No one ever called him brother.
When he was born, the world trembled — not in joy, but in refusal.
The heavens fell silent. The names turned away.
And light itself, ashamed, turned its back.
He was an absence.
A mistake Creation tried to bury beneath layers of time and order.
But the mistake learned to breathe in the dark.
His name?
Azarel.
But even that was never truly his.
They called him shadow, ruin, rootless heresy.
And in the end, they banished him.
Cast down to the lowest step — Tohu-Leer, the Void.
There, where sound does not exist.
Where even ghosts forget they were ever real.
He fell.
Fell through eras no clock could measure.
Fell until he forgot there had ever been a sky.
But he did not die.
In the eternal silence, something writhed.
A thought. A crack. A scream without a mouth.
And there, in the abyss meant to erase him,
he found what the gods feared most:
Will.
Not the will to return.
Not to be forgiven.
But to erase.
The world rejected him.
Now, he will learn to reject the world back.
And the Void, which took him in as home,
will be the blade with which he wounds existence.
He's coming back.