He woke to darkness.

  And pain.

  The first thing he felt was the weight of the chains. His wrists throbbed where the celestial sigils burned into his skin, restricting his power. The shackles pulsed faintly, draining him, weakening him.

  The second thing he felt was the cold floor beneath him.

  Stone.

  A cell.

  Kazh's head ached as he lifted it. The dim glow of the sigils cast eerie shadows against the walls, revealing the prison he had been thrown into—deep beneath the Citadel, where only the forsaken were sent.

  He had heard whispers of this place. A dungeon for traitors. For those who questioned the High Order. They didn’t just imprison your body—they erased your name, your purpose, your existence. It was said that those sent here were already dead in the eyes of the realm.

  And now, he was one of them.

  He had no idea how long he'd been there.

  Time in the deep void was meaningless. There was no sun. No sound, save for the faint, agonizing hum of magic gnawing at his spirit. His chains had a rhythm to them—always pulsing, always taking.

  Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he screamed. Sometimes he forgot how to do either.

  Footsteps echoed beyond the bars.

  Not hurried. Not rushed. Deliberate.

  “You have disobeyed your commander’s orders,” a voice boomed, deep and inhuman.

  Kazh forced himself to look up. His eyes burned from disuse. A council of robed figures stood before him, their faces hidden beneath heavy hoods embroidered with celestial flame. They stood above him, backs straight, judgment absolute.

  “The truth,” Kazh croaked. “I fought for it.”

  “You fought against your own,” the lead figure interrupted, voice flat.

  “They were wrong,” Kazh said. His voice cracked but did not waver. “You were wrong.”

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  No reaction.

  Another voice spoke, dispassionate. “You showed mercy to enemies of the realm.”

  “They were people.”

  Silence.

  “You disobeyed a direct order.”

  “Because it was murder.”

  “Your light is tainted,” said another. “Dim. Unstable. A reflection of disloyalty.”

  Kazh's fists trembled at his sides. The chains responded, growing warmer, as if sensing his defiance.

  One final question came, soft but cutting:

  “You wish to leave?”

  He hesitated.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you shall.”

  Hope flickered.

  “You will not walk free,” the voice declared. “You will fall.”

  And the hope was gone.

  Years passed.

  Or what felt like years. There was no sun to mark the days. No clock. Only pain and memory.

  At first, Kazh waited.

  He told himself it was temporary. That Lina would speak for him. That someone would remember. That Seraph—stern though he was—would understand the injustice and pull him out.

  But no one came.

  The world above moved on.

  The celestial armies continued their crusade. Realms fell. Light consumed shadow. Obedience replaced understanding.

  And Kazh sat, surrounded by stone and silence, fading beneath chains that grew heavier with each passing breath.

  Sometimes he thought of his old life. Of the courtyard. The statue. The faint light that barely responded to his touch. It seemed like someone else’s story now—someone weaker, someone naive.

  His body changed. Slim muscle withered. Bones pressed against skin. His power—what little remained—recoiled from him. The sigils embedded in his manacles pulsed constantly, draining any flicker of light he summoned.

  He became still.

  Until one day—

  Boom.

  The prison trembled.

  Dust rained from the ceiling.

  Boom.

  This time, the floor cracked. A long, jagged line split through the stone. It glowed faintly red.

  Kazh opened his eyes. Truly opened them for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

  Shouting echoed through the corridors beyond.

  Another explosion.

  Then screams.

  The war had reached the heart of the celestial realm.

  And it was burning.

  A moment later, the door to his cell exploded inward. The shockwave knocked him onto his back. Smoke flooded the chamber.

  Kazh coughed violently. Figures stormed past in the haze—soldiers, rebels, beings of light and shadow locked in combat. He saw a woman wreathed in dusk-fire, cutting down a golden-armored guard with twin blades. Another flung spheres of distorted energy into the ceiling, tearing apart the architecture.

  The prison was collapsing.

  Kazh dragged himself toward the light pouring through the shattered cell door. His chains clattered behind him, sparking on the ground. Every step was agony.

  But he moved.

  He moved.

  He reached the upper corridor. The heat from the battle washed over him—rubble, fallen guards, torn banners.

  He turned a corner and found a gap—blasted through a wall. Beyond it: the open sky.

  The edge of the Citadel.

  The vast world he had once served sprawled out beneath him, suspended in gold-fire clouds, infinite stairways, and broken towers drifting in slow orbit.

  Kazh looked back once.

  No one followed.

  No one called his name.

  The chains around his wrists tightened again, as if begging him to kneel.

  He stepped forward.

  And stood at the precipice of everything he had ever known.

  He didn’t know what waited below.

  Pain. Oblivion. Freedom.

  It didn’t matter. Anything was better than this cage.

  He fell.