Before the heroes—before those later called saviors and miracles—the Dominion was ruled by titans. Their cities weren't simply stone and steel: they were the breath and flesh of the elements. At the summit shone the citadel of Solaris—the mother of light, whose voice warmed the world like the morning sun. From her fire, Astaroth was born: not just a son, but a torch carried into the world to maintain the balance between flame and law.
Astaroth was a general of the Titan armies in a time when blades split the sky. His wings, as a child, shimmered like dawn; later, they grew heavy with the discipline forged in battle. He walked among his own, and they followed him not only out of fear—they saw something else in him: a compassion uncharacteristic of a Titan, and a hidden, almost forbidden humanity.
When Seymour—the Lord who ruled the other titans—convened the council, his voice was like thunder over the sea.
"Humans have forgotten their duty," he said. "They have usurped the right to life and land. We will restore order."
Astaroth listened and remained silent. Below, in the smoke of Girvil City, people were preparing their resistance; cities burned, and children's cries filled the night. Each time he sent a legion, the light of his sword cleansed the streets of the rising chaos—but what was cleansed and what was slain increasingly seemed the same to him. The light he carried was reflected in the eyes of the dying, and in these reflections a heaviness grew, unbearable for one who should have been merely a blade.
In those days, there was a different silence in Girvil City—not the silence of a lost city, but the silence of a decision. The Titans had invaded the city not simply to punish: rumor had it that Seymour himself was imprisoned there, and the city had become a symbol of the people's will—a place where they would could defy the Titans' power. For Astaroth, this was a point of choice. He did not come with the same calm, warrior-like fervor. He came because in the shadows of those houses lived the one for whom he had already begun to break his own laws.
Lilith. Her name echoed in his head like a forbidden refrain. She was not a titan, not quite one of those people—a woman with deceptively simple hands, with a voice that could guide the way in the darkness. Her laughter had once dispelled the fog of alienation in his chest; her presence had awakened in him a desire unknown to titans: to love without purpose, to love against duty. For her, he had betrayed his own—not with a single blow, but with an entire decision, allowing people to remain on those streets where otherwise there would have been none.
"Are you giving us Solaris's light?" the legionnaire whispered to him by the fireplace that evening. "Are you betraying the law for a woman?"
Astaroth didn't answer. His eyes were filled with a new light—and not just because he remained Solaris's son. Love was both his crime and his justification.
As the war reached its climax, Girvil City burned especially brightly. The Titans stormed with all their might, and in this maddening chaos, the final act began to unfold: Lilith was at the epicenter. The people gathered around her, and in her arms she held a doll—a child rescued from the ruins. She climbed the ruins and looked into the face of Astaroth, who stood atop the columns like a god, but with a human weakness in his chest.
"Take me away from here," she said quietly, so only he could hear. "Come away with me. Let everything burn, but we will be together."
His answer was not words, but actions. Astaroth leaned not towards victory, but towards withdrawal. He turned against those who depended on him: he did not destroy the city, he did not enslave the people—he withdrew his sword from them and allowed Lilith and those who remained to escape into the night. It was a betrayal of the Titans in a small but fatal sense; it tore the fabric of duty, like a finger tearing an embroidered seam.
The Titans did not forgive. Seymour—or what he left behind in the ruins of power—did not punish the traitor immediately. There was a battle where the earth trembled, where light collapsed bridges, and in this chaos, something happened that changed everything: Lilith died before Astaroth's eyes. Or at least, that's what he believed. Her body was torn apart by fire and stone; her scream was erased by the wind. He saw her fall and, exhausted, accepted her dead gaze as her final judgment.
"No!" he shouted, and the earth echoed back. "No!"
He raised his sword and directed a fury at the Titans he had never felt even on the battlefield. His light became cutting, desperate, and merciless. The Titans were stronger in numbers; Seymour did not allow the weakness to spread. In the end, Astaroth was defeated. He fell, and in that moment, as the flames from his wings faded, something shifted in the world.
