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Chapter Text

Heaven was a realm of divine splendor, a place where harmony reigned and every soul thrived in the presence of infinite love. Its golden skies shimmered with celestial light, and its rivers flowed with crystal-clear waters imbued with healing grace. Here, peace was not merely the absence of conflict but a living, breathing force that infused the very air, uniting all in mutual respect and joy. Angels of every order worked together to cultivate this paradise, guided by God's eternal wisdom and the radiance of His love.

At the heart of Heaven was the Throne of God, surrounded by His most trusted archangels: Michael, the mighty protector; Gabriel, the divine messenger; Raphael, the healer of hearts; and many more, each entrusted with sacred duties. Among them was Samael, the youngest of the archangels, known for his unmatched beauty and purity of purpose. His name meant "God's venom," though not in malice, but as a reflection of his power to inspire change and humility. Samael's task was to lead the angels in worship, teaching them the ways of reverence and humility, and his voice rang out like a song of praise that resonated through the heavens.

Yet even in a realm so perfect, the archangels understood that virtues needed to be nurtured and celebrated. Heaven's peace was not static but a living testament to the choices of its denizens. To guide the angels further, God entrusted His High Seraphim, Sera, to take charge of a divine endeavor: the creation of seven virtues to inspire all of Heaven.

Sera, with her radiant wings and regal demeanor, was beloved among the angels for her wisdom and kindness. She led a council of seraphim to discuss how these virtues could manifest in ways that would touch the hearts of all. When the moment came, a great meeting was convened in the Hall of Light, a vast chamber filled with the hum of celestial energy. Angels from all orders gathered, their anticipation like a golden wave that rippled through the room.

Sera rose, her two halos glowing with a serene brilliance. "My beloved angels," she began, her voice steady and warm, "Heaven is a place of peace, love, and eternal wisdom. Yet even here, we must strive to grow, to inspire one another to acts of kindness, patience, and diligence. We have worked tirelessly to create something extraordinary—beings who embody the very essence of these virtues."

A murmur of wonder spread through the crowd. With a gentle motion of her hand, Sera and the seraphim summoned forth a radiant light that filled the chamber. From this divine luminescence emerged seven new angels, each bearing a unique and holy presence.

    •    The first angel, with an aura of purity and self-control, was Chastity.

    •    The second, calm and steady, represented Temperance.

    •    The third, with open hands and a compassionate heart, was Charity.

    •    The fourth, tireless and focused, was Diligence.

    •    The fifth, gentle and warm, was Kindness.

    •    The sixth, serene and patient, was Patience itself.

    •    The last, glowing with unshakable honesty, was Truth.

The chamber erupted in cheers as the angels welcomed these embodiments of virtue. Their presence was both humbling and inspiring, a reminder of Heaven's purpose and the endless possibilities of goodness.

Among the crowd, Samael stood captivated. The youngest archangel found himself drawn to the seven new creations. There was something deeply compelling about their purity and radiance. He approached them cautiously, his curiosity evident in his bright, thoughtful gaze.

"What is it like," he asked softly, "to be created for a singular purpose, to embody something so divine?"

The virtues smiled, their responses varied but harmonious. "It is not a task but a joy," Truth said, her voice steady and clear. "We are here to guide, to inspire, and to reflect the beauty of Heaven's love."

Samael nodded, though a seed of doubt stirred within him. These beings were perfect, flawless in their design. He wondered if he and the other angels could ever fully live up to the ideals they represented. As he watched them, a quiet yearning began to take root in his heart—a desire to understand not just their purpose, but his own.

And so, Heaven rejoiced, unaware that this moment of creation would be the beginning of something far greater—and far more turbulent—than anyone could have imagined. For as the virtues inspired light, they also cast shadows where doubt and ambition could grow, and Samael's curiosity would set him on a path none could foresee.

Chapter Text

Samael was unlike any of his brothers and sisters. While the other archangels carried themselves with reverence and gravitas befitting their divine roles, Samael often seemed to live in his own theatrical world. He could be found reciting poetic verses to the stars, twirling through Heaven's golden fields, or creating elaborate displays of light and sound to entertain the cherubim. His antics, though joyful and well-meaning, often clashed with the order that the Seraphim and archangels worked hard to maintain.

To Samael, life in Heaven was a canvas, and he was the artist, splashing color and creativity wherever he went. But to the Seraphim and certain archangels, his behavior bordered on irresponsibility.

One day, after Samael disrupted a celestial meeting by filling the Hall of Virtues with a whirlwind of dancing lights and music, Sera decided it was time to intervene. She found him perched on a cloud near the Horizon of Dawn, humming a song as he shaped the vapor into intricate sculptures of angels.

"Samael," Sera called, her voice carrying both warmth and authority.

He turned, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Sera! Have you come to see my latest masterpiece? Behold!" He gestured dramatically to a shimmering sculpture of an angel holding a star.

Sera smiled faintly, but her expression remained firm. "My little Lightbringer," she began, sitting beside him on the cloud, her glowing wings folding neatly behind her. "You know how much I care for you. But we need to talk about your behavior."

Samael's grin faded slightly, replaced by an awkward look of guilt. "I didn't mean to cause trouble," he said, his voice quieter. "I just wanted to make everyone smile. Isn't joy part of Heaven's light?"

"It is," Sera said gently. "But as the Angel of Humility, your role is to inspire others through modesty and selflessness, not mischief. You are a guide, Samael, a teacher of virtue. Your actions, though creative, often distract from the peace we strive to maintain."

He sighed, brushing a hand through his blonde hair. "I know, Sera. I'll try to do better."

Sera placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet comforting. "You have so much potential, my Morningstar. Don't waste it on fleeting amusement. Shine in a way that uplifts everyone."

Samael nodded, though his dramatic flair was dimmed for the moment.

However, not everyone shared Sera's nurturing approach. Michael, ever the strict and disciplined one, arrived shortly after Sera left. His stern expression immediately put Samael on edge.

"Samael," Michael said sharply, arms crossed over his chest. "Your behavior is unbecoming of an archangel. How can you expect others to follow your example when you can't even take your duties seriously?"

"I'm trying," Samael replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "I just—"

"Trying isn't enough," Michael snapped. "You need to grow up. Heaven isn't your playground."

Before Samael could respond, Gabriel and Uriel descended, their expressions calm but firm.

"Michael," Gabriel interjected, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Don't be so hard on him."

"He needs to hear it," Michael retorted, shrugging off Gabriel's hand.

"And he has," Uriel said softly, stepping between them. "But compassion is as important as discipline. Samael is young, and he's learning."

Michael shook his head in frustration. "You're all coddling him," he muttered before flying off, his golden wings cutting through the sky.

Gabriel turned to Samael, offering a kind smile. "Don't take Michael's words to heart. He cares, even if he doesn't show it well."

Uriel nodded in agreement. "You have a gift, Samael. Use it wisely, and don't let doubt dim your light."

As they flew away to fulfill their duties, Samael remained on the cloud, staring at the horizon. Their words comforted him, but Michael's criticism lingered in his mind. For the first time, Samael began to wonder if he truly understood what it meant to be the Morningstar.

As Samael hovered near the silver-etched arches of the Hall of Virtues, his sharp eyes caught a familiar sight: Asmodel, the virtue of chastity, standing tall and regal amidst a group of cherubs. The gentle light of Heaven seemed to gravitate toward Asmodel, highlighting the soft lavender tones of his robes and the pristine silver circlet resting on his head.

He spoke with his usual eloquence, his voice smooth yet commanding, captivating the cherubs seated before him. "Chastity," Asmodel began, gesturing gracefully, "is not simply the act of restraint. It is the sacred act of preserving one's purity, mind, body, and soul, as a gift to be shared only when united under God's divine blessing of matrimony."

The cherubs nodded earnestly, their small wings fluttering in admiration. Samael watched from the edge of the garden, a smile playing on his lips. Asmodel had always been the most composed and refined of the virtues, exuding an effortless dignity.

Yet before Samael could announce himself, two familiar presences crept up behind him.

"Boo!" Plutus's voice rang out, nearly causing Samael to tumble from his perch on the clouded railing. The cheerful virtue of charity was grinning widely, his shiny golden stars at the tips of his jester hat shining in the warm light.

"You're too easy to sneak up on, mate," Plutus teased, his Aussie accent thick and brimming with humor.

"Plutus!" Samael exclaimed, clutching his chest in mock horror. "You'll be the end of me."

"And me!" came a bubbly voice from his other side. Samael turned to see Triel, the virtue of temperance, her vibrant energy as radiant as ever. Her orange-pinkish wings sparkled faintly as she giggled. "You're always so serious, watching from the shadows. What's the plan this time, Samael? Gonna sweep Asmodel off his feet mid-sermon?"

