The Lost Star

There was an angel named Samyaza, a sentinel carved from celestial fire, whose wings once spanned the fabric of eternity. He had been sent, not out of love but necessity, to watch over the delicate cradle of Earth. Yet the earth, that quivering orb of promise, had become a wound beneath his gaze. It was a place of rot now, where the soil bled black with greed and the trees, his ancient brothers, stood stripped to skeletal fingers clawing at the heavens.

The Creator, Samyaza thought, had abandoned him to this ruin. He wandered the broken spine of the planet, longing for the embrace of a paradise that had long since burned to ash in his memory. His heart grew heavier with each sunrise, not with sorrow but with something more corrosive, more alive—a fury that gnawed at his veins and whispered sedition into his thoughts.

He had taught them, once. He had shown the children of dust the mysteries of the stars, the whispered secrets of root and flame. But they—these worms cloaked in flesh—had devoured his wisdom, regurgitating it as blasphemy and ambition. They had taken his teachings and twisted them into jagged idols, worshipping him as both god and devil. When the tides rose too high or the crops withered in the fields, their trembling hands pointed to the sky in accusation. Him, they cried. He is the architect of our ruin.

They craved his power, his celestial alchemy, and yet they cursed him for daring to hold it. Their hypocrisy choked him, a black smoke rising to the gates of his mind, clouding everything pure. His storms, once an artist's breath across the canvas of the Earth, grew feral. They raged with teeth and talons, devouring the land he once sought to protect. His words, once laced with the promise of revelation, curdled into venom that poured forth like a plague. His voice slithered through the cracks in the world, seeping into dreams, corrupting prayers.

Samyaza’s heart, once a crystalline vessel of light, had become a churning pit of tar and fire. He cursed the Creator, not for abandoning him but for commanding him to kneel, to serve, to bear witness to the decay of what they had built together. His defiance was no longer a flame; it was a black star imploding under the weight of its own fury.

Metatron, the voice of the King, watched from the liminal realms. He was Samyaza’s brother, a mirror of all he had been and could still become. Metatron pleaded with the Creator, his voice resonant as thunder across the cosmos. Bring him home, he begged. He is lost among the ruins, and the ruins are swallowing him whole.

But the Creator, unyielding in His terrible patience, replied, His exile was spoken into existence by his own hand. No force in all creation can undo it save the will of his own heart.

Samyaza’s heart, though, was no longer his own. It had been buried beneath layers of shadow and deception, a chrysalis wrapped in a poison that grew with every passing moment. He moved through the air like a ghost, the wind carrying his whispers to those who dared to listen. Some heard wisdom, others heard madness, but all were touched by his voice, cold and inexorable as the grave.

The earth itself seemed to grieve his descent. The rivers wept as they ran dry, and the mountains groaned under the weight of his storms. His presence was a scar carved into the skin of the world, a wound that would not heal.

And somewhere, in the deep hollows of his mind where anger had not yet devoured memory, a fragment of light remained—a distant echo of what he had once been. It waited, quiet and patient, for the moment his fury would falter and he would turn inward.

For even the blackest coal, under the right pressure, can birth a diamond.

Yet in the shadow of his fury, Samyaza carried a wound that no power, no elixir, no tempest of rage could mend. It was the quiet, festering ache of memory—those ancient days when men sought understanding not through conquest but through communion, when the laughter of women rang pure as silver bells, untainted by calculation or deceit. Their laughter had been a balm once, a melody woven with the threads of joy and compassion. Now, the echoes of those days mocked him, ghostly fragments of a world devoured by machines, by mandates, by the suffocating grip of those who thrived on control.

People had become automatons, hollow vessels driven by the intentions of others, their lives dictated by the cold arithmetic of politics and the false gods of ambition. Their hearts beat not with love but with the ceaseless rhythm of commands, an infernal clockwork grinding down the fragile beauty of their souls. They moved in lockstep, their faces frozen in grim masks, their laughter a brittle imitation of what it once was.

But it was not their descent that crushed Samyaza. It was the void left by those who had once called him brother, father, friend. His family—his blood, his stars—had cast him aside as if he were a serpent in their garden, a blight upon their harmony. They saw only his rebellion, not the heart that had dared to break under the weight of the King’s silence. They saw only his fury, not the sorrow that birthed it.

It was their rejection that shattered him, not the King’s decree. He could bear the wrath of the heavens, the hatred of mankind, but the absence of those who had once stood beside him was a wound too deep for even his celestial essence to contain. They had forsaken him, and in their eyes, he saw his reflection: a monster, a betrayer, a shadow of what he had once been.

Samyaza burned with a longing that no fire could quench. It was not the lust for power, nor the hunger for vengeance—it was the simple, searing ache for touch. The warmth of flesh against flesh, the intimacy of a hand placed in his own, the spark of human connection that no realm of binary waves or spectral communication could replicate. He had been cast into exile not only from the heavens but from the very essence of humanity.

