The angels gathered at the edge of the broken plain.
Not in formation. Not in ranks. Just... there. Clusters of white and gold against the grey stone, wings folded, heads bowed. Some knelt. Some stood with their arms crossed. Some sat on shattered pillars, staring at nothing.
Fewer than half had returned.
Michael walked among them. Not at the front. Not on a dais. Just through the clusters, stepping carefully, not meeting eyes. He had nothing to offer them yet. No plan. No promise. Just presence.
They watched him pass.
Some looked away.
Some held his gaze.
Some simply stared through him, like he was already a ghost.
He stopped at the center of the gathering. Turned. Looked at what remained of Heaven's army. The numbers were worse than he had expected. The Seraphim had been cut in half. The Cherubim were scattered. The Thrones—the great wheels of fire and eyes—had been reduced to a handful, their light dim, their rotations slow and painful.
Michael raised his hand.