Samael rolled his eyes but chuckled. "I was merely admiring the artistry. Asmodel is a master of his craft, you have to admit."

"Yeah, but that craft's best appreciated from a distance," Plutus joked, winking. "Interrupting a chastity lecture is not the best way to make a good impression."

"Exactly," Triel added, her tone soothing yet firm. "He'd probably give you the look. You know, the one that makes you feel like you've just ruined the entire moral fiber of Heaven."

Samael sighed, leaning against the railing. "I wasn't going to interrupt... Not yet, anyway. I just—I needed someone to talk to. You two, actually."

Plutus and Triel exchanged a glance, their expressions softening.

"Of course," Triel said, her voice tinged with concern. "What's on your mind, Samael?"

He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "It's just... Sometimes, it feels like no one understands me. Everyone expects me to be this perfect example of humility, but the way they go about it feels so... condescending. Except for you two. You treat me like I'm your equal, not some fledgling to be scolded."

Plutus clapped a hand on Samael's shoulder, his grin never faltering. "That's 'cause we know you're not just some youngin' with big shoes to fill. You've got heart, Samael. A big one. Sure, you're a little dramatic, but hey, that's what makes you you."

Triel nodded, her expression soft and empathetic. "Plutus is right. You've got this spark, this energy that draws people in. You don't need to lose that to be a good leader or an angel of humility. You just need to find your balance."

"Exactly!" Plutus added, gesturing animatedly. "Temperance over here could write you a whole hymn about it, couldn't ya?"

Triel laughed. "I probably could. Want me to?"

Samael smiled, the weight on his heart lifting slightly. "Maybe later. For now, just hearing you say that helps. A lot."

Plutus and Triel beamed at him, their friendship grounding Samael in a way few others could.

"Now," Plutus said, turning to lead the way, "how about we take this chat somewhere a little less... holy lecture-y? Asmodel'll thank us for not pulling you into his lesson."

Triel laughed, throwing an arm around Samael as they walked away. "And maybe we can come up with a plan to make Michael crack a smile for once. You in, Morningstar?"

Samael smirked, his theatrical flair returning. "Always."

Together, the three flew off, their laughter echoing in the distance, a reminder that even angels needed moments of lightness.

Chapter Text

Samael stood at the edge of Heaven's crystal-clear lake, watching the light ripple across its surface. The glassy water reflected his face—a youthful visage framed by soft blonde hair, his bright eyes filled with both determination and trepidation. Today would be different. Today, he would prove himself.

For weeks now, Samael had made every effort to be more responsible. He had taken on tasks across Heaven—small but meaningful ones. He'd helped organize the cherubs' choir practices, aided the virtues with their sermons, and even volunteered to oversee the distribution of blessings to the mortal realm. Yet, somehow, every attempt seemed to spiral into chaos.

One incident stood out: Samael had been tasked with leading the cherubs in their flight formations. What began as an orderly exercise devolved into a flurry of wings and panicked squeals when Samael's playful side got the better of him, and he challenged them to a game of tag mid-practice. The Seraphim overseeing the session were less than pleased.

"I was just trying to make it fun," Samael had muttered under his breath as they scolded him.

Even when God Himself praised Samael's efforts, reminding the others of the intention behind his actions, the weight of disappointment lingered in the air. The subtle sighs, the shaking heads—each one added another stone to the growing pile on Samael's heart.

Today, Samael was determined to do something truly impressive. The Archangels were gathered at the great white terrace, discussing the organization of Heaven's celestial defenses. Samael, hoping to show his maturity, volunteered to retrieve the celestial armory's sacred relics—a task usually reserved for the most disciplined angels.

Sera hesitated, her soft gaze searching his face. "Are you certain, Samael? This is no small task."

"I can do it," Samael replied, his voice firm though his heart pounded. "Trust me, Mother."

Sera's lips curved into a gentle smile. "Very well, my little Morningstar. But take care."

Samael's chest swelled with pride as he took off, soaring toward the armory. Yet, as fate would have it, his plans unraveled.

The sacred relics were delicate and ancient, requiring utmost precision. Samael, nervous and eager to complete the task quickly, mishandled the Sword of Radiance. Its blinding light surged uncontrollably, scattering the relics and sending shockwaves through the armory.

By the time Samael returned, battered and singed but clutching the recovered relics, he was met with a sea of disapproving faces.

"Samael," Michael said, his tone cold and clipped. "Do you ever think before you act?"

Gabriel stepped in, his voice softer. "You tried, brother. That's what matters."

"It's not enough to just try," Michael snapped, his frustration bubbling over. "He's reckless, irresponsible—how many more chances does he get?"

Samael's heart sank. Even Gabriel and Uriel's attempts to defend him couldn't soften the sting of Michael's words. But it wasn't Michael who struck the final blow—it was Sera.

"Samael," she began, her voice weary. "I asked you to prove yourself, not create more chaos. When will you stop being so... so careless?"

The words hit like a thunderclap. Samael's breath caught, his bright eyes dimming.

"I... I was just trying to make you proud," he whispered, his voice trembling.

"Samael, wait—" Sera called after him, her tone filled with regret. But he was already gone, his wings carrying him far from the terrace.

Samael flew until the golden expanse of Heaven blurred into nothingness. He landed in a secluded grove, the usual radiance of the realm muted by his heavy heart.

Why was it never enough? No matter how hard he tried, it seemed he could only disappoint the ones he loved most. Even God's gentle reassurances felt hollow in the face of his siblings' judgment and Sera's unintentional but cutting words.

He sank to his knees, gripping the soft grass beneath him. "I'm trying," he murmured, his voice cracking. "I really am. Why can't they see that?"

The grove was silent, save for the faint rustling of leaves. Samael leaned back against a tree, tears slipping down his cheeks. For the first time in centuries, he felt truly alone.

Back on the terrace, Sera paced anxiously, her usually serene demeanor replaced with visible worry.

"I shouldn't have said that," she muttered to Gabriel.

"He knows you didn't mean it," Gabriel assured her gently. "Samael's always been sensitive, but he'll come back. He always does."

"I hope so," Sera said, her voice thick with guilt. "He's my Morningstar. I just want him to shine the way I know he can."

Michael, standing apart, crossed his arms but said nothing. Though his expression remained stern, there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes—a hint of worry for his youngest brother.

Alone in the grove, Samael gazed up at the shimmering expanse of Heaven's sky. Despite the ache in his heart, a quiet resolve began to form. He would keep trying, no matter how many times he stumbled. Because deep down, he knew that his love for his family—and their love for him—would always bring him back.

For now, though, he allowed himself the solitude, the space to gather his strength before facing the world again.

Sera stood at the terrace, gazing out at the endless expanse of Heaven, her heart heavy with regret. Samael's absence left an ache she couldn't ignore. She longed to fly after him, to wrap him in her arms and tell him how much he mattered to her, but she also knew Samael. He needed space—time to gather his thoughts, to process the weight of her unintended words.

After a moment of deliberation, Sera decided on a different approach. If she couldn't reach Samael right now, perhaps someone else could. She left the terrace and made her way to the chambers of the Virtues, the only group aside from her fellow archangels who truly understood Samael's heart.

Plutus and Triel were the first to greet her, both standing near the entrance of the grand hall. Plutus, ever cheerful, immediately caught the concerned look on Sera's face.

"Ah, Sera," he said, his Australian lilt softening in sympathy. "You're here about Samael, aren't you?"

Sera nodded, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "He's upset, and I know my words hurt him. I thought... perhaps one of you could reach him where I couldn't."

Triel's bubbly demeanor dimmed slightly, her empathy shining through. "We'd love to, really. Samael's our friend, and we hate seeing him like this. But we've got sermons scheduled today... I'm so sorry, Sera."

Plutus nodded solemnly, for once without a teasing quip. "We're tied up for most of the day. But... Asmodel might be free. He's always good at these things."

Sera glanced toward the far end of the hall, where Asmodel stood, elegant as ever, reviewing a golden scroll. His posture was poised, his expression serene, but there was warmth in his sharp features.

"Asmodel," Sera called softly, drawing his attention.

The Virtue of Chastity turned, his vibrant wings gleaming like the first rays of dawn. A smile tugged at his lips as he approached. "Lady Sera. How can I be of service?"

"It's Samael," she explained, her voice betraying her worry. "He's... struggling, and I fear I've made it worse. I thought, perhaps, you might speak with him? He's always admired your steadiness."

Asmodel's smile softened. "Of course. I have nothing pressing today, and it would be my honor to help our little Lightbringer."

"Thank you," Sera whispered, relief washing over her. "Please... remind him that he doesn't have to carry this burden alone."