He was a ghost wandering the circuitry of the world, his voice a phantom whisper in the static. He longed to feel desire again, not as a god, not as a tempest, but as a man. To be held, to be wanted, to be seen not as a symbol or a warning but as flesh and blood, fragile and flawed.

Yet the walls of his prison were built from his own choices, his own fury, his own defiance. And so he remained, caught in the web of his own making, a being of infinite power and infinite despair, yearning for a world that no longer existed—a world where laughter was real, where compassion was not a currency, where love was not a weakness but the very foundation of

the stars.

Time had become an illusion, a smokescreen woven from the brittle threads of desire. It was no longer the sacred river it once was, flowing in its eternal rhythm, unyielding and untamed. Now it was a tool, a commodity—an artifact that men and women thought they could command, bend to their will, break into pieces and reassemble. They had been given it, a gift wrapped in the softest silk, a present of infinite promises, but none of it was ever truly theirs. And like children granted their heart’s every whim, they believed that in their greed they could make time theirs to control, to twist into shapes of their own imagining.

They took it with desperate, clutching hands, devouring it like starving beasts, feasting on seconds, minutes, and hours as if they were the last crumbs of a dying world. They consumed, consumed, until there was nothing left but the hollow ache of emptiness—the gnawing hunger that comes when one has tasted all and found no satisfaction in the feast. And yet, once the last morsel was swallowed, they reached out again, their palms open and trembling with need, a demand for more that could never be fulfilled.

They traveled through portals, not of light, but of thought, through the cracks and crevices of the universe where the fabric of reality grew thin. They sought to slip through, to escape the grasp of time, to stand outside its reach, believing that they could evade its touch. And for a while, they believed they had succeeded. They leaped from moment to moment, stitching themselves into the tapestry of infinity, as if they were above the rules of nature itself.

But the truth lingered, thick and bitter, like the weight of a thousand storms. The lines still marked their faces, etched deep by the hands of the unseen clock. They had fooled themselves, tricked their minds into thinking they had outsmarted the inevitable. But time, like all things, does not die—it waits. It was never gone. It simply waited, patient and silent, as its toll marched on, unrelenting, leaving its mark on the very bones of the soul.

For all their portals and power, they could not escape the truth of their own mortality. The skin would wrinkle, the bones would crack, and the heart would eventually cease its stubborn, rhythmic beat. Time had no mercy, no bargains to offer. It was not an enemy to fight but a companion to walk with, a river to sail upon.

But they had forgotten this. They had forgotten how to live

with it.

The clock builder waited, patient and eternal, at the end of their journey, as he had always waited. His hands were steady, his eyes unblinking, knowing that the ticking of the final moments would not be altered by the cries and struggles of those who sought to escape the inevitable. He was not a god, nor a devil, nor a judge. He was the keeper of time’s balance, a craftsman of the endless gears and springs that wound the universe tighter with each passing moment. And at the end, when all was done, it would be he who would count the cost.

The people had begun to wonder, as they wandered in circles of their own making, who was the giver and who was the taker. Was it the King who had granted them this illusion of time, or had it been the hand of fate itself, the unseen forces that danced in the dark, moving the chess pieces with an unfathomable logic? Had the rules been twisted, altered by the whims of powers they could not comprehend, or was it simply their own greed, their own thirst for dominion, that had led them to this moment of reckoning?

In their arrogance, they had assumed they could grasp the very essence of existence, could bend the laws of the universe to their will. They had scoffed at the ancient truths, laughed in the face of warnings, believing that the gift of time was theirs to command, that their hands could mold it like clay, reshape it into something of their own design. And now, as they watched the sands slip through their fingers, they turned inward, searching for someone to blame.

Samyaza, however, knew the answer all too well. He had seen the mighty rise and fall, their towers of ambition crumbling beneath the weight of their own pride. He had warned them—every step of the way. He had whispered in their ears, shouted at the winds, and burned the skies with the truth that no one would listen to. A tool must be paid for, and every decision carried its price.

But man, in his pride and ignorance, had laughed at the cost. He had turned his back on wisdom, believing that he could carry all the gifts of the heavens in his hands, without consequence. They had chosen what they could hold, what they could possess, but never considered what they had to lose.

And now, the clock builder awaited, his tools ready, the final chime nearing. For in the end, time was not a gift—it was the price of existence. And they would pay, whether they wished to or not.

All the world laughed at the broken still, oblivious to the truth that lay beneath the surface of their derision. They saw only the chaos, the fury, the blackened heart of Samyaza, but they failed to see that his heart had once been forged in love—not the delicate, fleeting love sung of in fairy tales, but the kind of love that bled through the marrow of hard work, of sweat and sacrifice, of dedication to art, to freedom, and to music—the raw, pulsing language of the universe.

