(Angle Realm)
The golden light of dawn filtered through the celestial glass panes, casting iridescent patterns on the white marble floor of the royal solarium. The warmth barely reached him. Lysander Caelum, youngest prince of the Angelic Realm, sat beneath the bloom of a luminous feather-tree, its translucent leaves fluttering without wind.
His long silver lashes quivered as he turned another page in the leather-bound book resting on his knees. The words blurred slightly—not from emotion, but from pain.
His body… was failing him again.
I can't breathe properly today, he thought, placing a gloved hand over his chest. The fabric of his robe—stitched from cloudsilk and prayer threads—did nothing to ease the tightness. He was too delicate for the realm he was born into.
Too fragile for a prince.
Every step he took felt like walking through shards of his own feathers.
"Your Highness," a soft voice called from behind a veil of vines. Seraphiel, one of his personal attendants, entered with a silver tray. "Your tonic."
The smell reached him before the cup did—sharp, bitter, metallic.
Lysander swallowed his sigh, taking the goblet with trembling fingers. His reflection rippled on the surface of the tonic—a pale boy with too-thin cheeks, hair like fallen moonlight, and eyes duller than any prince should be allowed to have.
He drank anyway. He always drank it.
Because if he didn't… his bones would start to crack from the inside.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice hoarse from disuse.
Seraphiel smiled gently but said nothing. No one in the palace ever said anything unless it was about him—the King.
A thunderclap shook the distant sky.
Lysander flinched.
Even through the thick glass of the solarium and the many gardens between the throne hall and his wing, he could hear his father's roars. Another tantrum, no doubt. Another servant cowering, another noble reprimanded, another sibling pretending not to care.
King Thalion Caelum was said to be the embodiment of divine fire.
But to Lysander, he was a storm disguised as a sun.
Breakfast was served in isolation.
Not because Lysander demanded it—but because no one else wanted him there.
The other princes and princesses dined in the Grand Hall, laughing over celestial nectar and starfruit while celestial bards sang tales of glory.
Lysander's tray today contained fruit slices shaped into wings, soft bread with honey drizzle, and a lukewarm glass of moonmilk. A perfectly curated meal for a prince whose body could not process more than a whisper of magic.
He barely touched it.
Not from pickiness. But because chewing tired him out.
"Young Master," said Seraphiel again, this time watching him from the corner of the room. "You'll grow weaker if you skip meals."
"I was born weak," Lysander murmured. "It's not like a few bites of bread will change that."
The silence afterward was heavy. Even the light seemed to dim, as if the very realm mourned with him.
He excused himself to the terrace.
Outside, the city of Caelumen shimmered in gold and white, clouds dancing across spire-tips and angelic wings gliding through sunbeams. Bells chimed in celebration of something—maybe a coronation, maybe a wedding, maybe another military victory.
Lysander never knew anymore. He wasn't invited to such events.
He wasn't the warrior prince like Luciel, or the healer princess like Aurelienne.
His cousin's
He was the forgotten one.
The one hidden behind veils, and whispered about behind gilded fans.
The prince with the glass bones. The son who should not have survived birth.
Sometimes, he wondered if his mother regretted saving him.
She visited that evening.
It wasn't often. But when Queen Celestina Caelum did appear, it was like watching a goddess descend in silk and sorrow.
She walked like the wind—silent, untouchable.
Lysander looked up from his embroidery when he sensed her aura at the door.
"…Mother."
She didn't smile.
She rarely did.
But her eyes—those haunting silver eyes they shared—softened.
"You missed your mid-afternoon tonic," she said, stepping inside.
He blinked, surprised. "How did you—?"
"I always know."
She sat on the edge of his daybed, her fingers brushing over the pillow as if memorizing his absence from it. Her gaze swept over the embroidery in his lap—a half-finished image of a phoenix rising from its own ashes.
"You've improved," she said.
It was the closest she ever came to praise.
"…Thank you."
A silence bloomed between them—fragile, blooming, painful.
