The sky cracked without sound.
There was no trumpet.
No fire.
No glory.
Just a stillness so absolute, it felt like Heaven itself was holding its breath.
---
Samael stood in the center of the Court of Judgement, unbound, unflinching.
He did not kneel.
He did not weep.
He looked upon Yahweh, and though his wings still gleamed with silver, there was a shadow in his eyes now—an absence where innocence once lived.
All around him, the Host stood in silence. Legions of angels watching, unmoving. Some afraid. Some in awe. Most confused.
But no one spoke.
Only Yahweh.
"Do you deny my will?"
Samael's voice was clear. Steady.
"I do not deny it. I reject it."
---
Far above, on the outermost edge of Heaven, Gabriel knelt in a circle of stars, his eyes closed, heart burning with a grief that hadn't yet happened—but already had.
He could feel it.
Every word. Every choice. Every beat of defiance echoing through the Grace they once shared.
He gripped the edge of a cloud, knuckles white.
He didn't want to watch.
But he had to.
---
Back in the court, Michael stepped forward, his blade unsheathed.
His hand trembled.
They had fought together. Laughed together. Shaped creation together.
Now he stood across from his brother with duty in his hands and sorrow in his eyes.
"Don't make me do this," he said softly.
Samael looked at him.
"You already have."
---
Gabriel's wings shook.
He saw it unfold—not just through his eyes, but through Samael's. The ache. The silence. The cold distance from a father who had once burned brighter than all.
He whispered to no one, "Turn back. Please… just turn back."
But the wheel had turned too far.
---
Yahweh raised his hand.
"This is the judgment," he said.
His voice layered across time, creation, and the very laws of Heaven.
"Samael, second-born of the archangels, bearer of light, you have defied the divine order. You are hereby cast out from the Kingdom of Heaven. Your name shall no longer be sung in reverence, but remembered in sorrow."
The moment paused.
A breath, sharp as a blade.
Then—
The light shattered.
---
Samael's Grace tore like fabric.
His wings burned—white to gray, then black, then nothing.
He gasped—not in pain, but in shock.
Not because he didn't know this would happen.
But because even knowing… he hadn't been prepared for what it felt like to be unmade.
He fell.
Not through space.
Through truth.
Through the memory of every praise he'd ever given, every time he called Yahweh "Father" and meant it.
The Host turned their eyes away.
Michael looked down.
Raphael closed his.
Only Gabriel kept watching.
---
Tears blurred his sight—burning, useless things he hadn't known angels could make.
He whispered, "I'm sorry."
But Samael was already gone.
A streak of broken light across eternity, spiraling downward toward the void.
His name echoed once—
"Samael."
—and then no more.
---
The heavens were still again.
The balance had been kept.
But something essential was lost.
Not just a son.
Not just a brother.
But a future that could've been different.
Gabriel stood alone on the edge of Heaven, wings folded tightly, and for the first time in his divine existence…
He hated the silence.