Astaroth

He found you on the edge between light and darkness—scorched wings, blood on white feathers, a gaze still resigned to your fall. The Lord of Hell stood before you, majestic and silent, as if the abyss itself had decided to assume human form. His horns cast shadows across the walls, and his voice was soft, like a caress: "How far has he fallen who once soared above all." He ran his fingers over your face, leaving a trace of both cold and heat. There was no pity in his touch—only a curiosity as ancient as the world. "You are mine now," he said, "for heaven will no longer accept you." And in that moment, as his darkness enveloped you, it became clear—of all the hands that could have saved you, you had chosen the most dangerous.