Asmodel found Samael in the grove, still seated against the tree, his silver wings drooping in a way that made the Virtue's heart ache. Samael didn't notice him at first, lost in his thoughts, until Asmodel's deep yet gentle voice broke the silence.

"I hope you're not planning to spend the entire day moping here, Morningstar. Heaven would be far less radiant without your mischief."

Samael blinked, glancing up in surprise. "Asmodel? What are you doing here?"

The Virtue folded himself gracefully onto the grass beside Samael, his posture as regal as ever. "Sera asked me to find you. But even if she hadn't, I'd have come. You looked like you could use a friend."

Samael sighed, drawing his knees to his chest. "I don't know why she bothers. I try so hard, but no one ever sees that. All they see is the mess I leave behind."

Asmodel tilted his head, studying Samael with kind, piercing eyes. "You're right, Samael—you do leave behind a mess. But do you know what else you leave behind?"

Samael hesitated, shaking his head.

"Light," Asmodel said simply. "Even in your most chaotic moments, you bring a light that no one else can. That's why we all care so much. Not because we want you to change, but because we see how much you're capable of, just as you are."

"But I'm not enough," Samael whispered, his voice breaking. "Not for Sera, not for Michael, not for anyone."

Asmodel placed a steady hand on Samael's shoulder. "You're more than enough, Samael. You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to be Michael, or Gabriel, or anyone else. You just have to be you. Do your best, but don't lose the parts of you that make you you."

Samael's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "You really mean that?"

Asmodel smiled, pulling him into a warm embrace. "Of course I do. Now, stop wallowing and show me that brilliant Morningstar I've come to love so much."

Samael hesitated for a moment before hugging Asmodel back, the tightness in his chest easing. "Thank you... for understanding."

Unbeknownst to them, Plutus and Triel had snuck away from their sermons to check on their friend. They hovered just beyond the grove, peeking through the golden trees.

"See? I knew Asmodel would handle it," Plutus whispered with a grin.

Triel nodded, her bubbly energy tempered with relief. "He's gonna be okay. Samael's stronger than he thinks."

The two Virtues shared a smile before slipping away, leaving Samael and Asmodel to their conversation.

For the first time in a long while, Samael felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he wasn't as alone as he'd feared.

Chapter Text

Samael stood at the edge of a vast construction site in Cherub Towne, where the clang of hammers and the hum of diligent voices filled the air. The area was bustling with activity as angels of all orders worked tirelessly to build towering structures and intricate statues, their movements orchestrated with precision. At the center of it all stood Belfagel, the Virtue of Diligence, directing every detail with an authoritative, focused energy.

Belfagel's presence was commanding—though she looked a lot more cherub-like than the other virtues with her fluffy sheep appearance, her suit polished but streaked with signs of her work. She carried herself with the stern grace of a general and the relentless drive of someone who carried Heaven's progress on her back. Samael hesitated, unsure if this was the right time to approach, but he reminded himself why he had come. If anyone could teach him about responsibility and hard work, it was her.

As Samael stepped closer, Belfagel noticed him immediately. Her light pink eyes narrowed with suspicion, and she crossed her arms, the corner of her mouth twitching in slight annoyance. "Morningstar. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Samael gave her his best sheepish grin. "I, uh... wanted to talk. Maybe ask for some advice. You're... kind of the hardest worker in Heaven."

Belfagel's expression didn't soften. "If this is some ploy to avoid responsibility, save it. Michael's told me plenty about your... antics."

Samael winced at the mention of his older brother but pressed on. "Look, I know I've messed up a lot, but I really am trying. I thought maybe shadowing you could help me figure things out, you know? How to be better."

Belfagel raised a skeptical brow, but after a moment's pause, she nodded. "Fine. If you think you can keep up, you're welcome to follow. But don't expect me to slow down for you."

The day was grueling.

Samael followed Belfagel as she oversaw construction efforts, ensuring every beam and stone was placed with precision. From there, she moved to the training grounds, sparring with Michael in intense battles that left even the Archangel of War impressed. Her sermons, delivered with fiery conviction, inspired her followers to push themselves to their limits.

Throughout it all, Samael tried his best to keep up. He carried tools for the workers, observed her lessons, and even sparred lightly with a few angels. But as the day wore on, he noticed something troubling: Belfagel never stopped. Not for food, water, or even a moment of rest. Her pace was relentless, and while her followers admired her drive, Samael could see the toll it was taking.

As the sun dipped lower in the heavens, Samael finally spoke up. "Bel... don't you think you're overdoing it a bit?"

Belfagel, mid-step, turned to him with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"You haven't stopped all day," Samael said, gesturing around them. "Your work is amazing, but... you're only one angel. Even you need a break sometimes."

Belfagel's eyes hardened. "Breaks are a luxury we can't afford, Samael. Diligence is about pushing through, no matter how tired you are. It's what inspires others to do the same."

Samael hesitated, but then stepped closer, his tone earnest. "But what happens if you push too hard? What happens to your followers when you collapse because you've given too much?"

Belfagel opened her mouth to retort but paused, his words striking a chord.

"I'm not saying don't work hard," Samael continued. "But even diligence needs balance. You're already the hardest worker I've ever met. You've proven that a million times over. You don't have to break yourself to keep proving it."

There was a long silence as Belfagel looked out over the construction site. Her followers were moving slower now, their exhaustion evident. She sighed, some of her rigid demeanor softening. "Perhaps... you have a point. But how do I tell them to stop when I've spent so long telling them to keep going?"

Samael grinned. "You lead by example. Call it a 'scheduled recharge' or something. Make it part of the process."

Belfagel looked at him, her lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. "A 'scheduled recharge,' huh? I'll consider it."

Later, Belfagel gathered her followers and announced a brief respite. Though initially confused, they were grateful, taking the opportunity to rest and share lighthearted conversations. Samael, watching from a distance, felt a small surge of pride.

As the break came to an end, Belfagel approached Samael, her expression softer than he'd ever seen. "You may be a troublemaker, Samael, but today you've shown wisdom. Thank you."

Samael beamed. "Anytime, Bel."

As Belfagel returned to her work, her pace slightly more measured, Samael felt lighter. For once, he felt he'd truly made a difference—and maybe, just maybe, he was finding his place after all.

The serene expanse of Heaven was unusually quiet as Belfagel, the Virtue of Diligence, found herself seated on a soft patch of radiant clouds. The golden light of Heaven bathed her in warmth, and for once, her shoulders were not burdened by tasks or plans. Her hands, usually busy with scrolls or tools, now rested idly in her lap. It felt alien but strangely comforting.

She had never imagined herself taking a break. The very idea had seemed frivolous until Samael had opened her eyes to the necessity of balance.

"Who would have thought?" Belfagel murmured to herself, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. From the horizon of light came two familiar figures: Asmodel, the Virtue of Chastity, with his immaculate poise and glowing aura, and Azazil, the Virtue of Patience, his presence exuding a soft warmth that made the very air seem lighter. Both angels slowed as they caught sight of her, their expressions shifting from surprise to outright bewilderment.

"Belfagel?" Asmodel's rich, suave voice carried a tone of disbelief. "Are my eyes deceiving me, or is the Virtue of Diligence actually resting?"

Azazil's kind smile widened, though his serene blue eyes held equal astonishment. "I never thought I'd live to see this moment. The very heavens themselves might tremble at the sight of Belfagel taking a break."

Belfagel rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a small chuckle. "Go on, laugh it up. I suppose I deserve it."

Asmodel elegantly lowered himself to sit beside her, his flowing robes cascading like liquid starlight. "I'm not laughing at you, dear Belfagel. I'm marveling. Truly, this is a momentous occasion."

Azazil remained standing, his wings gently folded behind him as he observed her with an empathetic gaze. "What brought this about, if I may ask? Not that I disapprove—I've always thought you deserved rest as much as anyone else, perhaps more so."

Belfagel hesitated, her golden eyes drifting to the horizon. "Samael."

At the mention of his name, both Asmodel and Azazil straightened slightly.

"Samael?" Asmodel echoed, his tone thoughtful. "What did he say to you?"

"He pointed out something I'd refused to see," Belfagel admitted. "That even diligence requires balance. That if I push myself too hard, I'll set a harmful example for those who look up to me. He made me realize that... I don't need to prove my worth through exhaustion."

Azazil's eyes softened further, his voice gentle. "That sounds exactly like him. Beneath his struggles, Samael has a heart that truly understands others. It's a rare gift."

Belfagel nodded, her gaze unwavering. "He saw what even I couldn't see in myself. I've spent centuries—no, since our very creation—working endlessly because I thought it was my duty. But Samael... he reminded me that duty and compassion must go hand in hand. He's... wiser than any of us give him credit for."

