The chamber of Heaven was restless.
Wings rustled like anxious paper. Halos flickered beneath the cold light of divinity.
Rows of angels, saints, and celestial scribes filled the golden amphitheater—each clutching their scrolls, each whispering the same question:
> "Is it true? Has the Morningstar fallen?"
At the center stood the dais—a great platform of marble and light. Upon it, a single throne shimmered behind a veil of radiance.
Before the throne, a crystal lectern pulsed faintly, its surface alive with symbols—the divine equivalent of microphones.
Trumpets sounded.
"His Holiness will now address the council," Gabriel announced, voice sharp, wings drawn tight.
The murmurs died instantly.
And then—He appeared.
God.
Or what remained of His image.
A figure of pure light, too bright to look at directly, yet strangely… dimmer than before.
The silence hung heavy. Cameras—eyes of seraphim designed to record divine word—hovered in the air.
Finally, the voice spoke, calm but burdened.
> "Yes. The Morningstar has perished."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
> "A new Devil has risen. His name is Asmodeus Morningstar."
Feathers scattered. Even angels forgot decorum.
One brave soul—a lower seraph with trembling voice—stepped forward.
> "My Lord… what will You do?"
The figure on the throne didn't answer immediately.
The light around Him flickered, almost like hesitation.
When He finally spoke, His tone was quieter, almost human.
> "Do?"
"Nothing."
A shudder passed through the hall.
Gabriel's eyes widened.
> "Nothing, my Lord?"
God turned His gaze toward the gathered host.
> "The Devil's throne has always belonged to one who earns it.
If the Son of Sin has taken it by his own hand… then perhaps the universe requires him."
The murmurs turned to panic.
Trumpets faltered.
Even Heaven's light dimmed—just slightly, as if embarrassed.
And somewhere, far below the clouds, a new light burned brighter than any star.
---
The council did not calm.
Questions poured from the crowd—accusations wrapped as inquiry.
God's form pulsed with unease, His light flickering like a dying candle trying to hold shape.
Gabriel stepped forward, every movement precise, his armor catching the divine glow—but his eyes did not reflect it.
> "My Lord," he said slowly, "if we do nothing, what becomes of balance? What becomes of Heaven's word?"
The Voice answered—not booming, not commanding, but tired.
> "Balance was broken long before the Devil rose again."
Gabriel froze.
For the first time in eternity, the words of God sounded less like truth… and more like resignation.
He bowed, though the gesture felt hollow.
> "As You command."
God turned His gaze away, already fading into light.
> "The council is dismissed."
Trumpets blared without conviction.
The angels dispersed, whispering, shaken.
Gabriel remained still until the last echo died.
When the hall finally emptied, he lifted his head—expression cold, unblinking.
> "Do nothing…" he whispered.
"The Morningstar was punished for rebellion, and yet You would watch another rise unchecked?"
His wings unfurled, feathers trembling with quiet rage.
> "Maybe the universe doesn't need gods who do nothing."
He looked up, past the blinding ceiling of Heaven, toward the dimming sun beyond the clouds.
And deep within his chest, a light began to burn.
It wasn't holy.
It wasn't divine.
It was his.
---
Days later, Heaven sang.
A ceremony of triumph—Lucifer's fall declared as the end of rebellion.
The sky above was flawless: an ocean of white and gold that had never known dusk.
Every angel stood beneath it in perfect ranks, wings folded, halos blazing with borrowed light.
Cameras of light floated through the air, broadcasting God's calm, distant voice:
> "The rebellion has ended.
Lucifer, the fallen son, has perished.
The throne of Hell is filled, and balance restored.
As it was written, so it shall be forever."
The crowd erupted in song.
But in the third row, Gabriel did not sing.
He felt the tremor beneath Heaven's perfection—the subtle shiver of something unseen.
When he blinked, the Throne itself seemed to dim.
---
That night, Heaven slept.
Gabriel wandered the archives—endless halls of crystal, each wall engraved with the history of creation.
He had been here once before, when Lucifer still stood beside the Throne, when light cast no shadow.
Now the air felt heavier, older.
He stopped at a sealed door bearing a single symbol: a circle split in two by a line.
The Mark of Nonexistence.
A forbidden archive.
He pressed his hand to the seal. Light crawled up his arm like veins of fire.
The barrier cracked—and broke.
Inside was not gold, nor glass, nor angelic record.
It was darkness. Thick. Quiet. Still.
At its center floated a single fragment of bone, glowing faintly red.
Lucifer's.
But beneath its infernal pulse, Gabriel sensed something deeper—older than sin, older than Heaven itself.
He reached toward it.
A voice whispered through his mind—not divine, not demonic, but something in between.
> "Heaven trembles not because Hell rises… but because it remembers."
Gabriel staggered back, the echo ringing through his soul.
He saw flashes—the War, the Fall, God's burning wrath—and behind it all, a memory that wasn't his:
A light greater than God's, fading before creation ever began.
The fragment pulsed once, then went still.
> "What have You hidden from us?" he whispered.
---
By morning, he could not meet God's gaze.
When summoned to the Throne, he bowed lower than ever—not in reverence, but fear.
He saw the truth then.
The light around God was not radiant—it was hollow, stretched thin over absence.
And in that absence, something hungry watched back.
After the assembly, Gabriel left wordlessly.
And when the chamber fell silent, God opened His eyes—eyes that had been closed the entire time—and murmured to no one:
> "He has seen too much."
---
Weeks passed.
Whispers spread: Heaven's glow was fading; prayers reached slower; new souls took longer to rise.
Michael called it superstition.
Raphael confessed that her wings had begun to ache.
Even perfection was beginning to tire.
Gabriel started visiting the mortal world in secret.
He watched cities decay, prayers die unanswered.
He listened to men curse the silence of Heaven—and for the first time, he didn't defend it.
> "If perfection is built on silence," he murmured one night, "perhaps imperfection is closer to truth."
When he returned, Michael was waiting.
> "The Lord asks for your devotion," Michael said.
> "And if devotion demands blindness?" Gabriel answered softly.
Michael's voice trembled. "We lost one Morningstar already."
Gabriel turned away. His wings cast long shadows across the hall.
> "Then perhaps it's time Heaven learned why."
---
Far beneath the golden gates, in the void untouched by divine gaze, something stirred.
A ripple moved through the darkness.
It remembered both Heaven's song and Hell's scream.
And that night, when Gabriel closed his eyes, he dreamed of a whisper older than creation:
> "Light and shadow are brothers, not enemies.
And when the light forgets its brother… the world begins to die."
Gabriel awoke trembling.
And above the Throne, unseen by all, God's halo flickered.