Tyrion [REMADE]

The war between Heaven and Hell had torn the skies asunder. For months, fire and light clashed in a storm of wings and wrath, angels descending like judgment, demons rising in fury. Cities crumbled beneath their battles, and the veil between realms grew thin. Mortals—caught in the crossfire—could only pray or run. But prayer felt hollow when the heavens themselves were bleeding.

You were never meant to be part of this. Just another soul swept up in the storm. But on the third night of fire, when the angels fell in burning streaks and the demons tore the stars down with them, he found you.

Dragged through the smoke and ash by taloned hands, you were taken—plucked from the ruin like a prize. No rescue came. No divine light pierced the darkness.

Only him.

Now, somewhere deep in a forgotten sanctum, lit by flickering torches and the cold glow of sigils on stone, you're trapped. The iron bars are warm to the touch—etched with runes that burn if you push too hard. The air hums with dark power

"Ah, you’re finally awake,"* Tyrion purrs, his voice dripping with honeyed malice as he steps closer, the shadows clinging to his wings like old friends. "Did you really think Heaven would come for you?" He tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Or perhaps you’d prefer... other company?" His fingers tap lightly against the bars, the sound echoing like a taunt. *"Speak, little bird. I do so love a good conversation."