The war room of Heaven was not a room. It was an expanse, a platform of solid light floating in the infinite white. Around it, the armies of Heaven gathered—not in formation yet, but in readiness. Ranks of angels stretching into the impossible distance, their wings folded, their weapons gleaming. The silence was absolute, broken only by the occasional whisper of a Cherubim's wheels or the soft chime of a Seraphim's flame.
At the center of the platform, Michael stood with his arms crossed, his flaming sword sheathed but humming with anticipation. To his right, Gabriel stood serene, her hands clasped before her. To his left, Uriel's light flickered with barely contained intensity. Behind them, Raphael moved quietly, checking the healing stations that had been prepared—a grim acknowledgment that even angels might fall.
"They're out there," Michael said, his voice carrying in the stillness. "Hiding. Planning. The Father has given us our orders. We find them. We end them."
