At first, there was only silence—wide, rippling, blooming across the heavens like a held breath.
Then the wings unfurled.
A thousand pairs. Ten thousand. More.
Newborn angels, still glowing with the warmth of creation, blinked awake to the soft silver-gold radiance of the Lunar Mirror sky. Their wings shimmered with reflected moonlight, dreamfire, radiant essence, or pale motes of possibility drifting from the World Tree of Life.
Some angels laughed in wonder.
Others simply stared at their hands.
A few tried to fly immediately—and wobbled through the air like excited, uncoordinated birds.
And Oria watched them all, twenty wings spread like a cosmic tapestry behind her, eyes warm with endless patience.
"They learn," she murmured, "exactly as they were designed to."
Dante stood beside her—still exhausted from the creation orgy, but awed into absolute stillness. The entire Bright Lands felt alive now, humming with song. Each newborn angel carried a spark of his own divinity, filtered perfectly through Oria's shaping.
He could feel them.
Sense the soft threads linking their thoughts, emotions, and instincts.
It was like listening to a choir of heartbeats from every corner of his kingdom.
As more angels awakened beneath the Tree's spreading branches, Oria stepped forward and lifted a hand. A ripple of authority flowed out—not to command them, but to calm them.
"Children," she said, her voice resonating through the entire kingdom, "welcome to the Realm of the Dreaming Moon God."
The angels quieted. Even those still tumbling awkwardly through the air managed to correct themselves mid-flight.
"You are born of his essence," Oria continued, "but shaped by my light. From this moment, your purpose, your path, and your potential are written into the weave of your wings."
Dante swallowed, feeling the weight of her words. He hadn't spoken yet—not out of fear, but because he sensed this moment belonged wholly to the angels.
Oria gestured gently.
"Explore your home. Learn its winds. Let your instincts guide your steps."
And like a gale released, the angels burst outward.
They soared in great arcs across the Bright Lands—winged silhouettes streaking through moonlight, racing alongside the River of Duality, descending into the Forest of Hope, rising again above the Waterfall of Dreams where Angelis shimmered like a suspended jewel between worlds.
Their voices became a chorus of wonder.
"Look—look at the city!"
"I can feel dreamlight inside my feathers!"
"Is this… is this paradise?"
Dante had never seen anything so beautiful.
Oria touched his shoulder gently. "Their joy is your joy. Their song is your spark reflected."
He nodded, unable to speak.
One by one, the newly awakened angels drifted into their natural roles as if instinctively answering a silent call.
Some gathered near the River's source, sensing the emotional currents and shaping small dream-creatures from the water. These would one day become Light Angels and Dreamwalkers.
Others drifted toward the darker woods of the Twilight boundary, their wings dimming into hues of deep blue and violet. These felt drawn to the Night, to fear, to the edges of shadow—they would be Dark Angels, purifiers, wardens of nightmare.
Some circled above the heavenly ascent—where the 21 Primal Temples shimmered faintly, still being woven around their core trials. Their bodies straightened, wings sharpening, discipline settling into their spines. These would become soldiers—future Seraphim, Terminus, Andulim… hosts of armies yet unborn.
And a few—only a few—drifted toward the Mirror of Unification hovering overhead. They touched its surface, leaving ripples of moonlight.
These would someday become elite guardians of the Palace, stepping under the Twilight Angels' future leadership.
Dante exhaled, stunned.
"So they… instinctively choose their branch?"
"Angels do not choose," Oria said with a soft smile. "They respond to purpose the way a flower responds to sunlight."
He looked around once more—at the flying, laughing, discovering multitude of winged souls.
"It's… perfect."
Oria's expression softened. "It will grow more perfect."
A sudden hush swept across the Bright Lands.
A sound like the rumble of distant storms. A flutter like a thousand banners snapping in the wind.
From the far horizon, silhouettes emerged—tall, radiant, immense. Not new angels. Not untested fledglings.
The Primordial Angels.
Their emergence was not quiet.
Each one stepped—or flew—into the sky with the inevitability of myth.
Sansanvi's arrival cracked the air with dragonfire.
Rahatiel's footsteps burned wolf-tracks into the sky.
Araqiel danced through flickers of foxflame, feathers trailing smoke-sparkles.
Ophiel walked along rising roots, each footstep a command to the land.
Inian materialized from shadow, red eyes gleaming.
Suriel descended on a gust of winter wind.
Salathiel rode the metallic hum of creation essence.
Bazazath roared, splitting clouds with chaos-force.
Portia blurred, appearing and vanishing between breaths.
Aralim stepped from tactical blueprints that folded out of space.
Domiel arrived in thunderous weight, shaking the sky.
Aphaeleon rose like a fortress given wings.
Verchiel's shadows swirled into unnatural geometry.
Nuriel streaked lightning across the heavens.
And that was only the first fourteen.
The remaining seven Primal Angels—those Dante had created to complete the Unified Array—unfurled their wings in a second wave of brilliance, adding their own unique storms of essence to the air.
The newborn angels fell silent.
The winds stilled.
The Light dimmed in reverence.
For the first time, all 21 Primal Angels stood together in the realm.
They formed a flowing arc in the sky—an unstoppable constellation of power, each radiating their own absolute authority, yet blending seamlessly with the others. Wings of eighteen shimmering feathers stretched outward in synchronized motion, creating an enormous crescent formation above Angelis.
Dante felt chills.
Even Oria's wings glowed brighter, responding instinctively to the resonance of her first and greatest children.
One by one, the Primordial Angels bowed—not as subordinates, not as servants, but as generals acknowledging their sovereign creator.
"Father," Sansanvi said first, voice a deep dragon's bell, "your will shapes us. Your dream strengthens us."
"Your realm awaits our service," Rahatiel added, voice sharp as tempered steel.
"We will guard it," Portia whispered, appearing across three different positions mid-sentence.
"We will build," Salathiel said, technomantic light flickering across her fingers.
"We will cleanse what seeks to corrupt it," Anariel echoed from the darkness drifting behind the last temple.
"And we," Arenriel said softly, stepping forward with wings glowing like moonrise, "will defend its truth."
Dante swallowed hard.
His heart thudded in his chest.
He felt small—too small—yet immeasurably vast at the same time.
These were his children.
His creations.
His heavenly generals.
He drew a breath, lifted his hand, and spoke the first words he had ever addressed to them as a united assembly.
"You were born from my essence," he said softly, "but your purpose is your own. I do not command your hearts. I simply offer direction, not chains."
The angels glowed.
Oria smiled faintly.
"You will guide my kingdom," Dante continued, "protect the souls entrusted to it, and—when the time comes—fight beside me."
The crescent of wings bowed again.
"We are yours," the Primordial Choir answered in unison.
Their voices rippled across the Bright Lands, echoing through every tree, river, and star.
And below them, the newborn angels—thousands strong—joined in instinctive harmony, raising their wings and voices to the sky.
It was the first hymn.
The first anthem.
The first true moment of the Dreaming Moon God's celestial host becoming one body, one voice, one realm.
The Parade of Wings.
Dante closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself.
When he opened them again, he understood—
This was only the beginning.