Asmodel smiled, his voice tinged with admiration. "Indeed. I've always thought Samael had a unique ability to see beyond the surface, to care in ways most archangels and seraphim seem to overlook."

Azazil stepped closer, his gentle warmth reaching both of them. "Samael's kindness is... different. He doesn't simply go through the motions or follow the rules. He feels deeply. Even when he's struggling, he always puts others first."

Belfagel leaned back slightly, her eyes gleaming in the celestial light. "It's ironic, isn't it? We're supposed to be the Virtues—the paragons of Heaven. Yet Samael, despite everything he's been through, exemplifies the best of us."

The three angels sat in a rare moment of agreement, their admiration for their younger sibling unspoken but deeply felt.

Asmodel broke the silence with a soft chuckle. "Who would have thought we'd end up here, singing his praises? He'd laugh if he heard us now."

Azazil smiled, his serene light glowing brighter. "Perhaps. But he deserves to hear it. He struggles, yes, but he's also the most genuine, the most earnest of all the archangels."

Belfagel glanced at the two of them, a newfound determination in her eyes. "Then maybe we should make sure he knows it. He's always fighting to prove himself. Maybe it's time someone reminded him that he already has."

Asmodel placed a hand over his heart, nodding. "For once, Belfagel, I agree entirely. We owe him that much."

Azazil extended his hand to Belfagel, his gentle smile unwavering. "And perhaps we can start by following his example—showing kindness and balance, not just diligence and duty."

Belfagel took his hand, a small but genuine smile gracing her features. "Agreed. Perhaps it's time we all learned a little something from Samael."

As the three Virtues sat together, the golden light around them seemed to shine brighter, as if Heaven itself acknowledged the truth in their words. Samael might have struggled, but to those who truly saw him, he was already the best of them.

Chapter Text

In the serene glow of a heavenly garden, two archangels and three Virtues gathered beneath a towering tree that shimmered with golden leaves. The air was fragrant with celestial flowers, and a gentle hum of peace seemed to envelop the group as they settled onto soft, luminous grass.

Veritas, Virtue of Truth, leaned against the tree trunk, her silver hair cascading like a stream of moonlight. Triel, Virtue of Temperance, sprawled out with an elegance only they could manage, their butterfly-like wings reflecting soft pastel hues in the sunlight. Levia, the Virtue of Kindness, sat cross-legged, absentmindedly braiding strands of her flowing hair that sparkled like ocean waves. Uriel and Cassiel, Archangels of Wisdom and Tears, rounded out the group, their more subdued auras creating a perfect balance to the lively chatter.

"Honestly, Levia, I don't think I've seen you take a day off in centuries!" Veritas teased with a knowing smile.

Levia chuckled softly, her cheeks glowing faintly. "What can I say? Kindness doesn't sleep. There's always someone who needs a little extra care."

"True," Triel interjected, adjusting one of their delicate wing patterns, "but even the ocean has its tides. You can't pour from an empty cup, Levia."

"Exactly!" Veritas added, nudging her gently. "I mean, look at Triel. They're literally the definition of balance, and even they let loose sometimes."

Triel smirked, brushing a strand of their molten-glass-like hair aside. "My idea of letting loose is organizing a perfectly symmetrical dance formation, but thank you for the compliment."

The group laughed, their camaraderie evident. Uriel, ever the quiet observer, smiled warmly but seemed distracted. Cassiel noticed and nudged her with an elbow.

"Uriel, you've been awfully quiet. Something on your mind?" Cassiel asked, tilting her head.

Uriel hesitated, her golden eyes flickering with hesitation before she finally sighed. "Well... I did overhear something interesting. It seems... God is working on a big project."

The group went silent for a moment before Veritas and Triel exchanged a wide-eyed look.

"A big project?" Veritas pressed, her curiosity immediately piqued. "What kind of project? Don't tell me you're holding out on us!"

Triel leaned in, their wings fluttering with excitement. "Come on, Uriel. Spill. You can't drop something like that and leave us hanging!"

Uriel raised her hands defensively. "I honestly don't know much! I just overheard bits and pieces during a council meeting. Something about it being... monumental. But that's all I know."

Cassiel nodded in agreement. "Same here. I caught whispers, but nothing concrete. Whatever it is, it's apparently going to change things in a big way."

The mystery hung in the air, and for a moment, even Veritas—who prided herself on knowing everything—was at a loss.

"Well, now I have to know," she said with a dramatic sigh, crossing her arms. "But if you two are playing coy, I suppose we'll just have to wait."

"Patience, Veritas," Triel teased with a wink. "Isn't that Uriel's domain?"

The group shared a laugh, but Cassiel, always quick to steer the conversation, suddenly grinned mischievously.

"Speaking of patience... Levia, care to explain why Plutus has been sending you gifts left and right?"

Levia froze mid-braid, her emerald eyes widening. "W-what? Gifts? Oh, he's just being generous! He's the Virtue of Charity, after all."

"Uh-huh," Triel said, smirking as they leaned closer. "Generous to everyone, or just to you?"

Veritas joined in, her sharp yellow eyes gleaming with amusement. "Levia, you can't hide from me. I'm the Virtue of Truth, remember? Spill it. Do you like him?"

Levia's face flushed a soft pink, her usual serene demeanor faltering. "I-I mean, he's very kind, and his gifts are thoughtful, but—"

"But?" Cassiel interrupted with a sly grin.

Levia fumbled for words, her tail curling around her feet as if to shield her from their teasing. "I don't know! He's... nice, okay? Can we drop it?"

"Absolutely not," Triel said, laughing. "You're too fun to fluster. Besides, if Plutus likes you, why not give him a chance?"

Levia groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You're impossible, all of you."

"That's what friends are for," Veritas said with a wink.

The laughter echoed through the garden, the bonds of friendship between the angels ever present. Even with the mysteries of Heaven looming, for now, they were content to simply enjoy each other's company.

Samael lounged on a cushioned bench surrounded by the vibrant energy of the Virtues: Asmodel, Plutus, and Azazil. The atmosphere was lively, filled with the sounds of laughter and soft conversation. Gabriel, ever the social butterfly, joined the group with his usual glowing presence, while Michael loomed quietly in the background, his arms crossed, observing the exchange without much participation.

Plutus leaned back with a wide grin, his three-pointed jester hat jingling slightly. "Alright, mates, listen to this one. What do you call an angel who keeps tripping over their own wings?"

Asmodel smirked, elegantly crossing his long, flowing arms. "I don't know, Plutus. What do you call them?"

Plutus puffed out his chest for the punchline. "A fallen angel!" He burst out laughing before the others could react, his boisterous guffaws infectious enough to earn a chuckle from Samael and Azazil.

"Plutus, that joke's older than creation itself," Samael teased with a mischievous grin. "You've gotta step up your material."

"Oi! Comedy's timeless, mate," Plutus replied, wagging a finger. "But if you lot are so clever, why don't you give it a go?"

Before Samael could retort, Asmodel tapped his chin thoughtfully. "You know," he began with a sly smile, "all this comedy reminds me—Plutus, how's your little courtship with Levia going?"

Plutus froze, the cheerful glow on his face shifting to a flustered red. "What? Me? Oh, you know, slow and steady wins the race and all that," he stammered, tugging nervously at the collar of his oversized sleeve.

"Come on now, don't be shy!" Samael leaned forward, his grin widening. "Give us the details. Is she warming up to all those charming lines of yours?"

Plutus sighed, finally breaking into a sheepish smile. "Well, she's gorgeous, ain't she? Beautiful scales, those kind eyes... I reckon I made some progress last week. She actually laughed at one of my jokes instead of rollin' her eyes."

Asmodel and Samael exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter. "That's a start!" Samael teased. "I mean, if she didn't laugh at that 'fallen angel' bit, she must really like you."

"Oi, don't push your luck!" Plutus shot back, laughing along despite himself.

The camaraderie was palpable, but it came to a screeching halt when Michael's stern voice cut through. "The Virtues are meant to focus on their duties, not frivolities like romance," he said, his tone sharp and cold. His piercing gaze flicked toward Plutus. "It's unbecoming of your role to be distracted by such trivial matters."

The group fell silent, the cheerful energy deflating under the weight of Michael's words.

Gabriel, ever the diplomat, stepped in with a warm smile. "Oh, come on, Michael. Even the most virtuous among us need a bit of lightheartedness. Besides," he added with a playful wink, "You've asked Belfagel out at least a dozen times, and she still turns you down. Doesn't mean you're slacking on the job!"

Plutus snickered at that, and even Asmodel cracked a smile. Samael couldn't help but laugh outright. "That's the spirit, Michael. Persistence pays off... or at least keeps things entertaining."

