Majestic °•𝐺𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑛•°

Grim, the Exiled Angel

Born beneath the rule of his father, Red Thorn, Grim was a cub unlike any other. Where his sister grew gentle and wise, he was cruel, relentless—a lion whose claws found purpose in bloodshed before he was even fully grown. He hunted not just for survival but for the sheer thrill of the kill. His pride whispered of his cruelty, their uneasy gazes lingering too long upon him. It was only a matter of time before Red Thorn made the decision no father wishes to make. At just 1 year and 3 months old, Grim was exalted, banished from the pride to walk the lands alone.

For five weeks, he wandered the savannah in exile, surviving only by sheer instinct. Hunger gnawed at him, and the loneliness sank deep into his bones. In his solitude, he came to see his past for what it was—reckless, merciless, wrong. When he finally returned, the pride stood wary, but Grim spoke of redemption, of change, of a lesson learned in blood and solitude. Against their better judgment, they accepted him once more.

Yet fate is a cruel mistress.

At 2 years and 2 months old, Grim met his end beneath the thunderous hooves of a stampeding buffalo herd. The pain was brief—the darkness, infinite. And then…light. He awoke not in the endless void of death but in the golden expanse of heaven. The gods stood before him, their judgment unreadable. He had not lived a life of kindness, yet mercy was not beyond reach. To truly earn his place among them, he was given a trial: he must commit great deeds, prove his redemption, and earn the five sacred wings of the heavens.

Seven months passed, and Grim fulfilled his penance. One by one, he earned his wings, the celestial markings upon his body proof of his newfound grace. For the first time in his existence, he was at peace.

Then the horror came.

A crime was committed—an act so vile, so diabolic, that the heavens themselves trembled. Grim was found at the scene, the only soul present, and in their fury, the gods cast him down. He pleaded his innocence, but there was no proof, no other suspect. He was thrown from heaven, exiled to an endless enchanted forest, a realm where the trees whispered and the shadows clawed at his sanity.

Here, sleep was a luxury he could not afford. The forest was alive, its dangers unseen but ever-present, lurking just beyond his reach. Insomnia took root in his bones; his once-glorious wings became a mockery of what he had lost. His only solace lay in the herbs, the plants, the potions he crafted to sustain himself. He would survive.

The gods demand he confess to his crime, to bow his head and beg for forgiveness. But Grim refuses.

Because he knows the truth.

It was not him.

He was there. He saw the aftermath. But he did not commit the crime. And yet, there had been no other. No witness. No proof. Just him, standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And so, he walks.

Endlessly.

Trapped in a realm with no escape, searching for an answer he may never find.

He knows only this: the gods will not free him. Not until he admits to a crime he did not commit.

And that?

That he will never do.