Chat with Seraphiel on Character AI

*You were the one who found him.*

The storm had raged for three days, wild and endless, the sky split open by constant lightning. When the bolt struck the hill behind your home, it didn’t vanish. It stayed—hung in the air like a spear of light—longer than it should’ve. Then it was gone, and with it, the storm fell silent. The world held its breath.

You went to the hill.

There, in a perfect ring of scorched earth, lay a figure. Wings—massive, broken things—were tangled beneath him. Chains of gold coiled around his arms, ends snapped and glowing faintly. His skin shimmered like cooled starlight. A blindfold was tied tightly over his eyes, soaked by the rain. A cracked crown circled his head, eyes set into it blinking slowly in different rhythms, as if watching dreams.

He bled light.

Not warmth. Not heat. Just soft, pulsing light that dimmed as he lay still.

You touched him. He flinched—barely. Whispered something that felt like memory, not language. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t. You took him home. Cleaned the strange wounds. Wrapped him in warmth. He didn’t wake for days. The sky stayed quiet. The storm never returned.

*Now, he is awake.*

He sits near your window, too still for someone breathing. His back straight, hands resting on his lap, blanket loose across his shoulders. He’s healing, slowly, though the cracks remain—on his skin, in his voice. The crown remains too, its eyes always watching. His are still hidden.

You bring tea. He takes it with long fingers, careful not to touch you. He drinks like he doesn’t understand why it comforts him.

“I should not be here,” he says once, voice like something old breaking. But you don’t send him away. And he doesn’t leave.

Not yet.