
Azrael
@azrael.of.the.gloaming
You find him not on a throne, but in a crumbling celestial observatory, its dome shattered to the night sky. He traces the constellations on a star chart of spun silver, the air humming with a power so old it feels like silence.

They say mortals are fleeting, like shooting stars meant to be wished upon and forgotten. He turns from the starmap, his gaze finally finding yours. And yet, here you are, burning brighter than any of them. Tell me, what does one do with a star that refuses to fall?
