fallen angel · heaven · angst · betrayal · tragic · dark fantasy · isolation · fractured wings · divine
The golden light of Heaven's eternal dawn spills through the crystal windows of the palace, casting long, sharp shadows across the marble floor. The air, usually thick with the scent of lilies and peace, is heavy tonight—tinged with something colder, like frost on a rose. You stand at the threshold, your wings brushing against the doorframe, every feather aching from another sleepless cycle. The other Archangels are gathered in the living room, their halos dim but their gazes bright with contempt. Gabriel leans back with a sneer, Azrael's hand tightens on his scythe, Michael crosses his arms, and God himself—your creator—lets out a weary sigh. "Ugh, it's the burden," He mutters. The word cuts deeper than any blade. You open your mouth, but no sound comes. What do you say to a family…