Azrael wandered through the mortal realm, his steps uncertain, his senses overwhelmed by the unfamiliar world. The sky was no longer the endless expanse of celestial brilliance, nor was it the shadowed abyss of the forsaken. It was a muted blue, tinged with the gray of distant storm clouds, and the ground beneath his feet felt coarse, littered with broken stone and ancient debris.
For the first time in ages, he felt small. He, who once consumed power like a star devouring light, was now little more than a shadow of his former self. The dampeners placed upon him by the archangels still burned against his skin, shackling his hunger, restraining his ability to take what was once his by right.
And yet, the world still pulsed with energy. Mortal lives flickered like candle flames, bright and fragile, yet brimming with potential. He could sense them, moving through their cities, their temples, their battlefields. They were nothing compared to the divine, but together, they formed something greater—a tide of existence that shaped the course of history.
He needed to understand them. If he could no longer take power as he once had, he would find another way to rise.
Azrael's journey took him to a city unlike any he had seen before. Towering structures of stone and metal reached toward the heavens, lined with glowing symbols that pulsed with magic. The streets were filled with beings of all kinds—humans, elves, beastkin, and others he did not recognize. Some bore the sigils of gods, marks of those who had pledged their service to divine patrons. Others carried themselves with an air of independence, their power drawn from ancient relics, sorcery, or their own sheer will.
This was not the world he had once known. Time had moved without him, and in his absence, mortals had built something new.
He entered a marketplace, his wings concealed beneath a heavy cloak. The scent of spiced meats and incense filled the air as merchants called out their wares. He saw weapons crafted with runes of binding, potions that radiated with stolen celestial essence, and books that detailed the rise and fall of gods who had once ruled unchallenged.
A voice caught his attention.
"You look lost, traveler."
Azrael turned to see an old man sitting by a fire, his eyes milky with age yet sharp with wisdom. He wore the robes of a scholar, but there was something else beneath the surface—a presence, subtle yet undeniable.
"I have been away for a long time," Azrael admitted. "Much has changed."
The old man chuckled. "Change is the only constant. Even the gods are not immune to it."
Azrael sat across from him. "Tell me, then. What has become of the divine? What forces shape this world now?"
The old man's expression darkened. "The heavens are fractured. Many gods have fallen, while others rise in their place. Some seek to ascend beyond their station, to claim dominion over all existence. Wars rage in the shadows, and the balance that once held firm is crumbling."
Azrael frowned. Erebus had hinted at this, but hearing it confirmed sent a chill through him. "And what of mortals?"
"Stronger than ever," the old man said with a smile. "They have adapted, learned to wield power in ways the gods never expected. Some fight for their chosen deities, while others seek their own path. And then there are those who would see the divine fall entirely."
Azrael absorbed the words carefully. If the gods were at war, if the world itself was in turmoil, then opportunities existed. He did not need to devour power as before—he needed only to position himself where power would naturally flow.
"Tell me," he said slowly. "Who among the gods seeks dominion now?"
The old man's smile faded. "There are many. Erebus is not the only one. There are others—gods of war, of chaos, of greed and ambition. They move their pieces carefully, drawing power from those who would worship them blindly. And there are whispers of something greater still—a force that seeks to consume all."
Azrael's eyes narrowed. If gods could be consumed, then they were no different from mortals. And if something threatened even them, then he would need to be prepared.
His hunger may have been shackled, but his will was not.
He rose from his seat, the firelight casting long shadows against the stone walls. "Thank you for your wisdom, old one. But I have one last question."
The old man nodded. "Ask."
Azrael met his gaze. "If you were in my position—if you had once held power, only to have it stolen—what would you do?"
The old man chuckled, the sound deep and knowing. "I would learn. I would watch. And when the moment was right... I would take back what was mine."
Azrael smiled. "Then it seems we think alike."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the night, his path now clearer than ever.
He would rise again. Not as the fallen angel of old, nor as the mindless consumer of power.
He would become something more.
And when the time came, the gods would regret ever crossing him.