In the midst of formless emptiness—where day and night are no longer determined by sun or moon—stood a palace suspended in the void. Neither gravity nor foundation anchored it. It simply was, hovering like a grand illusion between existence and oblivion. Solar winds whispered across the silence, carrying remnants of light from long-dead stars whose names were never spoken.
This was the Palace of Crystal Splendor, a sanctuary built not from stone or steel, but from thousands of radiant crystals. These were no ordinary gems. They did not merely reflect light, but refracted emotion—each prism igniting the unspoken shades of feeling within the soul of any who dared look upon them. The palace was born from an ancient energy: compassion, harmony, and the transcendent memory of the first angel's grace.
Its architecture was undeniably gothic. Spires spiraled like frozen prayers into the heavens, archways rose in solemn defiance of gravity, and stained-glass windows depicted the forgotten wars of the divine in colors that shifted with the viewer's heartbeat. Each tower turned gently, as if whispering time back into the folds of destiny. Every corner hummed with a voiceless symphony—music only the truly present could hear.
Upon a floating island just beyond the palace gates sat a young angel.
She was watching the prismatic horizon fracture and scatter its colors like petals caught in eternal wind. Her long silver hair spilled over her shoulders like woven moonlight, drifting with the sun's breath. Her face—flawless and serene—carried a beauty that could quiet an army, but in her eyes lived something the heavens dared not name: a sorrow too vast to be contained in language.
Her name was Aelira.
The angel of allure and grace. A living sigil of celestial beauty, sculpted by the very hand of divinity. Her skin bore the soft light of morning mist, her eyes shimmered like sacred lakes untouched by time, and her voice... oh, her voice—like the first note ever played on the lyre of creation.
But what was once a gift had become a curse.
"I hate this," she whispered, breath vanishing into the silent wind.
She wasn't speaking to anyone, but to the void, to herself... and to the cruel fate wrapped tightly around her like silk chains.
"I'm tired of being desired. I'm tired of being a reward in rituals disguised as holiness. If heaven is our home, why does it feel like a prison?"
Like all angels nearing the ceremonial age, she would soon be claimed—chosen by a deity as servant, messenger, guardian... or worse: as a vessel for divine hunger. There was no refusal. No sanctuary. Only fate, crashing like a silent wave.
And looming in her mind like a shadow was the god of war—Velkran.
The undefeated. The brutal. The relentless.
Feared and worshipped in equal measure, Velkran consumed beauty as a conqueror consumes land—quickly, violently, without regret.
Aelira lowered her gaze. Her fingers touched the edge of the crystal platform beneath her—cold and sharp. She remembered something. A small blade she'd stolen from the kitchens. Hidden beneath the folds of her ceremonial robe. Her only act of rebellion.
"If they must take my body... then let me take my soul with me."
Her voice trembled. Her resolve did not.
She wasn't a doll.
---
The dormitories rested on the fourth tier of the spire, a spindle-like tower crowned with sky-bending balconies. Inside, simplicity reigned. Walls etched with ancient glyphs whispered serenity, and the air pulsed with the slow rhythm of the divine heartbeat—measured by floating crystals above the ceiling that glowed with breath-like pulses.
She returned late.
Kaelina, her roommate and closest friend, waved her over.
"Aelira! You're finally back! I was about to start reciting those dreadful love poems by the Elder Gods just to stay sane."
Kaelina's laughter danced like fire. With her crimson-gold hair and emerald eyes, she burned brightly in a world of glass. Unlike Aelira's composed gentleness, Kaelina was bold, fierce, unafraid to cut through ceremony with the edge of her truth.
"I needed... space," Aelira replied, soft but sincere.
Kaelina's smile faded as she studied her friend's face.
"You're wearing the look again. That faraway stare... Aelira, don't let this system steal your soul. We are not anyone's possession."
Aelira wanted to believe that. Gods, she really did.
But even the love of a friend couldn't shield her from the divine decree.
---
Night in the palace was a suggestion, not a cycle. No moon. No stars. No sleep except what was ordained by the silent ticking of heaven's time—a pulse that flowed through the walls and gently encouraged rest.
In their shared bed, Aelira lay beside Kaelina.
Sleep did not come easy.
---
The next morning, the ceremonial hall blazed with golden radiance. The floor was sapphire glass; the altar, a slab of glowing quartz surrounded by concentric runes. Angel after angel lined the aisles, each cloaked in flowing white robes meant to symbolize purity, submission, and their connection to the celestial order.
The tension in the air was unbearable.
Highfather Caedros, the caretaker of angelkind, ascended the dais. His beard shimmered like icicles, and his voice, though gentle, rang like ancient bells. He spoke for hours of honor, purpose, and the sacred bonds between god and servant.
Aelira barely heard a word.
"I'm starving," Kaelina whispered. "If I faint, tell them I died for the cause."
"Shh," Aelira murmured, a trace of a smile hiding in her exhaustion.
And then it began.
One by one, angels were called to the altar. Their souls would awaken, revealing their aura—the divine resonance that determined their fate.
Kaelina's name rang out.
She grinned, fierce and proud. "Wish me a sane god, sister," she said, before walking into the light.
Her aura blazed red and gold, like fire licking the sky. Moments later, the divine light of Zaryon, god of strength, appeared. He lifted Kaelina with honor and grace, naming her his champion. Her path was clear.
Aelira's name followed.
She froze.
Step by step, she ascended. Her lungs fought for air. Her heartbeat echoed louder than Caedros' voice had moments before.
Then her soul awakened.
Silver, violet, and a touch of holy blue enveloped her body. The hall gasped. She glowed with pure ethereal beauty. The kind of beauty that made time weep.
A presence approached.
Lissaviel, goddess of elegance, stepped forward.
But just as she raised her hand to claim Aelira...
A shadow split the light.
Black fire. Crimson edges. The scent of war.
Velkran appeared.
The god of war reached out, bypassing every law of courtesy, and claimed her.
The room went silent.
Tears pooled in Aelira's eyes. Not fear—no, something worse. Finality.
Her hand trembled. She reached into her sleeve.
The small blade. Her last defense.
In a flash, she brought it to her neck.
But Velkran moved faster.
With a flick of his hand, the blade flew across the hall.
Gasps. Cries.
Then stillness.
Her knees buckled. Her soul screamed.
But then—then—she closed her eyes.
And shattered.
Not her body.
Her spirit.
A forbidden act. A spell no angel should possess.
She broke her soul apart—splintering her celestial essence like glass—sending the pieces scattering, escaping the binding threads of heaven.
A silent detonation of grace.
Kaelina cried out, struggling against the guards who held her. Velkran stood unmoved, annoyed but unconcerned.
Aelira's body collapsed.
But her soul?
It fell. Through dimensions. Through the divine veil. Through the clouds of memory and into something colder, rougher—
Earth.
---
She awoke.
In a human body. Weak, but alive.
No wings. No light. No song. Just a heartbeat.
She did not know what awaited her here. But she knew one thing:
She was free.
And in that freedom… the true story of the Priestess of Sacrifice began.