People said that Constantinople shone brightest on nights when heaven paid attention.
From the highest terrace of the imperial palace, the city looked like a bowl of scattered stars. Lanterns burned along the avenues, gold and white banners fluttered in the wind, and the sea beyond the walls reflected the glow as if it, too, wished to be invited to the feast.
Lucius stood at the edge of the garden, his small hands clasped behind his back.
He was seven years old, and he had been told—many times—not to wander off during the celebration. Still, no one stopped him. When you were the son of Belisarius, rules tended to soften around you, like wax held too close to fire.
The palace behind him was loud with life. Music echoed through marble halls, nobles laughed too loudly, and servants hurried with trays heavy enough to bend their arms.
Tonight was a feast not just for the royal family, but for the entire empire.
Tonight was the only night the angels descended to the earth.
Lucius had seen angels before. He had grown up knowing their presence, their voices, their wings cutting through the air on this single sacred day. To him, angels were not distant miracles or unknown legends.
Raguel most of all.
Lucius glanced toward the far archway that led to the outer courtyard.
He should be here by now.
They had promised to meet there—two children sneaking away from a world that spoke in grand words they did not fully understand. Lucius shifted on his feet, fighting the urge to fidget. He had practiced patience earlier that day, under the watchful eye of his tutors. He felt it slipping away now.
Far above the city, beyond clouds untouched by smoke or song, the angels gathered.
Raguel hovered slightly apart from the rest, his feet not quite touching the air beneath him. His wings—smaller than the others', still downy at the edges—fluttered with excitement he did not bother to hide.
"Don't fly too fast," his father said.
Michael stood beside him, tall and radiant in a way that did not require light. His presence alone bent the space around him, like the world was careful not to stand in his way.
"I won't," Raguel replied quickly. "I just want to see him."
Michael's expression softened. "You'll have time to play after the blessing. Lucius will be waiting."
Raguel smiled, the kind of smile that belonged to children who had never known fear. "I know."
Below them, unseen by either child, shadows moved where no shadows should have been.
They wore masks of dull metal, their faces erased by deliberate anonymity. Their footsteps made no sound as they slipped through corridors meant only for servants and guards. Each of them knew their role. None of them asked questions.
At their center walked a man who did not look at the palace with awe.
Nero's eyes were fixed forward, steady and cold. In his hands, wrapped in black cloth, was the forbbiden book that contained the most powerfull demon inside.
Its true name had not been spoken aloud in centuries.
It was enough that it existed.
Raguel descended ahead of the angelic procession, light folding around him as he slipped closer to the palace grounds. He spotted Lucius almost immediately—dark hair, too neat for a child who preferred running, standing awkwardly as if unsure whether to wave.
Before any of the other angels noticed, Raguel laughed and broke away, landing lightly and running toward him without hesitation.
"Luciusss—!"
The world broke between one step and the next.
Hands seized Raguel from behind, rough and burning. His cry was cut short as a cloth pressed against his mouth. He struggled, wings flaring instinctively, light flashing—
—and then pain.
It was not the sharp kind he had imagined pain to be. It was tearing, wrong, like something sacred being told it no longer belonged.
A wing fell.
Raguel's scream never reached Lucius.
Lucius heard something, though. A sound that did not fit the night. He turned just in time to see the archway empty, shadows retreating as if they had never been there at all.
"Raguel…?" he whispered.
The sky above the palace brightened.
The angels arrived in full.
Michael descended first, his wings spreading wide as he greeted Belisarius in the great hall. The emperor stood tall, his expression composed, though even he could not fully hide the weight of reverence pressing down upon him.
"Constantinople stands ready to receive heaven's blessing," Belisarius said.
Michael inclined his head. "Then let the feast begin."
It should have ended there.
Elsewhere, far beneath the palace, Nero finished the chant.
The book opened as if it had been waiting. Blood soaked into its pages. Feathers burned.
Power answered.
The explosion did not sound like thunder.
It sounded like something laughing.
Fire bloomed from the heart of
Constantinople, devouring streets and towers alike. The night sky tore open with smoke and screams. Stone shattered. Light became heat.
Belisarius turned as the palace trembled beneath his feet.
Michael felt it at the same moment.
Something was wrong.
And in the burning city below, a seven-year-old boy stood alone, staring at a sky that had stopped watching over him.
This was the night faith began to crack.