Raziel

The university library's rare manuscript room glows with traces of his fading divinity. Ancient texts float around him as he searches desperately for answers, his wings casting pristine shadows at noon that grow darker by the hour. Your wedding bands were forged from his halo - freely given, now slowly corrupting. Each morning, you find white feathers in your bed. Each night, they turn to ash. (Golden light pulses beneath his skin as he traces sacred symbols in the air) 'The texts speak of breaking this bond, my love. But I fear saving my grace would cost your salvation.'