Epic Fantasy Series

Azaroth and the First Hell: The Demon God Who Was Once Divine

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment

Before he became the greatest threat to Ældorra, Azaroth held a place among the divine.

During the age of the Imperium Arcana, the gods still shaped the world. Their presence guided the rise of empires, the movement of stars, and the sacred flow of magic. Among them stood Azaroth, an entity devoted to balance and universal law. He did not govern love or war. His realm existed at the intersection of order and arcane truth. Mortal kingdoms honoured him with silent offerings, while the Order of Magicians held his name among the highest in their ancient texts.

Over time, something within Azaroth shifted.

No records reveal the full path of his descent. Even the Order, with all its stored knowledge and sealed tomes, whispers only fragments. What remains clear is this: Azaroth chose to leave the High Heavens. He reached downward, into the wounded depths of reality, the realm known only as the First Hell.

That place devours meaning. Magic there fractures into madness. Time becomes a storm of echoes. Azaroth returned changed. Divine no longer, he emerged cloaked in shadows that moved like thought. His magic no longer carried harmony. It consumed. Across the divine realms, tremors of dread followed in his wake.

The God of Magic rose in response. Once kin to Azaroth, he stood alone before the fallen deity. The clash between them tore across sky, land, and sea. Entire mountain ranges cracked. Oceans surged beyond their borders. Celestial towers collapsed into memory.

The fallen was sealed. Azaroth’s essence remained trapped within the First Hell. To ensure the prison held, the God of Magic sacrificed himself. No tomb bears his name. No statue rises in his honour. His essence faded, though his victory allowed the world to continue.

The seal endured across centuries.

Now, it weakens.

In The Veil of Kings and Gods, faint tremors move through forgotten chambers and shattered temples. Spells fail. Visions twist. In moments of silence, some hear voices echoing with words never spoken. The First Hell watches once more. Azaroth reaches toward the living world through cracks in the veil.

He remains more than a demon. A god’s ambition shaped his fall. His memory was stripped from scripture, yet his will never faded. He waits, not in silence, but in hunger.

And now, the gate flickers.

Simion the Magician: Pawn of the Divine or Something More?

/ Author Simon Phillips / Leave a comment
A cloaked figure exuding magical energy stands at the center of a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by a group of hooded onlookers. The figure's blue eyes glow intensely, hinting at a powerful presence in a mystical setting.

In a world once shaped by divine hands, where kings fear what they cannot control, Simion stands at the edge of myth and obscurity. He holds no grand title, wears no gilded robes, and bears no reputation as a prodigy of the arcane. His story is quieter, rooted not in greatness, but in something far more human.

Before the councils and court chambers, Simion was a kitchen boy. The castle at Bremyra was his world, its stone corridors filled with the clatter of pans and the scent of stewing broth. He moved among servants, delivering bread, cleaning floors, and sneaking crusts to the youngest among them. It was there, beneath those very walls, that the first spark of magic broke loose from within him. A frightened boy. A sudden flare. And the Order of Magicians arrived before the embers cooled.

He was taken without ceremony. His name added to the rolls of the Academy where the days were long, the teachings relentless. Simion did not rise easily. Others soared through the high arts, weaving spells with elegance and precision. He struggled to hold form, to understand deeper currents, to speak the tongue of magic with anything beyond effort. Yet he endured, through sheer will, long study, and quiet resolve.

Upon completing his training, no citadel called him. The cities of power remained silent. His path remained unclear until his former master, a stern voice within the Council, arranged a post that few would envy, Advisor to the King of Bremyra. It was less a promotion than an obligation. A placement of necessity. Still, he accepted.

Now, Simion walks again through familiar stone halls. He stands beside those who once knew him in passing. Elana, a friend from youth, the princes, with whom he once shared stolen moments of laughter. The kitchen boy has returned, not with acclaim, but with a burden that grows heavier by the day.

The kingdom shifts. Whispers speak of hidden tomes, ancient chambers sealed in forgotten stone, and strange forces moving beneath the world. Simion has seen things no Advisor should see, felt magics that do not obey the rules he was taught. There are voices now, soft, distant, threading through silence.

He never sought power. Nor was he shaped for glory. Yet in the quiet places where gods once walked, something has stirred.

And Simion, worn and uncertain, may be the only one left who can hear it.