Elara had always been the type of person who asked too many questions at the wrong times. In university, she'd been the student who raised her hand to point out logical inconsistencies in professors' arguments. In her activist work, she'd been the one who insisted on examining the unintended consequences of well-meaning policies. And now, in what was supposed to be paradise, she found herself biting her tongue so hard she was surprised it didn't bleed celestial light.
The problem was that the more she observed Heaven's military training, the more it resembled every authoritarian indoctrination program she'd ever studied.
Take morning formations, for instance. Every day began with the assembled recruits reciting what Instructor Zadkiel called the "Principles of Righteous Order":
"We are the guardians of divine justice. We serve the greater good above personal desire. We trust in the wisdom of our commanders, for they see what we cannot. Doubt is the enemy's weapon; certainty is our shield."
Elara mouthed the words along with everyone else, but her mind catalogued every rhetorical technique: the appeal to higher purpose, the valorization of obedience, the explicit rejection of critical thinking. It was like a greatest hits collection of authoritarian manipulation tactics, dressed up in divine language.
The scary part, she thought as she watched her fellow recruits' faces shine with genuine belief, isn't that it's obviously wrong. The scary part is that it works.
She'd seen the transformation over the past few weeks of training. Recruits who had arrived with questions, with doubts, with the messy complexity of individual personalities, were gradually being smoothed into identical shapes. They smiled with the same serene certainty, spoke with the same untroubled conviction, and channeled their Seraphic Power with increasing ease as their capacity for self-doubt diminished.
The training itself was undeniably effective. Elara could feel her own abilities growing stronger each day—the golden light that surrounded her when she channeled Seraphic Power was now bright enough to illuminate entire rooms, and she was learning to shape it into shields, weapons, even complex constructs that could serve tactical purposes. But every increase in power seemed to come with a corresponding decrease in her fellow recruits' willingness to question anything.
"Recruit Elara," Zadkiel's voice cut through her contemplation. "Your progress in power development is exemplary, but your instructors have noted a certain... distance in your engagement with the spiritual aspects of your training."
They were in the Harmony Fields again, and Elara had been practicing alone while the others participated in what was euphemistically called "Unity Meditation"—a group exercise that looked disturbingly like synchronized chanting. She'd managed to avoid it by claiming she meditated better in solitude, but apparently her absence had been noticed.
"I learn differently than most people," Elara said carefully. "I've always been more of an individual contemplator than a group participant."
"Of course," Zadkiel nodded with understanding that felt practiced rather than genuine. "But you must understand that unity of purpose is essential for effective celestial warfare. We cannot have soldiers who operate according to their individual interpretations of righteousness. Divine truth is not subjective, and our army's strength comes from our shared commitment to absolute moral clarity."
There it is again, Elara thought. The insistence that questioning is not just wrong but dangerous. And the way he's framing it—making my natural analytical tendencies sound like selfish individualism that threatens everyone's safety.
But she simply nodded and said, "I understand. Perhaps I could benefit from some individual guidance in developing better spiritual unity?"
Zadkiel's smile brightened. "An excellent suggestion. Report to Meditation Chamber Seven after evening formation. We'll work on helping you find your way to proper spiritual alignment."
As Elara walked away, she found herself wondering what exactly "proper spiritual alignment" entailed. And why the phrase made her skin crawl.
Meanwhile, in the Crucible Grounds of Hell, Kael was discovering that asking questions in a realm dedicated to absolute freedom was somehow just as problematic as asking questions in a realm dedicated to absolute order.
"The thing about this whole training program," he said to his sparring partner during a break between combat exercises, "is like... like being told you're learning to drive, but all the lessons are about how to crash into things more effectively. Except instead of cars, it's ideologies. And instead of crashing, it's... war?"
Marcus wiped sulfurous sweat from his forehead and gave Kael a look that was becoming increasingly familiar—the expression of someone trying to decode a particularly obtuse puzzle. "Are you saying you think the training is wrong?"
"Not wrong, exactly. But incomplete. Like, we're learning all these techniques for channeling Tempestuous Power, right? But we're not learning anything about when not to use it. Or how to tell the difference between justified rebellion and mindless destruction."
"Maybe," Marcus said slowly, "that's because the difference doesn't matter. Maybe the whole point is that any action taken in the service of absolute freedom is justified by definition."
The certainty in Marcus's voice made Kael uncomfortable. It was the same tone he'd heard from his most radicalized revolutionary colleagues back on Earth—the ones who'd been so convinced of their cause's righteousness that they'd stopped caring about collateral damage.
"But that can't be right," Kael insisted. "I mean, if any action is justified as long as it serves freedom, then what's to stop us from becoming the same kind of tyrants we're supposed to be fighting against? Power without limits isn't freedom—it's just chaos wearing a prettier name."
Marcus's expression hardened. "You're starting to sound like one of them, Kael. Like someone who thinks freedom needs to be managed, controlled, made 'safe' for people who are too weak to handle it themselves."
The accusation stung, partly because Kael could see how his questions might be interpreted that way. But it also revealed something troubling about Hell's ideological framework: questioning the methods was being framed as questioning the entire cause. It was a rhetorical trap that felt familiar from his revolutionary days—the way radical movements often became intolerant of internal criticism, labeling dissent as betrayal.
That evening, Kael found himself alone in his quarters, staring out at the wild beauty of the Ashen Kingdom and thinking about analogies. The whole situation was like... like being given a powerful weapon and told it was for self-defense, but then discovering that the weapon could only be used to attack, never to protect. Except that analogy didn't quite work either, because Hell wasn't pretending their weapons were defensive.
Maybe, he thought, the problem isn't the weapon itself, but the fact that we're only being taught one way to use it.
His contemplation was interrupted by a soft knock at his door—an unusual occurrence in a realm where most communication involved dramatic entrances through windows or walls of flame. When he opened it, he found a figure in the standard Hell military uniform, but with their face obscured by shadows that seemed to move independently of any light source.
"You're the one who's been asking questions," the figure said without preamble.
Kael tensed, wondering if his concerns had been reported to some kind of Hell internal security. "Questions about what?"
"About whether unlimited freedom might not be the same thing as wisdom. About whether power without restraint might not be the same thing as justice." The figure stepped closer, and Kael caught a glimpse of eyes that held a strange mixture of sadness and hope. "You're not the first to wonder these things. And you won't be the last."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who remembers asking the same questions you're asking now. Someone who learned that the answers are more complicated than either side wants to admit." The figure paused. "Tell me—have you thought any more about that message you received? About the Maw?"
Kael's breath caught. "You're the one who left that?"
"Among others. There are those of us, in both armies, who remember what it felt like to think for ourselves. Who haven't forgotten that the capacity for doubt is what separates wisdom from fanaticism." The figure began to fade back into the shadows. "Keep asking your questions, Kael Reeves. But be careful who you ask them to. Not everyone in Hell is as committed to free thinking as they claim to be."
Before Kael could respond, the figure was gone, leaving him alone with more questions than answers and the growing certainty that the cosmic conflict he'd been recruited into was far more complex than anyone was willing to admit.
In her meditation chamber, Elara sat in perfect lotus position while Zadkiel guided her through exercises designed to quiet her "excessive analytical tendencies." The irony wasn't lost on her—in a realm supposedly dedicated to divine truth, she was being trained not to think too carefully about what that truth might actually mean.
But as the Seraphic energy flowed through her, temporarily drowning her doubts in waves of artificial certainty, she found herself holding onto one stubborn thread of independent thought:
If this is really paradise, why does it feel so much like a very beautiful prison?
The question would have to be enough for now.