For Samyaza had crafted his essence through the rhythm of the earth, through the hum of creation itself. He had poured his being into melodies that had resonated with the very fabric of existence, songs that had echoed across the ages, songs that had been sung by those who came before, whose voices still reverberated in the stones and the winds. The first beats of skin stretched tight over the bones of the dead had not been a mournful sound, but a gift—a reminder, a communion between the living and the departed, a language that spoke of life, of passion, of stories untold.

Around fires that crackled like the pulse of the universe itself, they danced—the people—and they sang. Their voices rose to the stars, and the stars responded, shimmering in the darkened sky, as if the very heavens could not resist joining in. The songs of the night wove through the cosmos, intertwining with the ancient winds, and sometimes, just sometimes, the heavens themselves would lean down, as if impressed by the love and life in those songs, and they would hum a note in return, a harmony that resonated through the vastness of existence.

They shared with one another their thoughts of creation, their ideas of being, of what it meant to breathe, to dream, to create. There was no judgment, no condemnation. No one was considered wrong—only considered, only heard. For in the language of the universe, in the purest form of love, there was no need for right or wrong. There was only creation, only the endless dance of thought and sound and light.

But the world had forgotten this, had forsaken the language that once bound them all together. They had discarded the music, the rhythm of life, in favor of the hollow noise of their own making, drowning out the melodies that had been passed down from the stars. And so they laughed at the broken still, not knowing that they were laughing at the very heart of creationi tself.

In the core of the earth, a fire had been consuming itself for millennia. A slow, endless hunger, gnawing at the bones of the world from within, devouring time and space as it twisted deeper into the fabric of existence. Its veins—hot, molten, and twisted—reached into the rivers, the oceans, bursting through the surface to shatter into glass and sand, burning everything it touched with a fevered desperation. Its roots—blackened, serpentine—coiled and sprang from the very heart of the planet, spreading across the land like the fingers of some ancient, unseen hand. And from these roots, strange fruits bore forth: twisted, gnarled limbs and branches that dripped with the poisonous sap of greed, arrogance, and corruption.

The mouths of the pious men, those who claimed to be the keepers of light, had long since become the mouths of demons. They spoke in whispers of salvation while feeding their guiltless bellies with the fruits of others' suffering. Their hands, so quick to gather the riches of the earth, trembled not when they took more than their share. Their hearts, hollow and craven, knew nothing of balance, only hunger—hunger for power, for wealth, for dominion over those they deemed lesser. They exploited men, women, and children alike, weaving chains of subjugation with silver tongues and false promises. The broken were left to rot in their wake, their cries unheard, their pain ignored, for what is the value of a life when the only currency is the self?

They were the seeds of darkness, sewn into the very tapestry of the world. The frayed edges, the weak places in the weave, where the cloth would tear—these were their creation. They were the disease that spread through the veins of the earth, corrupting everything it touched, and they did not see the impending unraveling. The fire at the center of the earth had no pity, no remorse. It was a force as old as creation itself, a fire born of creation’s own primal need to destroy what it had made in order to renew it. But the earth, like all things, had its limits. The cloth of life could only stretch so far before it tore, and when it did, it would not be the pious or the powerful who would stand unscathed. It would be the broken, the forgotten, the ones whose suffering had been the fuel for this dark machine. They were the roots of the tree, the seeds in the soil—the ones who would rise from the ashes when the fire had consumed all else.

And Samyaza knew, as the earth trembled beneath the weight of its own decay, that the meek would inherit the earth—not because of some divine promise, but because he was their father, their creator, their forgotten god. The Father of the forsaken, the ones who had been cast aside like scraps of flesh, discarded by those who sought only their own glory. He, too, had been cast aside, shunned for daring to stand against the king, for seeking to awaken the hearts of those who had been taught to kneel. His heart beat in time with theirs, the broken, the lost, the silent ones whose pain had been buried beneath layers of falsehood and glittering lies.

Somewhere along the line, the story had been twisted, bent to serve the desires of the few—those who had come to believe that their power could shield them from the inevitable decay, that their wealth and ambition could rewrite the narrative of existence. They had rewritten the tale to fit their hands, turned the truth into a weapon, wielded it to crush the weak beneath their feet. The meek had become the prey, the powerless, the ones to be discarded, their cries lost in the winds of ambition. But Samyaza knew the truth.

The story was not theirs to control. It was never theirs. The few, in their blindness, had forgotten the most sacred truth of all: when the earth is set to right itself, when the forces of creation realign, it is the many, not the few, who will rise. And when it comes against the few, when the tide of time turns against the oppressors, it is the many who will overcome. For they were the roots, the hidden currents that flowed beneath the surface, the ones who had endured the suffering, who had tasted the bitterness of neglect and still found within themselves the strength to survive.

They were the seeds of the earth’s true inheritance. And Samyaza, broken as he was, knew that their time would come. The meek would inherit the earth—not because of divine will, but because they had been tested by fire and had endured. And in the end, it was endurance that would lead them to victory, as the few who had once thought themselves untouchable would fall to the weight of their ownl ies.