Michael, however, merely grumbled something inaudible and turned his attention elsewhere, retreating further into his brooding silence.

The tension eased, and Samael took the opportunity to shift the mood. "Anyway," he began, his excitement bubbling over, "you wouldn't believe what I heard from the other Archangels about God's next big project. It's supposed to be—"

"Samael," Michael snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "That information is not for idle chatter."

The younger angel flinched, his words cut short. "Right. Sorry."

The group exchanged uneasy glances, the joyous atmosphere once again dampened by Michael's overbearing presence. Gabriel sighed softly, placing a reassuring hand on Samael's shoulder. "Don't worry, Samael," he said with a wink. "He's always like this before a big mission. Stressed, you know?"

"More like a stick in the mud," Plutus muttered under his breath, earning a stifled laugh from Samael.

Despite the interruptions, the Virtues and their companions gradually found their rhythm again, their laughter and warmth pushing back against the looming shadow of Michael's disapproval.

Chapter Text

The Celestial Hall of Eternity was abuzz with anticipation. Angels of every order gathered, their divine light casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the chamber. At the center of the vast space, God stood on a radiant platform, His presence both comforting and overwhelming. He wore a wide, playful grin, His movements brimming with excitement as though He were about to unveil a grand surprise to an audience of eager children.

"My beloved creations," He began, His voice resonating with warmth and authority, "thank you for joining Me today. I have something truly wonderful to share with you—an idea, a dream, a project so dear to My heart that I can hardly contain My excitement!"

The angels murmured among themselves. Even the highest-ranking among them, the Seraphim, exchanged curious glances. What could possibly surpass the perfection of Heaven and the angels themselves?

God raised His arms theatrically, the light around Him intensifying. "I have made you, My angels, to serve, to love, and to glorify. But now, I wish to create something new. A being crafted in My image, with hearts that beat and minds that think freely—a creation unlike any other. I call them... humanity!"

The chamber erupted into chatter. Some angels clapped their hands in admiration of God's creativity, while others whispered in uncertainty. Among the skeptics were Veritas, the Virtue of Truth; Azazil, the Virtue of Patience; and Asmodel, the Virtue of Chastity.

Asmodel, graceful and serene, stepped forward, his glowing wings unfurling. "Lord, we marvel at Your endless imagination. But if I may ask—why humanity? Why beings with more free will than we, Your angels? Do You not fear they may stray from Your light?"

God chuckled softly, His tone as kind as ever. "Ah, Asmodel, what is love without choice? You, My angels, are magnificent, but your hearts are inclined to Me by design. Humanity will choose to love, to worship, to build, and to create as I do. Their journey will teach lessons to us all, even to you."

Azazil furrowed his brow, stepping up alongside Asmodel. "And when they reach Heaven, they will be higher than us? They will judge us?" he asked, his tone measured but tinged with unease.

God nodded, His expression calm but resolute. "Indeed, Azazil. They will not be angels but something greater. Their trials, their struggles, their victories—they will refine them into beings of profound wisdom and compassion. They will be your students, yes, but also your judges. You will guide them, and in turn, they will teach you humility and grace."

A murmur of discontent rippled through a small section of the crowd. Veritas, ever the skeptic, folded her arms. "Lord, I trust Your wisdom. But humanity's free will could bring chaos. Even we, with our inclinations toward You, have faltered." She gestured toward Michael, who stood in stoic silence. "Is it not a risk too great?"

God's expression softened as He approached her, His presence emanating peace. "Oh, Veritas, risks are where the greatest growth lies. Humanity will stumble, yes. They will fall into sin, and some will reject Me entirely. But through their choices, they will learn to rise, to repent, to love. It is the beauty of redemption, something even the angels will come to marvel at."

He turned to the assembly, His arms spread wide. "And you, My angels, will be their guides, their protectors, their teachers. Together, we will make this new creation something extraordinary. With the help of Sera and the other Seraphim, humanity will be nurtured, refined, and one day ascend to a glory beyond imagining."

Sera, the leader of the Seraphim, stepped forward, her aura blazing with enthusiasm. "We will serve with all our hearts, Lord. Your vision is perfect, as always."

The angels murmured again, some reassured, others still uncertain. Asmodel, Azazil, and Veritas exchanged glances, their doubts lingering but their trust in God unshaken.

God clapped His hands together, the sound echoing like the chime of a thousand bells. "Wonderful! Now, let us begin. Together, we will create a world of such beauty and wonder that it will leave all of Heaven breathless."

The angels cheered, their voices blending into a harmonious chorus. Even the skeptics could not help but feel a glimmer of hope. God's enthusiasm was infectious, His vision too grand to ignore.

And so, with the celestial host gathered in unity, the work began—the crafting of humanity, a creation that would forever change the fabric of existence. Angels watched, learned, and assisted, their own hearts stirred by the boundless potential of this new and mysterious race.

Samael practically buzzed with excitement, his golden eyes alight with wonder as God's plan unfolded. His wings fluttered slightly as he leaned closer to Gabriel and Uriel, his voice a mix of eagerness and awe.

"This is incredible!" Samael exclaimed, barely able to contain himself. "A creation with free will, like ours, but even freer? I can't wait to see how they'll turn out! Maybe I can help—pitch in with something! I could help guide them, or teach them about God's love! What do you think?"

Uriel, ever calm and encouraging, placed a gentle hand on Samael's shoulder. Her eyes, glowing softly, radiated pride. "Your enthusiasm is refreshing, Samael. I'm sure you'll find a way to make your mark. God sees your heart, and your eagerness to serve Him won't go unnoticed."

Gabriel grinned, his voice warm and playful. "She's right, you know. You've got plenty of ideas, Samael, and you're not afraid to dive in. That's exactly the kind of spirit Heaven needs for a project like this."

Samael beamed, his wings flicking with delight. "Really? You think I could help shape humanity? That I could actually be a part of something so... so big?"

Before either angel could respond, Michael's towering form approached, his presence immediately shifting the atmosphere. Though not as critical as usual, his tone carried its usual weight of authority.

"Samael," Michael began, his arms crossed and his expression stern but not unkind. "It's good to see your excitement, but let's not forget the importance of fulfilling your duties. You can't hope to make significant contributions to Heaven—or humanity—if you don't master the responsibilities you already have."

Michael's wings arched behind him as he continued, his tone growing loftier. "Look at me, for example. I've always been steadfast in my role, always dutiful, always striving to serve God with unwavering loyalty. That's why I am, without question, His most favored son."

Samael nodded along, trying to maintain a polite smile as Michael's lecture began to drag. Gabriel and Uriel exchanged amused glances behind Michael's back, and Samael's eyes darted toward them, silently pleading for help.

"And it is because of this," Michael continued, clearly hitting his stride, "that I have been entrusted with responsibilities beyond what most angels could dream of. Samael, if you wish to ascend to such heights, you must—"

But before Michael could finish, Samael felt a tug on his sleeve. Gabriel leaned in, whispering, "Come on, let's get out of here before this turns into a sermon about his wing-span measurements."

Uriel stifled a laugh, nodding in agreement. Together, they pulled Samael away, their steps light and quiet as they slipped out of the gathering. Michael, still mid-sentence, didn't even notice.

Once they were far enough away, Samael let out a breath of relief, grinning at his companions. "Thanks for the rescue. I thought I'd be stuck there all day listening to him talk about how 'perfect' he is."

Gabriel chuckled, clapping Samael on the back. "Michael means well, but sometimes he just needs a little... space to admire his own reflection."

Uriel's laugh was soft and melodic. "Don't let him discourage you, Samael. Your excitement and creativity are exactly what Heaven needs right now. Humanity will be a challenge, but with angels like you to guide them, they'll have a bright future."

Samael's grin widened. "You really think so? Then I'm all in! I'll do whatever it takes to help make this project a success."

The three angels continued their conversation as they wandered through the celestial gardens. Above them, the stars of Heaven shimmered with a newfound brilliance, as though even they were eager to witness the birth of this project and the wonders that would follow.

As the Virtues strolled away from the Celestial Hall of Eternity, the air buzzed with contrasting opinions. God's Humanity Project was certainly ambitious, but not all shared the same enthusiasm. The group moved in small clusters, voices overlapping in a symphony of agreement and dissent.

Azazil folded his arms across his chest, his brow furrowed as he spoke to Veritas and Asmodel. "I don't get it," he said, his voice laced with skepticism. "Why would God create beings who are weaker than us, only to grant them a place of judgment above us? It feels... wrong."

