A stunning illustration rendered in the bold, textured brushstrokes of Leonid Afremov combined with the fluidity of ink washing. A fallen angel, her once-white wings now charred and tattered, crouches on the edge of a crumbling stone temple. Her once-radiant skin, now a pale, ashen gray, glows faintly in the dim light of a burning sky, and her golden hair falls in disheveled waves around her face. Her silver eyes, now dull with sorrow and rage, stare out over the broken world below, her hands gripping a twisted, blackened sword. Her armour, once gleaming and pristine, is now scorched and shattered, hanging in pieces from her slender frame. The dark clouds above swirl ominously, lit from below by the fires of a world consumed by chaos. Behind her, the remnants of a holy city lie in ruins, its once-grand spires reduced to rubble, bathed in an eerie red glow. Her expression is one of deep anguish, her jaw clenched as if she is fighting back tears, while a single, blackened feather drifts from her wing, falling slowly to the ground. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and ash, and the faint echo of distant screams lingers in the background