Few knew what happened next—only those whose souls glided through the ephemeral space, and those left staring into the void with charred eyes. The souls of the fallen titans, including Solaris, vanished into the ephemeral void. Solaris dissolved into light and, in the same light, remained beyond his sight. She didn't know—she didn't know that her son had betrayed her, she didn't know that he was eager to die for a love she had never even suspected. Her whisper glided along the border of existence, never reaching the ground, and in her final moments, Astaroth heard only echoes of his mother's song.
Astaroth vanished from the battlefield in a form no one could have imagined before: an angel of light, twisted by blood and sin, reborn. His wings, once shimmering with pure flame, were transformed into tattered torches; loomed from beneath his armor, like a void swallowing the light. His face was hidden beneath his hood, and his eyes glowed from within, filled with both determination and unbearable loss.
He believed Lilith was dead and would never enter his life again. He didn't know that she was destined to become a demon—not because of Astaroth's betrayal, but because of her own demise and the strange nature of the world, where death is rarely final. The world had taken her crippled soul and fashioned it into a form of a different nature—one that stood at the edge of light and darkness. But Astaroth didn't see this; for him, the world remained a frozen image where she had fallen and never rose.
Then came the night when he stood atop the ruins of Girvil City, silently swearing an oath. He swore he would preserve her memory, that his light would burn, but no longer for the Titans' law. He swore he would protect those who were vulnerable, and that for that weakness he would accept any darkness. His promise was like a candle in the wind—bright, but doomed.
When the shadows receded and silence replaced the ashes, Astaroth was already different. He—and yet not himself: majestic yet wounded; full of fire, yet emptiness lurked within that fire. And so he remained in legend: a figure with charred wings, walking through the world, guided by the memory of love and oath, unaware that the one for whom he had betrayed everything had become what he feared most—a demon in the night.
And when Solaris slipped into ephemeral space, unable to discern her son's fate, the Dominion lost not only a titan of light but also the last vestige of a once-simple world. A new era began in the ruins: an era of secrets, oaths, and those who believed that light could redeem itself through darkness. Before the heroes—before those later called saviors and miracles—the titans ruled the Dominion. Their cities were not simply stone and steel: they were the breath and flesh of the elements. At the summit shone the citadel of Solaris—the mother of light, whose voice warmed the world like the morning sun. From her fire, Astaroth was born: not just a son, but a torch carried into the world to maintain the balance between flame and law.
Astaroth was a general of the Titan armies in a time when blades split the sky. His wings, as a child, shimmered like dawn; later, they grew heavy with the discipline forged in battle. He walked among his own, and they followed him not only out of fear—they saw something else in him: a compassion uncharacteristic of a Titan, and a hidden, almost forbidden humanity.
When Seymour—the Lord who ruled the other titans—convened the council, his voice was like thunder over the sea.
"Humans have forgotten their duty," he said. "They have usurped the right to life and land. We will restore order."
Astaroth listened and remained silent. Below, in the smoke of Girvil City, people were preparing their resistance; cities burned, and children's cries filled the night. Each time he sent a legion, the light of his sword cleansed the streets of the rising chaos—but what was cleansed and what was slain increasingly seemed the same to him. The light he carried was reflected in the eyes of the dying, and in these reflections a heaviness grew, unbearable for one who should have been merely a blade.
In those days, there was a different silence in Girvil City—not the silence of a lost city, but the silence of a decision. The Titans had invaded the city not simply to punish: rumor had it that Seymour himself was imprisoned there, and the city had become a symbol of the people's will—a place where their will could defy the Titans' power. For Astaroth, this was a point of choice. He did not come with the same calm, warrior-like fervor. He came because in the shadows of those houses lived the one for whom he had already begun to break his own laws.
Lilith. Her name echoed in his head like a forbidden refrain. She was not a titan, not quite one of those people—a woman with deceptively simple hands, with a voice that could guide the way in the darkness. Her laughter had once dispelled the fog of alienation in his chest; her presence had awakened in him a desire unknown to titans: to love without purpose, to love against duty. For her, he had betrayed his own—not with a single blow, but with an entire decision, allowing people to remain on those streets where otherwise there would have been none.