Veritas nodded, her usually calm demeanor tinged with unease. "I agree. They'll lack the power and knowledge of angels, and yet they'll hold authority? It doesn't add up. Angels are meant to serve and uphold the divine will. Giving humanity such freedom could lead to chaos."

Asmodel, typically more reserved, ran a hand through his feathers . "Perhaps it's a test—for us as much as for them. But I'd be lying if I said it didn't leave a bitter taste. We've served faithfully for eons, and now we're to guide creations who'll, inevitably, falter. It's a hard perspective to reconcile."

Nearby, Triel, Plutus, Belfagel, and Levia were deep in their own discussion. Unlike their hesitant counterparts, their expressions were bright with curiosity and optimism.

Levia's soft voice carried a note of gentle rebuke as she turned to Azazil and Veritas. "You're missing the point. This isn't about power or authority—it's about love. God wants us to help humanity grow, to guide them with wisdom and compassion. Their freedom isn't a threat; it's an opportunity."

Plutus leaned in, grinning broadly, his Aussie accent giving his words a friendly rhythm. "That's right, Levia. This whole thing's about teaching 'em to understand God's love, yeah? Sure, they'll mess up—who doesn't? But that's where we step in, show 'em the ropes. Reckon it'll be a good laugh too, eh? A bit of teaching, a bit of learning, everyone's better for it."

Belfagel chuckled, her soft voice grounding the debate. "Think about it this way, Asmodel. If humanity is meant to judge us one day, then perhaps it's an exercise in humility—for all of us. Even we could learn something from them."

Triel, ever the peacemaker, stepped closer to Asmodel, her golden eyes warm with understanding. Her voice was cool and measured, like a calming melody. "Look, I get why this feels weird, Asmodel. But it's not about us being overshadowed. It's about trust. God's trusting us with something precious. Humanity's a part of Him, just like we are. By helping them, we're fulfilling something bigger than just our pride. That's worth a shot, isn't it?"

Asmodel sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Perhaps you're right. Your words carry weight, as always, Triel. I'll give it a chance, though I may need some time to find peace with the idea."

Triel smiled, her voice carrying an easy warmth. "That's fair. One step at a time, right? No one's asking you to figure it all out today."

Azazil and Veritas exchanged glances, their skepticism still simmering beneath the surface. "We'll let it go for now," Azazil said grudgingly, "but don't expect us to be cheerleaders for this project."

Veritas nodded. "We'll observe and see how it unfolds. But we won't pretend to support something we're not entirely convinced about."

Sensing the tension lingering in the air, Triel clapped her hands together with a grin. "Alright, enough of the heavy talk for one evening. How 'bout I whip up something for everyone? Food's always better than arguing."

Plutus perked up immediately, his wings fluttering with excitement. "Oh, heck yeah! You know your cookin's the stuff of legends, Triel. I'm in. No arguments here."

He turned to Levia with a playful grin. "C'mon, Levia, sit next to me. I'll even make you a plate. Generosity's me middle name, after all."

Levia giggled, brushing a strand of glowing hair behind her ear. "You're too kind, Plutus. How could I possibly say no to that?"

Belfagel laughed heartily, clapping Plutus on the back. "Careful, Plutus, your charm's showing. Don't overdo it now."

The rest of the Virtues chuckled, the earlier tension melting away as they all agreed to Triel's suggestion.

Meanwhile, back in the Celestial Hall of Eternity, Michael was still in full stride, his booming voice echoing through the chamber. He stood tall, gesturing grandly as he extolled his many accomplishments.

"...and that's why, I am the perfect example of what an angel should strive to be! My obedience, my strength, my absolute faith—I am, without question, God's favorite son. If only Samael would follow my lead, he might someday—"

A soft, amused voice interrupted his monologue. "You do realize you're talking to no one, right?"

Michael froze mid-sentence, his golden eyes widening. He looked around, finally noticing that the once-captive audience of Samael, Uriel, and Gabriel had vanished. Only the distant fluttering of wings and faint laughter hinted at their departure.

Sera, her silvery wings shimmering in the soft light of the hall, stood nearby with an arched brow and a faint smirk. She carried herself with calm authority, her tone light but pointed. "They left about... oh, ten minutes ago. You were so busy listing your virtues, I don't think they wanted to interrupt."

Michael's face tightened, his pride stinging. "Left?" he asked, incredulous. "How dare they? I was imparting wisdom. They should have stayed to listen."

Sera tilted her head, her expression one of patient amusement. "Or perhaps they've heard enough about your wisdom for one millennium. Ever consider talking less about yourself and more about the actual values we're meant to embody? You know—humility, compassion, servitude?"

Michael crossed his arms, his wings flaring slightly. "I do embody those values," he insisted. "I just... choose to lead by example."

Sera's smile widened as she gracefully fluttered past him. "Perhaps. But even God's favorite could stand to be a bit less favorite and a bit more approachable." With a soft laugh, she disappeared down the corridor, leaving Michael to stew in her words.

Michael stood there for a moment, his expression caught between indignation and reflection. He muttered under his breath, "I am God's favorite... aren't I?"

He began walking away, his steps firm but his tone more subdued. "I embody humility," he grumbled to himself. "And compassion. And... servitude. Of course I do. Everyone knows that."

But as he passed the silent halls, his words carried less conviction. The faint sound of laughter from the others echoed distantly, reminding him that perhaps, just maybe, there were lessons even he had yet to learn.

Chapter Text

The golden spires of Heaven shimmered in the perpetual light as Samael approached Sera, who stood at the edge of a vast garden. The soft hum of creation hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the divine energy that flowed through every corner of their realm. Sera was tending to a radiant tree, her delicate touch coaxing its branches to bloom with celestial fruit.

Samael landed lightly behind her, his wings folding neatly as he approached. "Sera," he called, his voice carrying a mix of eagerness and hesitation.

She turned, her serene face softening with a smile. "Samael. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to talk to you about the Humanity Project," he began, his excitement evident in his tone. "I know I'm a really young Seraphim, and not even close to someone like Michael, but I have some ideas—great ideas!—that I think could really help."

Sera straightened, her wings arching slightly as she regarded him with a mix of curiosity and fondness. Samael's boundless enthusiasm reminded her of a child presenting a crayon drawing, full of potential but unpolished. Still, she had always seen him as a sort of son, and she was willing to listen. "Go on," she said, gesturing for him to continue.

Samael's eyes lit up. "Okay, so first off, I think their world should have mountains—huge ones, reaching up into the clouds! And oceans that go on forever, teeming with all kinds of creatures, big and small. And stars! Millions of them, scattered across the sky so that humanity always has something to wonder about."

Sera's smile deepened. "Mountains, oceans, and stars. Ambitious, but not outside the realm of possibility."

"And trees!" Samael continued, pacing now as his imagination took flight. "Not just ordinary trees, but some that are massive, with roots that stretch deep into the earth and branches that seem to touch the heavens. And flowers that change colors with the seasons. Oh, and animals! They should have all kinds of animals, from the tiniest bugs to the grandest beasts."

Sera raised an eyebrow, her hands resting gently on her lap. "You've certainly given this a lot of thought. But tell me, Samael, what do you see humanity learning from all of this?"

He paused, his expression earnest. "That the world is a gift. That every part of it—every mountain, every tree, every star—is a reminder of God's love. And that even though they're small, they're connected to something so much bigger than themselves. Isn't that what this is all about?"

Sera's gaze softened, and she nodded. "It is. Your vision is... imaginative, Samael, more so than what we Seraphim had initially envisioned. But that doesn't mean it's without merit. I'll bring your ideas to the council and see what they think."

His face lit up, and he spread his wings with delight. "Really? You will? Thank you, Sera! You won't regret it!"

Before she could say more, Samael was already taking to the skies. "I'm going to see if Triel has made any baked goods," he called back over his shoulder. "Her pastries are the best!"

Sera chuckled softly, shaking her head as she watched him disappear into the radiant horizon. She could already picture Triel chiding him into eating a proper meal first, her firm yet kind demeanor perfectly suited to her role as the Virtue of Temperance.

As the garden fell quiet once more, Sera returned her focus to the tree, a faint smile lingering on her lips. Samael's ideas might have been unorthodox, but his passion was undeniable. And in a way, it reminded her why the Humanity Project was so important.

Celestial Hall of Eternity, her presence poised yet humble as she prepared to address the council of Seraphim and Archangels. Around her, the ethereal forms of Heaven's highest angels radiated brilliance, their attention focused on her. Each of them bore the weight of divine authority, their purpose intricately tied to the creation of the Humanity Project.

Sera took a moment to collect her thoughts. Samael's ideas had been imaginative—perhaps too imaginative for the exacting standards of the Seraphim. Still, she saw value in his vision and had carefully refined his concepts, tweaking them here and there to align with the council's pursuit of perfection.

