The Archangel stood at the edge of the crystal stairway, his voice sharp and ringing like judgment.
"Why him? Why should he become God?"
The image froze, slowly shrinking into a small crystal orb.
Across the room, God—cloaked in plain white linen—sat alone at a table, watching the scene in silence. His pale eyes gave away nothing. Inside the orb, Lucifer still wore the pristine robes of a High Archangel, hair like sunlight, wings bright as dawn. The being he had once adored.
God watched as Lucifer shattered the crystal stairway leading to the throne. His wings blackened, hair darkened, eyes dulled from divine teal to stormy gray.
Inch by inch, grace faded. Corruption bloomed.
"Lord?"
A gentle knock broke the stillness. "The divine court is ready."
God said nothing, only waved his hand. The orb dimmed.
Inside it, Lucifer's eyes—glowing with fury—were the last to disappear.
Canaan. A ruined sanctuary.
The air was thick with oppressive dark energy, choking the forested lake. Nothing living stirred. On a broken tree trunk lounged a man in black, twirling a feather between pale fingers.
Lucifer.
In the lake's depths, a monstrous shadow twisted restlessly. The former archangel glanced down at the shivering demons below and casually pointed to one.
"Get Satan out of the lake."
The chosen demon froze, then looked up, trembling. "F-former High Archangel…"
Before he could finish, Lucifer flung him into the water like garbage.
"I hate being called that," he muttered, brushing off his hands. "Don't try 'Your Grace' either."
"Then what should they call you? Devil? Fallen angel?"
The voice came from above—pure, powerful, and still far too righteous.
A flaming sword streaked from the sky, gleaming silver and dragging sparks behind it.
Lucifer groaned. "You again."
With a flick of his hand, a whip of black magic cracked through the air, catching the holy blade mid-flight.
The sword… wiggled. Almost affectionately.
"Back!" the voice barked. The sword hesitated, then retreated to its scabbard.
Wings spread, red as fire, descended like a curtain. The man who landed wore a snowy uniform under a blazing crimson cloak. Flame tattooed his brow.
Michael, current High Archangel. Once Heaven's warrior. Now Heaven's regent.
One month ago, Lucifer, Michael, and Enoch had jointly judged humanity's fate after the apocalypse. The righteous were taken to Heaven. The damned to Hell. The rest? Purgatory.
Everything went smoothly.
Then God made an announcement.
"In six days, the Messiah shall ascend. Lucifer, you will lead the coronation."
Michael and Enoch left the throne room in confusion. Lucifer didn't.
He knelt there for a full day and night, waiting.
God's only reply?
"Lucifer... go home."
That was the last thing He ever said to him.
After that, Yahweh vanished.
Lucifer told himself it didn't matter.
That he didn't care the Messiah—a mortal man—would now rule Heaven.
Didn't care he was to kneel at the ceremony.
Didn't care about the linen robe or the stitched-gold mantle of divinity.
But when Moses read the decree—"The Messiah shall succeed Me"—Lucifer watched that mortal climb the holy stair, glowing in God's light, wrapped in robes that once symbolized Yahweh Himself…
He couldn't not care.
That light, that love, that power—it belonged to his God. The one he had worshipped, obeyed, loved.
How could anyone else be worthy?
So, he fell.
Lucifer, once Heaven's favorite, raised by God's own hand, cast off his title, shattered the throne, burned half of Heaven, and collapsed the Nine Circles of Hell—all in a single month.
And as he fell, he left behind one question:
"Why him?"
Heaven called it pride. Envy.
But the truth?
He fell not because he hated.
He fell because he was abandoned.
Michael landed beside him. Wind rustled their cloaks.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.
Lucifer raised a brow. "Which part? Tearing down Heaven? Wrecking Hell?"
Michael's gaze was steady. "Regret that even after all of it, God never came back."
Lucifer kicked him. "You talk too much."
Michael didn't flinch. He shifted further along the branch, giving Lucifer space. Older, wiser—he had raised Lucifer like a brother. Tolerated his tantrums. Indulged his arrogance.
But the truth was, Lucifer had always been different.
He wasn't just any angel. He was the first.
The only being God had ever created as a child. The only one God had held, raised, taught.
Lucifer always knew Yahweh was beyond everything—greater than the stars, beyond reason or possession.
But even so, some tiny part of him had hoped…
That maybe, just maybe, he meant something more.
That to God, he wasn't just another creation.
But then the Messiah happened.
And that hope was crushed beneath ceremonial linen and divine light.
Since that day, Lucifer had torn through the heavens like a vengeful storm. Burned the coronation. Destroyed the underworld.
He was just a child throwing a tantrum, trying to get God to look at him again.
To say:
You still matter to Me.
"Regret?"
He stood slowly, eyes on the setting sun. "I've never listened to your sermons, Michael. Why start now?"
What did he have to regret?
He'd lost everything—but if God wasn't there, then none of it mattered anyway.
He spread his wings—thirty-six of them—black and endless.
And was promptly yanked back down by his ankle.
Michael scowled. "Put those away. You're disrupting Gabriel and Raphael."
Lucifer kicked him again. Harder this time. "I don't want to."
"Fine," Michael dusted himself off. "Then I won't tell you the news I heard from God."
Lucifer froze.
One ear twitched.
Michael kept talking, casually. "Hm, the dark energy here's still intense. Poor Raphael must be struggling."
Lucifer didn't say a word.
But he folded his wings.
And snuffed out the black mist with a single sigh.
Quiet. Obedient. Just like a little brother.