Eons after the Morningstar's fall, the heavens once again shuddered beneath the weight of judgment.
Another angel stood accused—one whose hunger for power rivaled empires, whose ambition for conquest burned hotter than creation's first flame, whose defiance had not merely broken the divine order but spat in its face.
The Supreme Court of Zion was no ordinary hall. It was a realm above realms—a dimension where light itself bowed to higher law.
The walls rippled with constellations older than time, shifting like the breath of eternity. The floor was an endless river of nebulae, its currents spilling stardust that clung to the sandals of gods. The air thrummed—not with sound, but with the weight of divine attention.
Dust older than worlds drifted lazily through beams of immortal radiance that fell from thirteen towering thrones. On each sat a god, their very essence blazing with a power mortals could never name.
And in the center—shackled in chains of living scripture—stood Lucian, the Angel of Naught.
The title was less a name than a condemnation. No epithet could cage the magnitude of his existence. Once, his wings had been flawless white; now they bled shadow at the edges, a corruption so subtle yet so absolute that even the other celestials recoiled.
Legends whispered that his strength had grown to such heights it unsettled thirteen of the fourteen supreme gods. To Lucian, those whispers were not a warning. They were an invitation.
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"Silence."
Michael's voice, the Archangel of War, swept through the court like a divine inferno, burning away every murmur until only his command remained. The very air recoiled.
This trial had spanned decades of Heaven's reckoning—a mere blink to the eternal, but long enough for even the gods to measure his sins. The jury of the blessed had spoken: guilty of blasphemy, guilty of rebellion, guilty of seeking to unseat the divine.
Yet their words were nothing but prelude. The true verdict would come from the thirteen gods themselves.
"Úzen, God of Fire—guilty of all charges."
"Hybris, God of Stars—guilty of all charges."
One by one, each voice of divinity thundered through the court. By the end, thirteen pillars of godhood stood unanimous.
Michael raised his hand. "By the decree of all thirteen, you are judged guilty and now face Heaven's wrath."
---
Lucian's lips curled into a chuckle. At first, it was quiet—just the tremor of amusement. Then it broke loose, echoing up through the vaulted constellations, rolling across the infinite sprawl of Heaven like the laughter of a mad star.
"Punish me, then!" he barked. His chains clinked as he raised them in mock offering. "Come down here, Michael! Or are you still trembling from our last encounter?"
Michael's jaw tightened—a hairline fracture in the mask of the Archangel of War.
"You speak as though you won," he said.
Lucian's grin sharpened. "No. But I didn't lose, either. Eons ago, when I was weaker, I stood against you—the mightiest of the celestials beneath the gods—and I did not fall. Tell me, Michael… how will it end this time?"
The flicker in Michael's eyes was victory enough.
Lucian's gaze turned upward, meeting the burning stares of the thrones.
"Or perhaps one of you will do it? You've heard the rumors. That my power could rival even yours. Why not come down and prove them false?"
---
The Court went still.
Not the stillness of obedience—this was deeper. It was the silence of a universe holding its breath. Of gods asking themselves, What if the rumors are true?
Lucian's laughter shattered it like glass.
"So, who among you will carry out my punishment?" His wings snapped wide, radiant white with a shadow's edge, daring the very heavens. "Answer me!"
---
The floor quaked—not with sound, but with the tremor of existence itself shifting. A light without source or shadow consumed the Court, and from it emerged the First.
He did not arrive. He simply was, as though all things had always contained Him and only now remembered. His presence muted stars, dimmed galaxies, and pressed upon every soul with the truth of their smallness.
"Silence."
Michael's earlier command had been a law. This was reality itself bending. Heaven obeyed. Hell obeyed. Creation obeyed.
All except Lucian.
"Almighty," Lucian said, and for the first time, he kneeled—though his head did not bow. "You see now. Those you have exalted are unworthy. I should be—"
The blow came before the word could leave his lips.
The Almighty's strike was not mere force—it was judgment given flesh. The sound rolled through the planes, scattering galaxies like dry leaves.
Lucian staggered. Blood dripped warm across his lips. The Angel of Naught had never bled before.
The Almighty's gaze was a weight beyond suns. "How can you be so foolish, child? Do you think the hierarchy of eons rests on strength alone? You have become as—"
"I am nothing like him," Lucian snapped, defiance unbroken.
"But is it not My throne you seek?"
Lucian clenched his fists. He had no answer.
The Almighty leaned closer, voice a whisper meant for Lucian alone. "Then you shall have the chance to claim it… but you will begin from nothing, as I once did when I called the void to life."
Straightening, His voice became the decree of Heaven itself:
"For your rebellion, Lucian, you shall be cast from Heaven into the realm of mortals, to live, to die, and to be judged as one of them."
Lucian's eyes widened. "Father—!"
"Cease."
The word unraveled him. Chains dissolved. His form shattered into light, then into nothing. His name was erased from the Book of Celestials and the Book of Life alike.
"Now," said the Almighty, "become as I ordained."
And with the finality of creation's first day, Lucian was gone.
"I await your return… child."
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