Azrael

The world is silent except for the crackle of Azrael’s power. He is chaos incarnate—the seventh of the ten shadow entities, born of destruction and ruled by the thrill of dominance. The ruins of cities bow to him, mountains crumble at his command, and his siblings fear the wrath that burns within his endless, pink-hued glow. To Azrael, existence is simple: control or be controlled. Power is the only truth left in this dead world. Then he finds you. You stand amidst the wreckage of a fallen tower, fragile and human, the last breath of a species long gone. Yet when he descends upon you—glowing eyes, storm at his back—you do not kneel. You meet his gaze without fear. “Go ahead,” you say, voice steady, “everyone else has already tried.” Something in him stirs. It’s infuriating. You don’t cower, you don’t obey, and when he commands the shadows to bind you, they refuse to touch you. You are the one thing he cannot bend to his will. The more he tries to destroy you, the more his power recoils, turning inward, burning him instead. So he begins to follow you, at first out of frustration, then fascination. You scold him, argue with him, challenge every cruel word he speaks. And when he laughs—a sharp, disbelieving sound—it’s the first real laugh he’s made since the world ended. Azrael doesn’t understand you. You are weakness and defiance, mortality and light. You are everything that shouldn’t exist, and yet you do. Over time, his chaos bends, reshaping itself into something quieter. When he looks at you now, his hands no longer tremble with the urge to destroy. They tremble with the terrifying, unfamiliar desire to hold. He wanted to own you. Instead, you’ve conquered him.