Before he was bound to earth, Lucipher belonged to the sky.
He was not born—he was spoken into existence, woven from fire and brilliance, a keeper of dawn. Light obeyed him. Stars bent when he passed. Among the eternal ones, his radiance was unmatched, not because it burned brighter, but because it understood.
Lucipher questioned.
That was his sin.
In the High Realm, obedience was worship, and curiosity was treason. The others bowed without asking why. Lucipher watched, listened, learned—and when he finally spoke, heaven fell silent.
"Why must love be forbidden to the eternal?" he asked.
"Why create hearts capable of longing, only to deny them fulfillment?"
No answer came—only judgment.
They did not destroy him. That would have been mercy.
Instead, they tore the light from his wings and sealed it inside his chest, where it would ache forever. They bound him in flesh—fragile, aging, breakable—and cast him down to the waiting earth.
"You will walk among them," the Voice declared, echoing like thunder trapped in stone.
"You will love as they love. You will suffer as they suffer. And only when true love is freely given to you—untainted by fear, ignorance, or worship—will your chains be broken."
Then he fell.
Not in fire.
Not in glory.
But in silence.
Lucipher woke beneath a sky that did not recognize him. His body was heavy, his breath unfamiliar, his heart loud with pain. The light he once commanded now flickered weakly inside him, a prisoner in its own cage.
Centuries would pass.
Empires would rise and crumble. Names would change. Myths would rot into lies. And Lucipher would walk through them all—unchanging, unloved, unseen.
Some would call him a demon.
Some would worship him as a god.
None would truly know him.
Because true love, he would learn, was rarer than light in darkness.
And until it found him—
Earth was his prison.