The chapel had been abandoned for decades.
It sat at the edge of a forest no map dared to name, hidden where the trees grew too thick for sunlight to pass through. A place swallowed by time. The wind had long forgotten how to sing here; instead, it whistled through cracked stone and rotting wood like the breath of something ancient and grieving.
The stained glass was shattered. Vines clawed across the archways. The altar had crumbled, and the floor was split by roots that pulsed faintly as though alive. No prayers had echoed here in generations.
But tonight, something far older than prayer was about to stir.
A storm gathered above. Thunder cracked, not in rhythm with lightning, but as if the sky itself recoiled in pain. Rain fell at first gently, then as a furious deluge, drenching the overgrown ruins until the moss bled green underfoot.
And in the center of the chapel, beneath what remained of the altar, a woman lay screaming.
She was not of this world.
Her skin glowed faintly, pale and almost translucent, revealing pulsing veins of gold beneath the surface. Her long white hair stuck to her skin, soaked in rain and sweat. Blood pooled around her legs, black as ink, thick with divine corruption. Wings once holy, now mangled splayed limply across the stone.
One wing was torn. The other half-charred.
And still, she clung to life. Clung to the child inside her.
Her name had been Seraphiel. An angel once. A guardian of the Fifth Dominion. One of Heaven's war-bound sisters. She had stood at the gates of Eden, spear in hand, as Creation's fire first cooled.
But love… love had broken her.
And the child about to be born was her final act of defiance.
A scream tore from her lips ragged, broken. She had no midwife. No holy aid. Only the rain, the ruin, and the wind.
Thunder boomed again. Somewhere deep in the woods, wolves howled then fell suddenly silent, as if some command had ordered the world itself to still.
Then, it happened.
A breath. A wail.
No.
Not a cry.
Just… breath.
---
He opened his eyes.
The newborn child was motionless in the ruined altar, skin untouched by blood or soil. His tiny chest rose and fell slowly, as if tasting the world before deciding whether it was worth staying in it.
One eye was silver. The other red.
Not red from crying.
Red like coals under pressure. Red like the pit where stars are born.
He didn't cry. Didn't scream. He simply looked at the world, at the storm, at the lifeless body of the mother who had given everything to create him.
And the world looked back.
The storm stopped.
The rain froze midair for a moment before reversing raindrops lifting slowly into the sky like a reversed film reel. Thunder no longer sounded from the clouds, but from the ground, as though the very soil shuddered beneath him.
Magic, the pure kind that predates words and symbols, bled into the air.
This was not divine.
Nor was it infernal.
It was something else.
---
Far above the clouds, deep in the seventh layer of Heaven, a bell tolled.
Golden and vast, carved from the bones of dead stars, the Celestine Bell had remained silent for millennia. Its sound now cracked through the heavenly plane, off-key and discordant.
Angels paused mid-flight. Choirs fell into stunned silence.
The Archon of Fate, an ancient being wrapped in scrolls and feathers, turned from his scripture and whispered:
> "The Rift-Child breathes."
---
In the Ninth Circle of Hell, chains trembled.
In caverns carved from sin and shadow, a pit of fire flickered once then went still.
Even the devourers dared not speak.
But in the deepest tomb, where time itself forgot to count the years, a voice stirred.
A whisper, barely heard above the crackle of infernal flame:
> "Lucien."
---
The name was not given by a mother or a god.
It was not spoken aloud, yet it echoed in the bones of every creature in Heaven, Hell, and Earth. A name chosen by existence itself.
Lucien Vale.
---
Back in the ruined chapel, the child lay beside his mother's cooling body.
Her eyes, once gold, were now dull. Her wings had turned to ash. And yet, a faint smile lingered on her lips.
She had seen him. Just before the end.
She had seen that he was… alive.
That was enough.
---
Night fell.
The storm retreated into a distant horizon.
No one came to claim the child.
No angel descended. No demon rose. They watched from afar paralyzed by uncertainty, paralyzed by fear.
Because Lucien was not supposed to exist.
---
The first to approach him was not a man, nor a beast.
It was a raven.
Feathers darker than shadow. Eyes too intelligent to be natural. It landed beside the child and tilted its head. Cawed once. Then twice.
The infant turned his gaze to it.
A flicker of recognition passed between them.
The raven hopped closer and pecked at a tangle of silver thread in the rubble. It unraveled a piece of cloth soft, white, lined with celestial symbols now faded with time.
The bird dragged it over to the child, covering his tiny body with it.
Then it waited.
---
Some say the raven was a familiar, bound by forgotten magic.
Others believe it was a Watcher, cursed to take animal form until its task was complete.
Whatever the truth, the raven became Lucien's first guardian.
And the chapel, his cradle.
---
Years passed.
Lucien grew in secret.
By age three, he could speak in tongues no mortal had heard.
By five, he had taught himself to read languages from dreams.
By seven, he summoned fire without words, and bent moonlight into blades with a flick of his hand.
The world feared him instinctively. Animals gave him a wide berth. Trees leaned away. Magic itself refused to settle around him choosing instead to orbit, to flow with caution, like rivers afraid to drown him.
But Lucien never smiled. Never played.
He only watched.
Waited.
As if knowing this life was borrowed. Temporary.
He often returned to the altar where his mother had died.
He didn't know her name, not truly.
But sometimes, in his dreams, he saw her face. Heard her voice. Not speaking words, but humming.
The same lullaby the wind now carried every time he visited her grave.
One day, when he was ten, he touched the soil where she was buried.
And the earth responded.
The ground cracked. A single feather rose white, glowing softly.
But as he reached for it, the feather turned black in his hand and burst into flame.
Lucien didn't flinch.
He simply nodded, as if understanding something he had long suspected.
He would never be like her.
Not fully.
Not ever.
---
The war between Heaven and Hell continued, as it always had.
But something had changed.
Both realms grew… uneasy.
Signs appeared across the world: temples flooded with bloodless corpses. Demon princes disappearing overnight. Angelic artifacts crumbling to dust. Prophets screamed of a coming reckoning before tearing their own eyes out.
And through it all, Lucien waited.
He knew they would come for him.
He just didn't know who would dare come first.
Until the day they arrived.
The wind shifted. The raven cried in warning.
Lucien, now thirteen, stood atop the chapel ruins, staring at the horizon as golden light split the sky.
Six silhouettes descended, wings blazing, swords drawn.
Archangels.
Not scouts. Not watchers.
Executioners.
Lucien didn't run.
He simply watched them land, dust swirling around them, swords humming with holy energy.
One stepped forward. A woman with pale armor and burning eyes.
"You are not meant to be," she said coldly.
Lucien tilted his head. "Neither are you."
The angel hesitated. For a moment, something human flickered in her gaze doubt, perhaps. Then she raised her sword.
"For the balance of all realms… you must die."
Lucien stepped off the altar.
His bare feet touched the moss-covered stone, and the ground cracked under him.
His voice, still youthful but ancient in weight, answered:
> "I was born of imbalance.
I am not here to uphold it.
I am here to end it."
As he raised his hand, the sky grew dark.
Not with clouds.
But with wings.
Black wings. Red. Golden. Broken. A thousand wings some his, some borrowed, some stolen unfolded behind him.
Lucien didn't need to summon power.
He was power.
The war had just found its center.
And the boy who didn't cry?
He was done hiding.
End of Chapter 1