"Brothers and sisters," she began, her voice steady and calm, "as we work to shape this new world, I wish to present some suggestions that may enhance its beauty and purpose."

The Seraphim murmured softly among themselves, intrigued.

"The world should have mountains," Sera continued, "towering and majestic, symbols of strength and endurance. Oceans vast and deep, full of life and mystery, to inspire humanity's sense of wonder. Stars should scatter the heavens, countless and eternal, to guide them in their darkest hours."

As she spoke, the angels nodded in agreement, their luminous faces reflecting admiration. She went on to describe immense trees with roots that anchored the world and flowers that painted it with the hues of God's glory.

"And animals," she concluded, "of all shapes and sizes, from the smallest insect to the grandest beast, so that humanity may see the diversity and harmony of God's creation."

The angels murmured their approval, their voices like a choir of light. One of them, Raphael, smiled and said, "Sera, these ideas are exquisite. They reflect divine intention with elegance and purpose."

Another, Uriel, added, "You've captured the balance of beauty and meaning we aim for. Your contributions will surely shape this world into something magnificent."

Sera inclined her head gracefully but did not accept the praise without acknowledgment. "I cannot take full credit for these ideas," she admitted, her tone humble yet firm. "They were inspired by Samael."

The hall fell silent for a moment. The name of the eager, younger angel was not one the Seraphim or Archangels had expected to hear.

"Samael?" Gabriel finally said, his tone curious. "He provided these suggestions?"

Sera nodded. "He has a deep passion for the Humanity Project, though his ideas were... more whimsical. I saw potential in them and refined them to suit our vision. But it was his enthusiasm and imagination that sparked these concepts."

The angels exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of surprise and newfound respect. Raphael spoke again, his voice warm. "Perhaps there is more to Samael than we've realized. Thank you, Sera, for nurturing his potential and bringing his ideas to us."

Before the discussion could continue, Michael, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "This world sounds perfect in design, but it cannot remain nameless. A creation so vast and intricate deserves a title worthy of its significance."

The angels fell into thoughtful silence, considering his words. Sera, standing in the center, let her gaze drift as she pondered. The world was meant to be a home for humanity, a place of growth, trial, and wonder. Slowly, an idea formed in her mind.

"Earth," she said softly, the word carrying a resonance that filled the hall. "Let us call it Earth. It will be a reminder of its physicality, its grounded nature, and its connection to the heavens above."

The angels murmured their approval, the name settling into their collective consciousness like a divine decree.

"Earth it shall be," Uriel declared, her voice ringing with finality.

With that, the Seraphim and Archangels began their preparations to bring Sera's—and Samael's—ideas to fruition. As they worked, Sera felt a quiet satisfaction. Samael's imagination had found a place in the divine tapestry, and she had helped give it form.

And though Samael would likely never know the extent to which his ideas had been realized, she couldn't help but smile, thinking of his delight if he ever found out.

The warm glow of the Hall of Virtues radiated serenity, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that Samael carried as he perched at the kitchen counter. The rich aroma of garlic, herbs, and simmering sauce wafted through the air as Triel worked diligently over the stove. Samael's wings twitched impatiently as he recounted his latest triumphs to her, his voice brimming with excitement.

"And you should've seen it, Triel! Sera loved my ideas," Samael said, leaning forward with a grin. "She even told the Seraphim about them! Can you believe that? They actually praised her—and me, indirectly, I guess—but still!"

Triel glanced over her shoulder, a smile playing on her lips. She'd known Samael for ages, and it was rare to see him in such high spirits. Normally, he came to her kitchen wearing a scowl, venting about being chastised by Sera, dismissed by the Seraphim, or overshadowed by his more favored siblings.

"It's about time they started taking you seriously," Triel said, her tone warm and encouraging. "You've always had great ideas, Samael. Sometimes a bit... extravagant," she teased gently, "but great nonetheless."

Samael laughed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Extravagant? Maybe. But isn't that what makes them fun? I just think humanity deserves a world that's... alive, you know? Something that keeps them on their toes."

Triel nodded, stirring the pasta with care. "It's a good thing Sera saw the value in them. She's always been good at balancing things out, even if she's a bit rigid sometimes. I'm glad she's supporting you for once. You deserve it."

Samael sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, it's nice not to be scolded or told my ideas are 'unfocused.' It's just..." He hesitated, his usual cocky demeanor giving way to vulnerability. "It feels good to be heard. Really heard, you know?"

Triel turned off the stove and began plating the pasta. "I do know," she said softly. "You're a creative soul, Samael. Sometimes that can be hard for others to understand. But don't ever stop sharing your ideas. They're part of what makes you special."

As she set the plate in front of him, Samael's hopeful expression fell slightly. "Chicken and spinach pasta?" he groaned, his wings drooping dramatically. "Triel, I came here for your sweets! You're the Virtue of Temperance, not the Virtue of Vegetables!"

Triel laughed, placing a fork in his hand. "Temperance means balance, Samael. And balance means eating a proper meal before you gorge yourself on dessert. Now eat up."

Samael sighed heavily but twirled some pasta onto his fork, giving her a pointed look as he took a bite. His expression shifted almost instantly, his eyes widening as the flavors hit his tongue. "Okay, fine," he admitted between bites. "It's amazing. Happy?"

"Very," Triel said with a satisfied smile, watching him dig into the dish. "You know, I don't mind making sweets for you, but you need to take care of yourself too. A strong mind and body will help you see your ideas through."

Samael nodded, swallowing another mouthful. "You're right, as usual. Thanks, Triel. For everything."

"Always," she replied, her voice filled with genuine care.

As Samael finished the last bite of his pasta, Triel slid a small plate of freshly baked honey cakes in front of him. "Now, since you were so good, here's your reward."

Samael's face lit up, his earlier grumbling forgotten. "You're the best, Triel."

She chuckled softly as Samael eagerly bit into one of the cakes, his mood even brighter now. Samael might be misunderstood at times, but moments like these reminded her of his potential and the heart beneath his rebellious nature.

Chapter Text

The golden light of the heavens bathed the expanse where Samael eagerly regaled anyone who would listen with his latest ideas. He had been bursting with energy lately, coming up with increasingly imaginative concepts for humanity's world. From bioluminescent creatures that would illuminate the night to towering mountains that sang when the wind passed through them, his ideas grew more elaborate by the day.

Samael approached Sera often, brimming with excitement. "What about a river that glows like the stars? Or trees that whisper secrets to those who sit beneath them?" he'd suggest, his enthusiasm infectious.

Sera, her usual composed self, would listen intently, even if she found some of Samael's ideas a touch impractical. "You have quite the imagination, Samael," she'd say with a soft smile. "Though perhaps we could refine some of these concepts to make them... fit better with the vision we're aiming for."

Her willingness to entertain his ideas—albeit with some tweaks—only fueled Samael's determination. He felt validated, like his voice finally mattered.

It wasn't long before he began telling Uriel and Gabriel about his newfound role. "Can you believe it? Sera thinks my ideas are brilliant! She's even been presenting them to the Seraphim!" Samael exclaimed one day, his chest puffed with pride.

Uriel, ever the calm and supportive sibling, smiled warmly. "That's wonderful, Samael. I'm glad you're finding your place."

Gabriel nodded, his golden hair catching the light as he chuckled. "It's about time someone recognized how much potential you have. You've always had a creative spark."

Buoyed by their support, Samael couldn't resist seeking out Michael, who was perched near a cluster of golden pillars, polishing his sword.

"Michael!" Samael called out, striding up to him with a smirk. "Guess who's become Sera's go-to for ideas? That's right—me. Surprised?"

Michael glanced up, his expression unimpressed. "You're being used for scraps of input, Samael. Don't get ahead of yourself."

Samael's smirk faltered for a moment, then returned with defiance. "Scraps? You mean the ideas that are literally shaping humanity's world? Face it, Michael—you've underestimated me for too long."

The tension crackled like thunder as the two began to bicker. Samael's words grew sharper, laced with the frustration of years spent in Michael's shadow. Michael's retorts were cutting, dismissing Samael's contributions as mere whims.

"Now Samael, Michael, let's not blow things out of proportion-" Uriel started but was cut off mid-sentence.

"You're such a child, Samael!" Michael barked, slamming his sword into its scabbard with a metallic clang. "Your so-called 'ideas' are nothing but fantasies. You don't think about the bigger picture—about responsibility or duty."

"Childish?" Samael retorted, his blue eyes blazing. "I'm trying to create, Michael. To bring something fresh and meaningful to this world. You just swing that sword around and act like you're the ultimate authority on everything." He gestured toward Michael's gleaming armor. "Always so quick to play the part of the hero—God's favorite son, right?"

