The call went out at dawn.
Not that dawn meant anything anymore. The sky hadn't changed in hours—cracked white, bleeding light, the same static haze that had settled after the Tribunal fell. But Michael had always marked time by rhythm, not by sun. And his rhythm said now.
He stood at the center of what remained of Heaven's army.
Not the center of a formation. There was no formation anymore. Just scattered clusters of angels, sitting, standing, leaning against broken stone. Some had their wings folded tight. Others kept them half-spread, ready to move, ready to flee, ready for something Michael couldn't name.
He raised his hand. Didn't speak. Just raised it.
Angels turned.
Some came.
Others didn't.
Michael saw it happen in real time—the split. Not soldiers disobeying orders. Something deeper. Something that had been growing since the Father fell silent.
He called again. Louder this time.
"To me."
More turned. More came. But not all.
