The next three days continued Azazel’s humiliation.

Other angels pantomimed drowning when he was around and floundered about. Those who could change their appearances even turned their own faces shades of blue or purple. Azazel could have laughed if it weren’t such an excruciating reminder. Whenever he saw these people mimicking his behavior during that moment of agony, he forced a smile, nodded his head, and walked away.

On the third night since his public castigation, a strange visitor came to Azazel’s home.

The city stretched on, high into the sky in twisted spires and spiraled towers. The silver orbs at their peaks resembled glittering stars at night, when the three moons passed overhead. Every floor in those towers was home to some angel or another, with the wealthiest and most respected of all heavenly hosts resting in the highest rooms.

Azazel’s home was at the very base of one such tower. When the sun rose in the morning, he felt its warmth an hour later than everyone else. In the winter months, this meant he was one of those unlucky souls forced to awake in darkness.

Having arrived at his humble home, the messenger slipped his key into the lock, then turned the dials just above the knob to arrange the runes in the right combination. When the four rings were lined up perfectly, there was a clicking sound within, and the golden rings spun back to their starting position. The door swung open, and a cloud of white smoke drifted out from inside. Azazel choked on the plume and rubbed his eyes. “Enlil’s bones! What is…”

“Ah, good. Yer home. Have a seat,” came a raspy voice from within.

Azazel pushed his way through the billows until he could see the intruder who’d been so kind as to fill his abode with that awful stench.

Upon Azazel’s favorite stool sat an angel wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long, tan coat. Hints of a beard grew along his jaw, and a lit cigar sat between his teeth. His skin looked like sandpaper. His hair jutted out from under his hat like straw in a scarecrow. “Well?” said the stranger, his voice just as gruff as before. “I said ‘have a seat,’ didn’t I?” Somehow, in spite of the large cigar between his teeth, the trespasser’s diction was flawless. Azazel could only imagine how many centuries this angelic warrior had practiced speaking and smoking at the same time.

Azazel balanced himself on one of his less comfortable stools across the room. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this home invasion?”

The other angel took a long breath from his cigar and exhaled more smoke. “I have a new job for you. But before we get into that, introductions first. My name is Mitzvael, but most folks just call me ‘Law.’”

Law?

Of course! The angel was just as the stories always told. From the wide-brimmed hat to the stench of his cigar. Everyone spoke of this fearless angel, who flung himself into hordes of enemies with a blunderbuss in hand.

“I..” Azazel stammered. “I… umm…”

“Your name is Azazel, right?” said Law.

“Y-yes,” said Azazel. He thought for a moment, then a smirk crossed his lips. “But my friends just call me ‘Zel.’”

Law snorted and shook his head. “No. No one calls you that.” He stood from the chair and patted Azazel on the shoulder. “Especially when ‘Ozz’ is so much better.”

“Ozz?” Azazel intoned.

Law puffed at his cigar and exhaled. “Yup. Going to call you ‘Ozz’ from now on. Deal with it. So, listen, Ozz, the higher ups have given their go-ahead for you to be king of Tir Shazelle.”

Azazel’s stomach dropped and seemed about to launch something back up in vengeance. King of Tir Shazelle… Any human extended such an offer would have been ecstatic, but to an angel there were few worse punishments.

Save for death, of course.

Becoming a king among mortals meant he’d be lower than any angel still in the heavenly cities.

He’d be allowed to marry a mortal woman, but if he didn’t produce heirs with her then his rule would be under constant threat. Azazel took in sharp breaths. Most angels were infertile, and he had yet to discover if he could conceive children or not.

Azazel recalled tales of another angel, long ago, who’d been made king of Atka in the cold north. The poor sap’s castle was under relentless siege. No enemy ever broke through, but the constant draft froze the life out of him in his own bed.

Then there was the angel made king of the Ainu Islands, whose assassins stabbed him forty-seven times. One such assassin was his own queen, the mother of his heirs.

Law hadn’t come to offer Azazel a job, he’d come to offer him a lighter sentence. One he claimed his superiors had approved.

“The higher-ups?” asked Azazel. “Do you mean this comes from the Archangel herself?”

“No!” Law shook his head. “No, don’t be ridiculous! The Principality is as high as I had to go.”

“The Principality, I see…” Azazel nervously picked at his lip with his fingernail. “So, he believes I am… worthy of such an honor? That I deserve a crown?”

“That’s what he said.” Law shrugged. “So, you can take yer crown and deal with it, or you can gamble that he might…” Law made air quotes with his fingers, “honor you some other way.”

Azazel shuddered. “I accept your appointment. I could hope for no greater honor than sitting on the throne of Tir Shazelle.”

Only a day to pack, and Azazel was off with the few belongings he was allowed to keep.

100 seleni coins, a suit of armor, two days’ rations, a journal, what he’d decided was his favorite book, a bedroll, and a new sword.

On the morning he left, angels had already gathered the rest of his belongings outside and were preparing to divide them up. Two angels carried away his bed. Two more took the dresser he’d had since he was a cherub. His heart stung when he saw more angels abscond with his collection of books.

Azazel passed the sapphire fountain, where years ago he’d had his first kiss. What was her name again? Oh, yes, Gadril.

He also passed the Iacore Tree, under which he’d spent countless days as a cherub studying the tales of paragons: great angels who had stood up against evil and made names for themselves. In those days he’d had so much hope for his future. Now, the contemptuous faces of his fellow angels told him he was disgraced.

Finally, Azazel came to the edge of the city, where Law stood waiting, along with six other angels. They each wore silver armor, and helmets with vizors over their faces.

Law nodded to Azazel and held out a scroll.

Azazel nodded to Law and took the scroll.

The older angel said, “You’ll find some instructions in there, just a few things ta help ya get started becomin’ king of Tir Shazelle. Check it regularly, because the words will change as I send you more advice. Just know; if ya muff this all up you won’t be on the throne long.”

“Thank you for the warning.” Azazel didn’t dare look into the eyes of any of those present for his departure.

Until Law put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. When Azazel met Law’s eyes, the gruff angel whispered to him, “All’s not lost, Ozz. I was disgraced once too.” Without another word, Law seized Azazel by both arms and hurled him from the city’s edge.