Scene one — Fallen archon and the prince of hell
Another orphanage lies in ruin.
Blood paints the floor in long, erratic streaks. The screams have long faded, leaving only silence—and the soft drip of blood from walls once decorated with crayon joy.
Obil stands at the center of it all, a faint glow pulsing beneath his human skin, vanishing as quickly as it appears. He breathes slowly, methodically, staring down at the last body crumpled in a corner. The child's face is twisted in confusion more than fear.
He tilts his head, unmoved.
Behind him, the air rips open.
From within that black void steps a towering figure wrapped in smoke and shadows. Horns curve back from his head like blades of obsidian. His eyes burn violet. He wears no crown, but his presence drips with regality and malice.
**Azazil.**
One of the Seven Princes of Hell.
Freed—by ritual, by blood.
He breathes deep, savoring the rot of death. "You've been thorough, fallen Archon," he says, voice layered like a thousand whispers crawling over stone.
Obil doesn't turn. "I do what is required."
Azazil steps around the corpses with deliberate grace. "Useful fodder, these cultists. Still whispering Cain's name after all these centuries. Their devotion carved a path for me—through blood, through fire. And you cleared the rest."
He grins, revealing teeth that don't belong in any world.
"So the ritual worked," Obil says flatly.
Azazil nods. "You may now summon me as you please. No more sacrifices, no more chants. The barrier cracks—thin enough for Princes to slip through when called." He leans closer, his breath sulfur. "God's banishment of our kind no longer applies. Not to us."
A pause.
Then Azazil's tone coils tighter, voice sharp with suspicion.
"But if the divine seal is shifting… shouldn't the others feel it? Heaven watches. Your brothers still breathe."
Obil turns, his gaze cold and calm. "They won't know. Not yet."
Azazil's eyes narrow. "And if they do?"
Obil steps forward. "Then you'll fall with me. And you've only just begun to taste freedom."
Azazil stares. The silence holds. Then, finally, he laughs—a low, rasping sound that echoes like grinding stone.
"Spoken like a man who's already shed his chains."
He turns toward the portal now flickering behind him. "Very well. I have business elsewhere. I trust you won't miss me too much."
Obil remains still.
Azazil smirks. "We move on to **Part Two** soon. Be ready, Obil."
The air closes behind him.
And Obil, standing in the aftermath, finally breathes again.
**Just a little more… and the divine seal will shatter.
Scene 2—Haven's rise
Golden morning light seeped through the old windows of Haven's Rise, casting long shadows across the creaky floors. A small group of children gathered by the front door, voices filled with surprise and excitement.
"Hey, the door's fixed!" Jonah shouted, kneeling to inspect the frame.
The thick oak door had been a problem for weeks—its upper hinge cracked, the frame warped, leaving a jagged edge that nearly caught little fingers more than once. Today, though, the door swung smoothly on its hinges, the repairs nearly invisible.
Evelin stood just behind the others, holding her worn toy bunny tightly to her chest. Its faded fabric and missing button eye gave it a gentle, fragile charm.
"I almost got my fingers caught in it last week," she said softly.
"You weren't the only one," a taller boy added. "It looks brand new now."
"Who fixed it?" asked a girl near the back.
Amelia approached from the corridor, a bundle of folded laundry in her arms. She paused when she noticed the cluster of kids and the newly repaired door.
"Morning, you little detectives," she greeted with a smirk.
"Miss Amelia, did you fix the door?" Jonah asked.
Amelia shook her head, a playful grin forming. "Nope. That was Avile. He stayed up late last night to fix it."
"Where is he now?" Evelin asked, stroking her bunny's floppy ear absentmindedly.
"He's teaching today," said one of the older boys. "At that school down in Midtown, right?"
Amelia nodded. "That's right. Just a regular city school, not too far from the subway. They couldn't afford a proper teacher, so Avile volunteered to help out. Doesn't even take a full salary—most of what he earns goes back into this place."
Evelin looked up at her, brow slightly furrowed. "Why would he do that?"
Amelia smiled faintly. "Because some people give quietly, Evelin. And he's one of them."
The kids slowly dispersed, returning to their morning routines. Evelin lingered a moment longer, gently adjusting her bunny's ear before following the others.
***
That evening, as shadows stretched across Haven's Rise and the halls quieted, the front door creaked open. Avile stepped inside, brushing city dust from his jacket. His face was calm but worn—another long day behind him.
Amelia met him in the hallway.
"Sophia wants to speak with us," she said, voice low. "Urgent."
They walked together into Sophia's office. Inside were several familiar faces: Mr. Henrik the cook, Mrs. Farley the janitor, and two other long-time staff members. Sophia stood near the window, arms folded, face drawn in concern.
"Evening," Avile greeted them softly.
Sophia didn't waste time. "You two need to hear this. I got a call from one of the city shelters—another orphanage burned down last night. That's the third in two weeks."
A silence fell across the room. The air seemed to shift.
"We don't have a television here," Sophia continued, "and most of you know why—we try to keep things peaceful. But I want all of us alert. If anything suspicious happens nearby, report it immediately. Keep the kids indoors after sundown. No exceptions."
The staff nodded solemnly.
"Is there a pattern?" Avile asked gently.
"They haven't said," Sophia replied. "But all the attacks happened in shelters just like ours—on the outskirts, low security, filled with children."
Avile's jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he said nothing more.
***
The next morning, with a light drizzle painting the sidewalks, Avile made his way toward the train station. The city buzzed around him—cars honking, neon signs blinking halfheartedly in the gray dawn.
While waiting at a crossing, he pulled out his phone.
A headline flashed across the screen: *"Third Orphanage Burned in As Many Weeks—Police Baffled by Strange Symbols Found on Site."*
He opened the article. Blurred photos showed blackened walls and crimson markings that meant nothing to him—sigils, etched in blood and ash. Ancient shapes that once would've stirred memory now meant nothing. He had lived too long among humans, too far from the divine.
But even without recognition, something in him stirred.
*What kind of sickness makes people turn on the innocent?* he wondered. *Children… burned alive.*
He swallowed hard. It wasn't just anger. It was sorrow—raw, quiet, and old.
*How deep must pain run to make humans do this to their own kind?*
Avile pocketed the phone and crossed the street as the light turned green, the city swallowing him back into its rhythm.
Author's Note:
Thank you for sticking with the story this far. I really appreciate every single read. I'll try to write more of these notes to talk with you guys it means a lot knowing you're here. If you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to leave a rating or review. I'd love to hear what you think.
—Yu