Heaven had been built.
Its towers gleamed with raw grace, music flowed through the air like breath, and the angels—countless, loyal, radiant—had taken their place in Yahweh's great design.
But beneath the gold and light, the ground had begun to shift.
And Gabriel felt it.
It started with silence.
Lucifer, once vibrant and sharp, had grown distant. He spent hours alone among the stars, creating beauty in secret—planets made of ice crystals, light-bending illusions, floating gardens of thought and flame. Yahweh barely noticed. Or if He did, He said nothing.
Gabriel did.
He found Lucifer one day hovering over a world wrapped in perpetual auroras, its skies glowing with electric fire.
"You gonna name this one?" Gabriel asked, arms crossed behind his back.
Lucifer didn't look up. "What's the point? He'll just destroy it."
Gabriel raised a brow. "He?"
"Our 'Father.' Creator of all, destroyer of wonder."
Gabriel approached slowly. "You don't really believe that."
Lucifer finally turned. "Don't I? Tell me, Gabriel—have you ever created something just to see it, only to be told it's wrong? That it doesn't serve the Plan?"
Gabriel was quiet.
Because he had.
He remembered Earth. Or at least… his Earth. Where beauty came from chaos, not control. Where free will birthed both love and ruin—but was worth it.
"I think," Gabriel said, "you're not mad because he disapproves. You're mad because he never asked why you did it."
Lucifer's eyes flashed—curious, cautious. "And what would you know of that?"
Gabriel smiled. "More than I should."
---
Later, in the courts of Heaven, the tension broke into open words.
Lucifer stood before Yahweh, wings spread wide, voice clear and calm—but his fury burned just beneath the surface.
"You created us to worship you," he said. "But you never told us why."
Yahweh's eyes were stars behind stillness. "Because I am the source. Worship is the natural response to light."
Lucifer shook his head. "No. It's obedience you want. Not love."
Gasps echoed among the angels.
Michael stepped forward, armored and grim. "Watch your tongue, brother."
"I will not," Lucifer said, defiant. "You speak of loyalty, but you do not think. You follow."
Gabriel watched from the edge of the crowd.
This was the moment.
The pivot.
If he said nothing, the story would repeat. Fall. War. Death.
So he stepped forward.
Not enough to stop it.
Just enough to change it.
"Maybe," Gabriel said, his voice light and joking, "we all need to chill."
Eyes turned toward him.
"Look, I love a good heavenly speech as much as the next guy, but you're both acting like this is the end of everything. Can't we just… talk?" He looked at Yahweh. "You always told us questions weren't a threat. Right?"
Yahweh stared at him. "You speak out of turn."
Gabriel shrugged, unbothered. "Then maybe we need to take turns a little better."
Lucifer gave him the smallest glance—a flicker of something unreadable.
Michael frowned. Raphael said nothing.
But the moment passed.
The court dismissed. The rebellion didn't begin that day.
But a seed had been watered.
And Gabriel knew: the timeline was bending. Slowly.
He just had to keep pushing.