The First Age, Year 1 of the Sun.
The Dark Lord Morgoth sat upon his black throne in the depths of Angband, his fortress of iron and fire. The great mountain of Thangorodrim loomed above, wreathed in smoke, while rivers of molten rock churned in the forges below. He brooded in the darkness, his red eyes gleaming with malevolent thought. The Elves had grown stronger, defying his will. The Valar still opposed him from afar. And though his armies were vast—Orcs beyond count, Balrogs wreathed in shadow and flame, even his most trusted lieutenant, Sauron—he desired something more.
He desired a son.
Not one born of flesh as the weak Elves and Men were, nor one shaped from the lesser creatures of the world. No, Morgoth would create a being forged from his very essence, an extension of his own will. A warrior of death, a leader of destruction.
For decades, Morgoth worked in secrecy, pouring his own blood and power into a vessel unlike any before. His cruelty, his hatred, his ambition—he wove all of these into the being's form, binding it with spells darker than the void itself. It was a slow and agonizing process, even for one as mighty as he. But Morgoth had never been patient—except in the pursuit of ultimate dominion.
And so, sixty-five years passed. The world outside changed. The Siege of Angband had begun, and for the first time, Morgoth's fortress was beset by his enemies. But within the deepest chambers of his citadel, something far greater was unfolding.
Then, at last, the child was born.
Morgoth loomed over the black altar where the newborn lay. His dark heart should have been filled with triumph. And yet, as his crimson gaze settled upon the infant, his satisfaction turned to rage.
The child was beautiful.
Golden-haired, golden-winged, glowing with a light that should not have existed within the pits of Angband. He was radiant, like the Ainur before the corruption, like the being Morgoth himself had once been—before the Fall, before the rebellion, before his hatred consumed him.
The sight of it repulsed him.
Morgoth's fury boiled over. With a roar that shook the halls of Angband, he seized the child in his massive, armored hands. He would not tolerate this mockery, this insult to his will. He had created a creature of death, and yet it bore the light he had long since forsaken.
He would cast it out.
Raising the infant high, Morgoth hurled him with all his power, his wrath behind the throw. The child's small body was flung from the iron gates of Angband, soaring like a star across the sky. The force of the throw sent him beyond the fortress, beyond the smoking peaks of Thangorodrim, beyond the plains of Ard-galen. For minutes, the infant tumbled through the heavens, his golden wings trailing light like a fallen Maia.
Then, the inevitable.
A mountain loomed in his path. The child struck it with a force unimaginable, the impact so great that the entire peak collapsed in a thunderous avalanche. Rocks shattered. Dust and fire erupted into the air. The land itself seemed to tremble at the violence of his fall.
Silence followed.
Then, from beneath the ruin of the mountain, a cry rang out. A wail of pain, of loss, of something neither mortal nor divine. It echoed across the lands, chilling the hearts of those who heard it. The cry of something abandoned. Something that should not be, and yet was.
Lucifer Demiurgos had survived.
And the world would come to fear him.