Azrael awoke to the bitter wind of a world unfamiliar to him. The air was thick with the scent of iron and stone, the sky above a dull shade of gray. He pushed himself up, his limbs sluggish, his wings aching from disuse. He could feel the celestial chains still wrapped around his essence, a constant reminder of his punishment.
The landscape before him was unlike anything he remembered. Towering structures of dark stone loomed in the distance, their jagged spires piercing the sky like the broken teeth of a fallen titan. The world hummed with unfamiliar energy—magic, but not of the heavens nor the abyss. Something else entirely.
He stumbled forward, his boots crunching over brittle ground. The last thing he recalled was the judgment of the archangels, their hands stripping him of his ability to absorb power, shackling his greed, and casting him away. Now, he was here, in the Mortal Realm, a place he had barely acknowledged in his past existence.
But how much time had passed?
Azrael wandered through the barren landscape until he found signs of life. A small village nestled in the valley below, its flickering torches a beacon in the encroaching twilight. As he approached, he noticed something strange—the people were not entirely human. Some bore elongated limbs, others had horns curling from their brows, and a few even had glowing sigils etched into their skin.
The mortals had changed.
A group of armored figures stood guard at the entrance, their weapons glowing with runes of power. Azrael could feel the divine energy within them, but it was different from what he had once known. These were not warriors of the heavens, nor of the abyss. They served new gods.
He pulled the tattered remains of his cloak around himself, concealing his wings. He had no power to fight them, and drawing attention to his celestial nature could prove dangerous. As he stepped toward the village gates, a guard raised a hand. "State your name and purpose, traveler."
Azrael hesitated. His name carried weight—perhaps not in this new era, but he couldn't take the risk. "I am a wanderer, nothing more," he answered, his voice even.
The guard studied him for a moment before nodding. "Keep your head down. Strangers don't always fare well here."
Azrael entered the village and took in the sights. Merchants peddled wares imbued with magic, their voices calling out names of deities he did not recognize. Shrines lined the streets, each dedicated to different gods—some resembling celestial beings, others monstrous in form.
As he listened to conversations around him, he pieced together fragments of truth. The celestial order had fallen into disarray. The gods were no longer singular, all-powerful beings governing the cosmos. Many had risen in their place, each claiming dominion over different aspects of existence. Some sought worship through fear, others through protection.
And the most terrifying realization—
Some of these new gods had once been mortals.
The very beings he had once disregarded had ascended, carving out their own domains in the void left behind by the war between heaven and the abyss. Power had shifted, and the balance he once understood was now shattered.
A surge of rage built within him, but it fizzled into nothing. His shackles still bound him, preventing him from drawing in power as he once had. He was trapped in a world that had moved on without him, left to rot in his weakened state.
But Azrael was not one to accept defeat.
He moved through the village, gathering information. Whispers of war reached his ears—battles between gods, conflicts over dominion, mortals caught in the struggle. There was chaos, uncertainty, and above all, opportunity.
If mortals could ascend, if they could seize power that was once reserved for celestial beings, then the path to reclaiming his strength was not entirely lost.
Azrael clenched his fists, his mind already working through the possibilities.
He would learn the new rules of this world. He would understand the forces at play. And when the time was right—
He would take back what was his.