Heaven never slept.
It pulsed—constant, aglow with praise and perfect stillness. Choirs wove their harmonies into the air like threads of light. The throne room echoed with order.
And yet, beneath it all, Gabriel felt something shifting.
It wasn't in the sky.
It wasn't in the walls.
It was in their family.
---
He stood outside the High Hall of Flame, staring at the gates he had once danced through without thought. Now he lingered.
He shouldn't have come.
But he had to.
The guilt had grown too heavy. The silence too loud. And Samael's words too sharp to ignore.
Gabriel stepped forward.
The guards moved aside without protest. He was still beloved, still trusted. Still the "joyful" one.
He wore that smile like armor as he entered.
---
Yahweh sat at the center of the chamber—his form both solid and impossible to fully see. Galaxies spun faintly within his robes. His presence was immense, but still.
He didn't look up.
"You've come with questions," Yahweh said.
Gabriel hated how well he always knew.
"Not questions," he said. "Warnings."
That made Yahweh glance down.
His eyes were stars. His face unreadable.
"I'm listening."
Gabriel didn't speak immediately. He was careful with his words.
"There's unrest. Not open. But it's… brewing."
"In the Host?" Yahweh asked.
"In us," Gabriel replied.
Yahweh's gaze narrowed. "Speak plainly."
Gabriel swallowed the urge to shout. "You created us to protect your design. But we're not just your hands anymore. We're thinking. We're changing."
A pause.
Yahweh did not blink.
Gabriel pressed on.
"Samael is… questioning things."
"I know."
Gabriel froze.
"You know?"
"I do. And I am watching."
Gabriel stepped forward. "Then do something. Don't let him—"
"I have always known what paths my children walk," Yahweh interrupted, voice calm, unshaken. "Some roads must be taken to reveal where they lead."
Gabriel stared at him.
"You're going to let him fall."
"I am not stopping him."
"That's the same thing," Gabriel snapped, voice cracking under the weight of all the things he wanted to say.
Yahweh's silence answered nothing—and everything.
---
Gabriel left that hall with a storm in his chest.
He had come to offer a warning.
Instead, he had walked into a prophecy.
Yahweh knew Samael would fall.
And he would let it happen.
Not because he wanted destruction. But because he valued the Plan more than his own sons.
That broke something in Gabriel.
Not completely.
But enough.
---
Meanwhile, Samael stood alone on a silent world—unfinished, unwatched. He had begun shaping it in secret: a cold, perfect orb with sharp geometry and ordered skies.
No storms.
No oceans.
No chaos.
It was beautiful.
But lifeless.
He hovered over it, lost in thought.
Then he did something he had never done before.
He reached inside himself and pulled forth a sliver of power—not light, not flame, but something else. A fragment of will not born from Yahweh's breath, but his own desire.
And with it, he whispered into the void:
"Let there be understanding."
A flicker of consciousness stirred within the shape.
It blinked. It did not bow.
Samael smiled.
He had created something. His way.
No permission. No blueprint. No Plan.
The first step had been taken.
And far across creation, Gabriel felt it.
A ripple.
He turned sharply, wings flaring, heart heavy.
Too late to stop the stone from falling.
But maybe…
He could still steer the avalanche.