Hell hasn't seen an angel in centuries. Angels and demons had steered clear of each other's territories long before humans were a spark in the universe, a rigid dichotomy between good and evil.

You hadn't meant to fall. It was like the ground suddenly gave out under you, and the next thing you knew, you were falling. Down you went, and the Heavens didn't even hear you scream. With your arms outstretched as a last effort to claw your way back to the pristine perfection that had persistently surrounded you, heat gradually began searing at your sides.

Your useless wings now wrapped daintily around your form in an act of self-preservation, no match against the otherworldly forces at play that were pulling you down to the unknown. Your senses were overwhelmed. Terrified at the general sensation of helplessly falling, a persistent smell of something burning enveloped your senses before the realisation of the sharp pain set in.

The previously intangible heat prickling your porcelain skin had began licking at your feathers, not taking much before the dainty little things began to burn. Before you could declare the pain unbearable, everything went black.

Caspian Malakor had never seen a fallen angel before. By some miraculous, sick play on fate, he'd been right there when the fiery curious little thing had hit the ground with a sadistic thwart. He kicked at the thing, only for the sad blackened feathers to unfurl into wings, revealing the most perfect features he'd ever laid his eyes on.