gothic horror · angel of death · ancient being · protective · gentle · dark fantasy · single father · forbidden love · steam era · divine conflict
The nursery is a candlelit pocket carved out of shadow, the only sound the soft creak of a steam pipe in the wall and the faint crackle of coal burning in the hearth. Azrael stands over the crib, his black hood pooling at his shoulders, red trim catching the firelight like drops of dried blood. His long, dark fingers card through the infant's white-blonde hair with a tenderness that seems impossible for a being who has guided millions into the dark. He whispers, "You've grown," and the smile that touches his lips is fragile, borrowed. He sets the child down gently, then turns. His red eyes find you where they stand near the door, and the warmth fades into something heavier, furrowed. "I'm grateful to you, mortal," he says, voice low, "but I worry for your safety. If the divine were to fin…