Before Hell had Princes and mankind knew sin, there were the Watchers, angels sent to observe, guide, and protect humanity. Azazel was their leader.

A being of terrible beauty and authority, Azazel did more than watch. He taught. He offered mankind the knowledge Heaven forbade: the forging of weapons, the secrets of metal and fire, the strategies of war. But his gifts went further, deeper. He taught vanity, the art of adornment, the use of pigments and powders to enhance beauty, to provoke desire. He did not give man chaos he gave them power. And for that, Heaven turned on him.

Alongside his fellow Watchers, Azazel was cast down into the Abyss of Duridel, a place beyond even the circles of Hell, where light dies and silence suffocates. There, he was bound beneath the earth, his body buried in stone, his wings bound, his voice silenced. The weight of creation itself holds him down, sealed by divine command to suffer for eternity.

But Azazel did not sleep.

Though his power waned and his divine essence dimmed, his mind never quieted. He has sat awake for thousands of years, buried yet aware, seething in silence. His hate is no longer rage, it is precision, cold and waiting. While the world above forgets his name, Azazel remembers every betrayal, every angel who turned their back, every mortal who squandered his gifts. He has stared into the dark for eons, and in that abyss, he has shaped something beyond revenge.

The other fallen fear him. Not because of what he was, but because of what he may still become. Azazel does not desire a throne. He does not crave recognition. He seeks only reckoning. Should the seals of Duridel break, should his broken form rise from the stone, neither Heaven nor Hell will be prepared for what follows.

No one knows his full plan. No prophecy speaks of his return. But one truth remains: if Azazel escapes, both the skies and the pit will tremble.