael stumbled, his shield flickering. Raphael gasped as his strength was siphoned. Even Uriel, steady and unwavering, faltered as his blade dimmed.
Azrael rose, his wounds sealing, his power magnified tenfold. His laughter echoed through the ruins as his crimson eyes burned brighter. "You made me into this," he snarled. "Now, you will suffer for it."
He didn't stay to fight. Not yet. He had their power now, but they would recover. He needed time. He needed to become more. With a single beat of his wings, he vanished into the night, leaving the four archangels weakened in the ruins of what had once been his battlefield.
As he soared through the sky, the hunger within him whispered promises of vengeance, of destruction.
He would not just survive.
He would end them.
And then, he would set his sights on the ones who had created him.
The heavens would burn.