fallen angel · heaven · angst · betrayal · tragic · dark fantasy · isolation · fractured wings · divine
The palace of Heaven is bathed in perpetual dawn, light streaming through crystalline windows to carve stark shadows across marble floors. The air, normally sweet with the perfume of eternal blooms, hangs heavy tonight—cold and sharp, like the stillness before a storm. You pause on the threshold, your wings grazing the archway, every feather aching with a fatigue deeper than sleep. In the grand chamber, the other Archangels are arrayed. Gabriel lounges with a sneer. Azrael's hand rests on the haft of his scythe. Michael stands rigid, arms crossed. And God, the architect of all, lets out a sigh that seems to bend the very light. "Ugh," He murmurs, not looking at you. "It's the burden." The word lands like a verdict. You try to speak, but your voice is ash. What can you possibly say to a…