From high above, a forgotten kingdom weeps in silence.
A land that was once mighty is now nothing — nothing but a ruinous heap consumed by overgrowth. Vines eat away at the once majestic balconies. The whole kingdom is shrouded in fog, the ruins surrounded on all sides
A shattered fountain glimmers faintly in the center of the courtyard, its waters stilled decades ago. The wind sighs through the ruins like a ghost remembering names no one speaks aloud.
In the center of the ruins, the ground opens into a giant circle of broken glass. Its shards stick out like jagged teeth. It once sealed the lower levels of the castle. But now it's broken from whatever disaster that tormented this land.
Within the void, a teen boy clings to the edge of the hollow with only one hand, fighting to keep a grip.
He's no older than fifteen, with caramel brown skin — golden and warm under the fog-drenched light. His features are calm and serious even now, restrained but fierce. His short black hair is messy, and his eyes — normally a cool, sharp green — burn with tension and disbelief. But there's something else buried in them, something flickering.
The light in them begins to dim.
The cutting sound of glass sliding against pavement is heard, accompanied by light and deliberate footsteps approaching.
The sound catches his attention, and he looks upward. A figure comes to a halt, standing over him, staring down at him with an empty gaze.
It's a woman in a black, tattered gown that sweeps behind her like mourning mist. Her dress clings in places, shredded in others, stitched by time and shadow. Cobwebs trail from her limbs like gossamer threads, and ash stains her bare arms and cheeks like old sorrow. Her eyes are pale — nearly colorless — set deep in a face once beautiful, now haunted. Her dark skin is dulled, faded like forgotten parchment.
She is the Widow of Woe.
The boy's eyes become unsteady, unable to read the woman's intentions at all.
Boy: Please...
The woman kneels. She gently caresses his face, but her expression is unreadable. Her fingers trail along his cheek, brushing over a fresh cut. Her touch is soft — far too soft — but it carries a chill.
The boy opens his mouth as if to speak again, searching for words, but they never come. The Widow tilts her head, a faint, wistful smile curving her lips — almost adoring.
Then, she lifts one finger and presses it to his forehead.
The world holds its breath.
His eyes widen. In a flash, he falls backward, gravity vanishing beneath him.
The wind rushes around him. He's falling so fast the undercroft walls around him blur like melting oil paintings.
Glass shards slice his sleeves.
Crash— One after another, he smashes through floating objects:
A canvas bursting with color—torn in half.
A statue of a praying angelic boy—its halo and one wing shatter.
A framed portrait of him smiling—cracked straight down the middle.
Each collision adds new wounds: scratches, bruises, blood.
Below him, a radiant stained glass window flickers in the last sunlight.
Depicted on the glass is a version of himself — smiling, alive — holding hands with a princess adorned in delicate pink garment and fine jewels.
And then—he crashes through it.
Time slows. The shards float upward like fireflies, catching the light.
Then—
Thud.
Darkness swallows all.
Slowly, the boy's hand, bruised and trembling, twitches.
His fingers curl tight.
He's face down on stone. The floor is freezing beneath him, and only a faint red glow from what remains of the sun illuminates the air.
He groans softly, forcing himself upright.
A single drop of blood trails from his palm and hits the floor.
Drip.
The sound echoes like a forgotten name.
Across the vast, dark space sits a throne — barely visible in the gloom. On it, a silhouette reclines with unnerving ease.
His posture is relaxed, arrogant — one leg draped over the armrest.
This figure has been watching from the start. Watching. Waiting.
Now, his voice finally breaks the silence.
?: Well if it isn't the Angel of Light...
The boy — Angel — lifts his gaze.
His eyes widen in shock. That voice...
That presence...
It's too familiar.
The figure stands, stretching out of his throne like a shadow unfolding. He steps forward slowly. His boots thud deliberately across the stone. The air grows heavier with each footstep.
?: Restorer of Peace. Menace to Darkness. Great Savior of Hearts...
Each title he recites spills like poison.
He emerges from the shadows — not entirely, just enough for the light to catch him.
The figure wears a black, decayed reaper's cloak hanging in loose strips like rotted wings.
His skin is pale and gray — dead, but not skeletal — riddled with cuts, bruises, remnants of rot. Hair long, straight, and wildly unkempt, falling around his face like tattered curtains. His features, sharp and strangely familiar. His eyes glow a deep, blood-red, and a cold smile rests on his face.
He is what his name implies. He is Death.
Upon sight, Angel's ears ring violently. He stumbles, clutching his skull.
Visions — memories — rush in like a flood. So vivid, so real:
A woman turning from a screaming baby boy.
A little girl gasping her last breath.
A boy in a hospital drawing, alone.
Laughter. Mockery. Isolation.
A boy crying alone in a closet.
Death draws closer, smile widening.
Death: Do you get it now, Angel? You're no hero. (scoffs) You can't even save yourself.
Angel backs away, clutching his temples. Death closes in on him.
Death: All you can do... is run away! You're weak!
(He grabs Angel by the throat, his tone low but menacing) Face it, Angel!
Angel squeezes his eyes shut, struggling.
But Death forces him to look.
The moment their eyes meet — the glow of Death's red piercing into the green of Angel's — Angel's left eye flares a bright red with a black sclera, as if something inside him awakens in terror.
Sound fades, forgotten.
Angel's hand drops.
His strength—gone.
His mind spirals.
Memories flash again.
The crying baby. The dying girl. The lonely child.
Death: You were never wanted...
In the memory, the closet door opens. Light spills in.
A woman kneels in the doorway. Her eyes widen in terror at what she sees inside:
A boy with pitch-black sclera, and a red glowing iris.
The memory hangs — a thread pulled too tight.
And then—
SHATTER.
Angel breaks.
He lets out a scream, raw and world-ending.
SWEETMAGIQ STUDIOS PRESENTS:
ARTBOUND
Written by: Reapunzel