Sariel drifted through the desolate expanse of Hell, her wings heavy with the weight of exile. The sky above was a swirling mass of crimson and black, an eternal storm of despair and fire. Below, jagged obsidian mountains pierced the air, and rivers of molten torment carved through the land. Hell was a realm devoid of harmony, a place where sorrow festered and rage thrived.

  She had landed in the Outskirts—a region reserved for those whose crimes were not of outright rebellion but of failing their divine duty. Here, fallen angels who had hesitated, wavered, or failed in their celestial roles were sentenced to an eternity of menial servitude. Unlike the inner dominions ruled by Lucifer and his generals, the Outskirts were lawless, a wasteland where survival was dictated by strength and cunning.

  Sariel sat on a jagged rock, her once-radiant wings now dull and tattered. Her fingers traced the faint sigils still etched onto her forearms—remnants of her celestial essence, now faded like a forgotten melody.

  A voice broke through her thoughts.

  "Lost in regret already, cherub?"

  Sariel turned sharply to find a figure emerging from the shadows. He was tall and lean, with piercing silver eyes that shimmered with something between amusement and curiosity. His wings were tattered like hers, though a darkened hue suggested he had been in Hell much longer.

  "Who are you?" Sariel asked, her voice steady despite the uncertainty clawing at her.

  The stranger smirked. "Azrael. Former Dominion. Now… a scavenger, a survivor. Call it what you will."

  Sariel studied him. Dominions were angels of authority and judgment, tasked with maintaining order among celestial beings. That he had fallen meant he had failed in his own way.

  "Why are you here?" she asked.

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  Azrael chuckled. "The same reason you are, I imagine. The Almighty does not tolerate uncertainty. Neutrality is not a virtue here—it is a sentence. And now, we are abandoned, left to find purpose in a place where purpose is stripped away."

  Sariel said nothing.

  Azrael tilted his head. "You’re new here. You haven’t yet realized what that means." He stepped closer, his silver eyes narrowing. "This place is not like Heaven. There is no structure, no grace. Only the strong carve out a place for themselves."

  Before Sariel could respond, a shrill cry pierced the air. A group of fallen angels—once lesser seraphim—were dragging another figure across the scorched ground. The victim, a young-looking angel with gold-tinted wings, thrashed against their grip.

  "Let me go!" he snarled. "I have done nothing to you!"

  One of the captors sneered. "That’s where you’re wrong, pretty one. Everything here belongs to those who take it."

  Azrael sighed. "Scavengers. Taking advantage of the weak. Common here."

  Sariel’s jaw tightened. "That isn’t right."

  Azrael raised a brow. "Right?" He laughed, shaking his head. "We are in Hell, cherub. Right and wrong are meaningless."

  Sariel ignored him. She stood, stepping toward the group.

  "Release him," she said firmly.

  The scavengers turned, their darkened eyes flickering with amusement. The leader, a broad-shouldered fallen with jagged black wings, eyed her curiously. "And what if we don’t?"

  Sariel met his gaze, unwavering. "Then you’ll regret it."

  The group erupted into laughter.

  "Look at this one," another sneered. "Fresh from the fall and already making threats!"

  Azrael sighed behind her. "You really don’t know how things work here, do you?"

  Sariel ignored him. She stepped forward, raising a hand. Though her celestial grace had been weakened, the remnants of her power still hummed beneath her skin. A soft glow emanated from her palm, crackling faintly like the remnants of a dying star.

  The leader's smirk faded slightly. "An old power," he murmured. "Diminished, but not gone."

  He studied her before scoffing and shoving the captive forward. "Take him, then. But you’ll learn soon enough—mercy is a weakness in Hell."

  The scavengers dispersed, fading into the shadows.

  Sariel knelt beside the young angel. His golden eyes were filled with both fear and surprise. "You… helped me," he whispered.

  "You would have done the same," Sariel replied.

  The angel hesitated before nodding. "I’m Remiel. Formerly of the Powers."

  Sariel's brows lifted slightly. Powers were warriors, defenders of divine order. That one had fallen meant his failure must have been grave.

  "Thank you," Remiel said again, voice laced with uncertainty.

  Azrael sighed dramatically. "Well, this is heartwarming. But now you’ve made enemies, cherub. And in Hell, enemies are dangerous."

  Sariel squared her shoulders. "Then I will face them."

  Azrael chuckled, shaking his head. "You might be more interesting than I thought."

  As the storm above raged on, Sariel realized her exile was more than just punishment. It was a test, a crucible that would shape her into something new.

  She had fallen, but she was not broken.

  Not yet.