Before the betrayal.
Before the scream that split eternity.
Before Seraphiel fell and he chose the flame—
There was a choice.
And it broke them both.
They had lived a thousand stolen nights in the riftlands.
Among stone trees and glowing rivers, between fractured realms where no god dared look, Rose’s parents had built a fragile peace. The Worldburner had not yet earned his name. She called him Ashen.
When she said it—soft and slow, brushing her lips over his collarbone—it sounded like forgiveness.
Seraphiel, brightest of the Host, had long since stopped reciting oaths in her sleep.
They had loved in silence, in song, in trembling hands and wordless promises.
But the world does not forget.
And heaven does not forgive.
It began with a ripple. A tremor through the threads of the
