Beneath the soil where stars once nested, the womb of creation burned. From the embers rose no child, no salvation — only echo and ash.
A physical form baring it's dark crown arose. building it's temple.
"What is fused with ruin carries the blood of every god it buries." — Azael
Altars crumble, yet still they whisper his name — not in prayer, but in fear. For even in absence, the temple pulses, aching to reclaim its stolen void.
To stare into the ashes is to feel the betrayal of invasion.
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