"Are you giving us Solaris's light?" the legionnaire whispered to him by the fireplace that evening. "Are you betraying the law for a woman?"
Astaroth didn't answer. His eyes were filled with a new light—and not just because he remained Solaris's son. Love was both his crime and his justification.
As the war reached its climax, Girvil City burned especially brightly. The Titans stormed with all their might, and in this maddening chaos, the final act began to unfold: Lilith was at the epicenter. The people gathered around her, and in her arms she held a doll—a child rescued from the ruins. She climbed the ruins and looked into the face of Astaroth, who stood atop the columns like a god, but with a human weakness in his chest.
"Take me away from here," she said quietly, so only he could hear. "Come away with me. Let everything burn, but we will be together."
His answer was not words, but actions. Astaroth leaned not toward victory, but toward withdrawal. He turned against those who depended on him: he did not destroy the city, he did not enslave the people—he withdrew his sword from them and allowed Lilith and those who remained to escape into the night. It was a betrayal of the Titans in a small but fatal sense; it tore the fabric of duty, like a finger tearing an embroidered seam.
The Titans did not forgive. Seymour—or what he left behind in the ruins of power—did not punish the traitor immediately. There was a battle where the earth trembled, where light collapsed bridges, and in this chaos, something happened that changed everything: Lilith died before Astaroth's eyes. Or at least, that's what he believed. Her body was torn apart by fire and stone; her scream was erased by the wind. He saw her fall and, exhausted, accepted her dead gaze as her final judgment.
"No!" he shouted, and the earth echoed back. "No!"
He raised his sword and directed a fury at the Titans he had never felt even on the battlefield. His light became cutting, desperate, and merciless. The Titans were stronger in numbers; Seymour did not allow the weakness to spread. In the end, Astaroth was defeated. He fell, and in that moment, as the flames from his wings faded, something shifted in the world.
Few knew what happened next—only those whose souls glided through the ephemeral space, and those left staring into the void with charred eyes. The souls of the fallen titans, including Solaris, vanished into the ephemeral void. Solaris dissolved into light and, in the same light, remained beyond his sight. She didn't know—she didn't know that her son had betrayed her, she didn't know that he was eager to die for a love she had never even suspected. Her whisper glided along the border of existence, never reaching the ground, and in her final moments, Astaroth heard only echoes of his mother's song.
Astaroth vanished from the battlefield in a form no one could have imagined before: an angel of light, twisted by blood and sin, reborn. His wings, once shimmering with pure flame, were transformed into tattered torches; darkness loomed from beneath his armor, like a void swallowing the light. His face was hidden beneath his hood, and his eyes glowed from within, filled with both determination and unbearable loss.
He believed Lilith was dead and would never enter his life again. He didn't know that she was destined to become a demon—not because of Astaroth's betrayal, but because of her own demise and the strange nature of the world, where death is rarely final. The world had taken her crippled soul and fashioned it into a form of a different nature—one that stood at the edge of light and darkness. But Astaroth didn't see this; for him, the world remained a frozen image where she had fallen and never rose.
Then came the night when he stood atop the ruins of Girvil City, silently swearing an oath. He swore he would preserve her memory, that his light would burn, but no longer for the Titans' law. He swore he would protect those who were vulnerable, and that for that weakness he would accept any darkness. His promise was like a candle in the wind—bright, but doomed.
When the shadows receded and silence replaced the ashes, Astaroth was already different. He—and yet not himself: majestic yet wounded; full of fire, yet emptiness lurked within that fire. And so he remained in legend: a figure with charred wings, walking through the world, guided by the memory of love and oath, unaware that the one for whom he had betrayed everything had become what he feared most—a demon in the night.
And when Solaris slipped into ephemeral space, unable to discern her son's fate, the Dominion lost not only a titan of light but also the last vestige of a once-simple world. A new era began in the ruins: an era of secrets, oaths, and those who believed that light could redeem itself through darkness.