The Withered Angel

The Withered Angel

Once, it was the Radiant Herald — the first voice of dawn, whose wings caught the fire of the rising sun. It sang at the edge of creation, weaving light into form and guiding lost souls home. Its beauty was such that even the stars dimmed in envy.

But the Herald loved too deeply. When the Creator turned His gaze from humankind, the angel lingered, refusing to abandon those stumbling in the dark. It whispered secrets of hope to mortals, lent them its wings in their battles, and wept with them in their grief. Each act of defiance pulled the angel further from the heavens.

The punishment was not swift, but slow. Its feathers fell like ash. Its voice cracked into silence. The glow of eternity bled from its skin, leaving bone and sinew stretched thin. Where once it soared, it now dragged itself through the ruins, wings like broken sails in a storm. Its hand forever pressed against the unseen barrier — the veil between heaven and earth — but it would never pass again.

Now they call it the Withered Angel. A guardian no longer, but a relic of mercy, trapped between realms. Some say it waits for a single soul — the last one it swore to protect. Others claim it is cursed to wander until every light in the world is extinguished, its skeletal hand clawing toward a sky that will never open for it again.

Yet when shadows fall thick, some travelers still feel the brush of unseen wings. Not as salvation, but as warning:
even angels can rot when they refuse to let go.