"I dreamt again," Lysander said suddenly. His own voice startled him.
"Of what?" she asked.
He hesitated. "…Falling."
Her hands clenched ever so slightly.
He continued, "I had wings. Black ones. Not like the others. And I wasn't afraid of the dark. In the dream, I was strong. I wasn't sick. People feared me."
His mother's eyes became unreadable.
"And then?"
"I fell," he whispered. "But I didn't shatter. I burned."
Celestina didn't speak for a long time. Then she reached out, gently brushing a lock of hair from his cheek. Her touch was cool and fleeting.
"You should not speak of such dreams," she said softly. "Not in this palace."
"Why?" Lysander asked. "Because they don't sound holy?"
"…Because someone might start to believe them."
She stood before he could ask more.
And just like that—the warmth disappeared.
That night, he couldn't sleep.
The silence of his room was a weight pressing against his ribs. The moonlight offered no comfort, only shadows that whispered things he couldn't understand.
Lysander sat on the floor beside the open window, hugging his knees to his chest. He stared out at the stars, searching for answers that never came.
Why am I here?
Why did I survive when everyone said I wouldn't?
Why does it feel like something inside me is... wrong? Or broken? Or waiting?
He didn't know if it was the dreams.
Or the way he never truly felt like one of them.
Or the way his magic refused to manifest despite all the divine blessings poured into his veins since birth.
But something deep in him—a whisper older than time—told him that he didn't belong here.
Not in this body. Not in this realm. Not in this lie of light.
"I feel empty," he said aloud.
The words vanished into the night, unheard.
Or so he thought.
A soft gust of wind brushed past him—unnatural, cold, laced with a scent he couldn't place. Like ashes. Like old fire. Like forbidden truths.
His breath caught.
For a single, impossible second, a shadow crossed the sky above the palace.
Large. Winged. Burning.
But when he looked up…
There was nothing there.
The next morning, Lysander awoke with blood on his pillow.
Not from his mouth. But from his back.
Twin lines, red and raw, burned across his shoulder blades like open wounds.
Like something trying to break free.
Seraphiel screamed.
The palace healers rushed in.
Magic surged.
But the marks refused to fade.
And as they dragged him from the bed, Lysander felt it.
A whisper at the edge of his mind.
"Not yet."
"But soon."
___________________________________
CHARACTERS INTRODUCTION:
Lysander Caelum (Male)
Age: 18
Race: Angel (Reincarnated FL)
Personality:
Gentle, reserved, and empathetic
Intelligent and emotionally intuitive
Curious about the world beyond the palace
Naïve about love and his past life
Strong-willed when pushed
Likes:
Stars and sky gazing
Playing the harp
Healing magic
Reading ancient texts
Soft colors and warm sunlight
Dislikes:
Violence and bloodshed
The expectations placed on him as a royal
Being kept in the dark (especially about his illness)
Sudden touches from strangers
Demons—until Raelith challenges everything he knows
Background:
Born as the third and youngest son of the Angel King, Lysander was always treated delicately due to a mysterious illness. From a young age, he was told that he would only survive if his mate came for him at 18. Although he doesn't remember his past life, he often dreams of fire, pain, and a man with glowing eyes. His reincarnation as a male angel was never meant to happen—but fate intervened.
Interests:
Angelic healing arts
Drawing and sketching his dreams
Nature and sacred gardens
Listening to forbidden love stories
Learning about other realms (secretly curious about demons)
Queen Calestina Caelum:
Title: Angel Queen
Age: Appears mid-40s
Personality: Gentle, distant, emotionally conflicted
Traits: Empathetic but restrained, politically silenced
Appearance: Graceful, long silver-blonde hair, pale skin, delicate features, eyes of sky-blue grace
Background:
Queen once had a strong connection with divine magic but lost her abilities after giving birth to Lysander. Some say it was because she gave birth to a cursed child. She has always been distant, almost afraid of her son—not out of hatred, but because she remembers Seraphina from a forgotten life... and her dreams are filled with guilt.