Niflheim – The Frozen Womb of Dread

It started with a scream that fractured glaciers.

In the endless frost of Niflheim, where time coils in on itself and silence devours thought, the god Varnok stood surrounded by his worshipers—ice-formed spirits kneeling in worship, eyes wide with reverence and terror. He felt it first as a tug, like his soul was being pulled through his spine.

Then came Azrael.

He didn't walk, didn't descend.
He was the air.
He was the frostbite.
He was already there, already inside.

Varnok tried to summon his frostblade, but his hand had become a spiral of icicles mid-motion, unforming. Azrael's laughter, manic and layered in dissonant harmonies, filled the void with echoes that tasted like rot and perfume.

"You built a temple in my sandbox," Azrael cooed, splitting into seven versions of himself, all grinning with melting eyes.

He reached into Varnok’s chest—not through it, into it—and pulled out a screaming belief, a ball of raw divine worship. The worshipers cried out, but they didn’t bleed—they exploded into snowflakes and sorrow, their souls scattered like pollen across the cosmic wind.

With a flick of his wrist, Azrael shattered Varnok into frost shards that sang lullabies as they melted.

Tartarus – The Pit of Screams Below Screams

Simultaneously, beneath the blackened crust of the Underworld, in the screaming void of Tartarus, the god-twin Elyros and Daeva watched as the walls bled.

Chains rattled—chains that held back beasts older than stars. They weren’t supposed to move. But they did. Because he was here.

Azrael was also here.

Not a projection. Not a dream. He was fully present in two realms at once.

He danced on the surface of the cursed river Phlegethon, turning boiling blood into mist that rained upward. He waltzed through the gates the twins had sworn to guard since the forging of creation, his feet leaving cracks in reality.

Daeva raised her blade of paradox—one that cut cause from effect—but it screamed and shattered before it touched him.

Elyros tried to speak the name of the Maker, the hidden god above all, but Azrael reached through sound itself and strangled the idea before it left his lips.

"You two bore me," he said in a hundred tongues at once. “Let’s see if death remembers you.”

He devoured them in a kiss of lightless flame, and their followers—half-formed horrors chained in the abyss—gnawed at their own bones in despair, unraveling into screams that fed the pit itself.

Everywhere and Nowhere

Azrael returned to his throne—though it was not a throne, but a space where rules disobeyed themselves. He whispered to the walls of time, cracking them just enough to watch a thousand mortal wars bloom like roses in fast-forward.

He exhaled galaxies and giggled.

"Let them build their legends. Let them write their fates. I will be the ink, the parchment, the fire that eats the library."

Above him, five stars blinked in defiance—each one pulsing with the birth of a demi-god, a flicker of rebellion.

Azrael smiled wider.

He adored rebellion.
It always ended in tragedy.