The halo flickered again.
Not from dimness—but from doubt.
Heaven itself seemed to hold its breath.
The sound of hymns faltered across the marble expanse. Angels looked up from their prayers, confused, sensing something they had no word for: wrongness. The air tasted of iron, sharp and heavy. The golden light began to thin at its edges, bleeding into shades Heaven had never known.
Far below the clouds, the gates shuddered.
A tremor rippled through creation—the faintest distortion, almost too subtle to notice.
But it carried a scent. Smoke. Blood.
And something else: sin wearing the mask of grace.
---
They came through disguised as angels.
White wings, golden armor, radiant smiles. Every movement rehearsed to mimic holiness itself. None suspected them—at first.
They passed through choirs, bowed at altars, even whispered prayers that sounded almost sincere.
Until the first trumpet fell silent.
Then another.
Then screaming.
---
Asmodeus moved through the chaos like a shadow cut from flame. His borrowed halo burned too bright, searing the eyes of any who dared meet it. Behind him, the false angels shed their disguises—feathers turning black, eyes igniting red—and Heaven's flawless streets ran slick with gold-stained blood.
He cut down seraphs who had once sung his name as curse. Their blades shattered against him like glass against stone. For every angel that fell, two more hesitated—not out of fear of death, but confusion.
They had never been betrayed before.
He looked almost bored.
> "Perfection dies the moment it doubts itself," he said softly, as another choir collapsed in fire.
---
Then he saw her.
Through the smoke, beyond the burning spires, stood a tower of living marble—its gates guarded by light that refused to dim. And upon its highest balcony, gazing down with eyes like molten silver, was Athena.
The daughter of God.
Her radiance wasn't borrowed like the others—it was her own.
Even the flames dared not touch her.
When Asmodeus met her gaze, something ancient shifted inside him—something older than sin, deeper than defiance. For the first time since his fall, he hesitated.
> "You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice carrying through the storm like a song remembered from before creation.
> "Neither should you," Asmodeus replied. "A bird in a golden cage is still a prisoner."
She descended, her light dimming with each step until she stood before him. Angels lay dead around them, the sky bleeding gold.
> "You came to destroy," she said, searching his face. "But I see no hatred in you."
> "You mistake purpose for mercy."
> "No," she whispered. "I see both."
---
For a moment, silence reigned. Even Heaven seemed to listen.
Then the light behind her flared—God's presence drawing near.
Athena turned sharply, her eyes wide with fear.
> "Go," she said. "He feels you now."
Asmodeus took a step closer instead.
> "Come with me," he said quietly. "You don't belong to His silence."
Tears—divine and forbidden—welled in her eyes.
> "If I leave… He will unmake me."
He smiled, a cruel, beautiful thing.
> "Then let Him try."
But she stepped back into the light.
The gates sealed.
And Asmodeus was alone again.
---
He looked up at Heaven's trembling glow, feeling the pulse of its fear.
For the first time, he laughed—not out of joy, but realization.
> "Even gods keep their children caged," he said to the empty sky. "And they call me the monster."
He spread his wings, black and burning, and turned toward the void below.
The gates cracked. Trumpets screamed.
Heaven would never sound the same again.
And far above the wreckage, the halo upon the Throne flickered once more.