The void rippled like disturbed water.
A single point of light flared in the distance—pure, searing, unyielding. It swelled into the form of Gabriel descending with deliberate, measured grace.
His six wings burned with white fire that cast no warmth, only judgment. His silver armor like robes reflected nothing, absorbed everything.
In his right side rested the slender trumpet of pale gold, silent yet ominous.
This was his Holy Tool.
As the current administrator of heaven, it was his duty to act as a bridge between two forces.
He landed ten paces from the throne, standing upon emptiness as though it were marble, and fixed his gaze upon Lucifer.
Lucifer lounged exactly as before—one leg slung carelessly over the armrest, posture loose, arrogant, wings half-spread in idle display. He did not rise. He did not even straighten fully. A faint, amused smile played on his lips as he regarded his visitor.
Gabriel's eyes narrowed, the only crack in his otherwise flawless composure.