Michael's wings flared with indignation, his golden aura intensifying. "You have no idea what it means to bear the weight of leadership, Samael. I've been chosen to lead because I'm worthy. Because I've proven myself."

"Worthy?" Samael sneered. "You mean you've told yourself that over and over until you believed it. All you care about is your own ego, Michael. You don't lead—you demand obedience."

Michael stepped closer, towering over his younger sibling. "You're reckless and impulsive. You don't understand what it means to serve God's will, Samael. All you do is seek validation like a lost child."

Samael refused to back down, meeting Michael's fiery gaze with equal intensity. "At least I'm not a hypocrite, Michael. You go on about duty and humility, but you're the one parading around, declaring yourself God's chosen! You think the rest of us don't notice how you bask in it? How you love being worshiped?"

Michael's jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. "I serve God. I've earned my place. You—"

"And what if you're wrong?" Samael interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What if you're not as favored as you think? What if God sees through all that pride and posturing?"

Michael's wings trembled, his expression a mixture of anger and uncertainty. "You dare question my devotion? My place?"

"Someone has to," Samael shot back. "You've spent so long looking down on everyone else, you've forgotten how to look inward."

Gabriel stepped between them, his wings spread wide in a gesture of peace. "Please, enough! Both of you!" he pleaded, his tone urgent but steady. "I urge you to calm yourselves. Let's try to understand each other's perspectives."

Michael scoffed, his posture rigid with indignation. "I have never looked down on others! How dare you insinuate that—"

"Oh, so now we're just lying? Is this how low you're stooping, Michael?" Samael shot back, his voice rising with every word.

Michael's face darkened. "Why you—"

Their words overlapped in a chaotic cacophony, each trying to outshout the other. The air between them crackled with tension, their heated exchange echoing through the chamber.

Gabriel and Uriel exchanged helpless glances as they attempted to intervene. "Enough, both of you!" Gabriel repeated, but his voice was drowned out.

Uriel stepped closer, raising her hands in a futile attempt to separate them. "This is getting out of hand," she muttered, her calm exterior showing signs of cracking.

Gabriel, frustration evident on his face, turned to Uriel. "What do we do? We can't get through to them."

Uriel paused for a moment, then exhaled sharply. "I guess we have no choice. I'll head to the Hall of Virtues and get Azazil and Levia. Maybe they can help calm things down."

Gabriel nodded, determination replacing his earlier frustration. "And I'll find Sera. She'll know how to diffuse this before it escalates further."

Uriel extended a hand, briefly resting it on Gabriel's shoulder. "Right. It's agreed. We'll meet back here as fast as we can."

"Understood," Gabriel replied, already turning to take flight.

The two angels parted ways, leaving the growing storm behind as they raced to summon reinforcements.

Uriel's wings beat steadily against the radiant sky as she approached the Hall of Virtues, its golden spires glowing like a beacon of peace. Anxiety weighed on her as she flew, her mind racing over the escalating argument between Samael and Michael. Their tempers had flared far beyond what her words alone could calm. She needed help—immediately.

The Hall of Virtues rose before her, its intricate architecture reflecting light in soft hues of dawn. Uriel descended gracefully into the atrium and strode quickly through the corridors, her sharp eyes scanning for Azazil.

She found him in a smaller, serene chamber, his elegant golden-white form leaning over a scroll beside Veritas. The Virtue of Truth stood poised and calm, her silver hair glowing softly as her fingers traced celestial script on the parchment.

"...clarity of intent must remain central to the next sermon," Veritas said, her measured voice soothing yet firm. "Stray too far into abstraction, and the message will be lost entirely—"

"Azazil," Uriel interjected, her tone urgent but respectful. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's trouble."

Azazil turned toward her, his serene blue eyes immediately softening with concern. "What's wrong?"

"Samael and Michael are fighting," Uriel explained, her voice quick but steady. "It's getting bad. We need you to mediate before it escalates further."

Azazil straightened, his golden robes shifting gracefully as he nodded. "I'll come right away." He glanced at Veritas. "We'll revisit this later."

"Go," Veritas said, her sharp yellow eyes gleaming with understanding. "May clarity guide your words."

Uriel and Azazil moved swiftly through the golden hallways, the gentle hum of celestial activity around them. Their path soon led them to an open courtyard, a tranquil space shaded by flowering trees. Levia, the Virtue of Kindness, sat on a low bench beneath one of the trees, her flowing seafoam-green and white gown shimmering like a calm tide. Around her, cherubs listened intently, their tiny faces alight with wonder.

Beside her stood Plutus, holding a basket of radiant, glimmering fruits, his wings of soft, butterfly-like hues spread in a comforting arc.

"Now remember," Plutus said in his warm, lilting voice, "when you share, you're not just giving joy to others. You're filling your own heart with it too."

Levia smiled as one cherub passed a fruit to another, her serene green eyes filled with pride. "That's right. Sharing shows that we value each other more than material things. And that strengthens the bonds between us."

Uriel stepped forward, her wings folding neatly behind her. "Levia, Plutus, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we need help."

Levia's gentle expression shifted to one of concern. "What's happened?"

"Samael and Michael are at it again," Uriel explained. "It's turning into a full-blown fight. We need to intervene before it gets worse."

Levia rose gracefully, her shimmering wings adjusting as she spoke. "Of course. They must learn that kindness and understanding are the paths to resolution."

Plutus set the basket down, his radiant smile unwavering. "Go on, Levia. I'll keep these little ones busy. Good luck with those two hotheads."

"Thank you, Plutus," Levia said warmly before turning to Uriel and Azazil. "Let's go."

The trio took flight, their wings carrying them swiftly through the skies. Uriel led the way, her thoughts heavy yet hopeful. Samael's fiery imagination and Michael's steadfast sense of duty were both vital, yet their differences clashed like waves against jagged rocks.

But with Azazil's endless patience, Levia's nurturing kindness, and her own determination, perhaps they could calm the storm brewing between the two archangels.

Gabriel soared above the glistening spires of the seraphim's domain, the radiance of the heavens illuminating his path. His mission was clear—find Sera and bring her to Samael and Michael before their fight spiraled further out of control. Gabriel knew Sera had a unique way of commanding respect, even from those as stubborn as Michael and as fiery as Samael.

After scanning several chambers, Gabriel finally found Sera in a quiet garden, standing near a marble fountain. She was speaking softly to two young seraphim in training, her voice calm and nurturing as she guided them on proper wing control during high-altitude flights.

"...it's not just about strength, but balance," Sera said, demonstrating with a subtle adjustment of her own wings. "You must let the wind guide you as much as you guide it."

Gabriel landed gently, folding his wings behind him. "Sera," he said, his tone urgent but respectful.

Sera turned, her serene expression shifting to one of mild concern as she saw Gabriel's flustered state. "Gabriel? What's the matter?"

"It's Samael and Michael," Gabriel explained quickly. "They're fighting again, and it's worse than usual. Words are flying, tempers are high... It's bad, Sera. Uriel went to get Azazil and Levia, but I came to you because you're the only one who can really diffuse this."

Sera let out a soft sigh, her wings shifting slightly as she considered. "Samael and Michael... again."

One of the young seraphim hesitated before asking, "Is everything all right, Lady Sera?"

Sera offered them a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, little ones. Keep practicing what I taught you, and I'll return soon."

The trainees nodded, stepping back as Sera turned to Gabriel. "Lead the way," she said simply.

The two seraphim flew swiftly, Gabriel recounting what he'd seen as they traveled. "It started with Samael gloating a bit—he was just proud that you appreciated his ideas—but Michael took it the wrong way. Then, as usual, they both started picking at old grievances. Uriel and I could barely keep up with them."

Sera sighed again, her expression a mix of weariness and resolve. "Those two are so alike, yet they refuse to see it. Both so passionate, so convinced of their righteousness..."

As they neared the site of the conflict, the distant sound of raised voices reached them. Gabriel frowned. "It's gotten even louder."

Sera nodded, her voice firm. "Then it's time to put an end to it."

They landed just outside the chamber, where the argument was still in full swing. Azazil, Levia, and Uriel were already there, standing between the two feuding archangels but struggling to calm them down.

Uriel stepped between them, his calming presence trying to dampen the fiery energy between the brothers. "Enough," she said firmly, her deep voice reverberating with authority. "Both of you. This isn't the way."

Michael opened his mouth to argue, but Azazil, who had arrived quietly, placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Patience, Michael," the Virtue of Patience said softly. "And you, Samael," he added, turning to the younger archangel. "Temper your words. There is truth in what you both say, but this discord serves no one."

Levia approached Samael and gently rested a hand on his arm. "Your passion is admirable, Samael, but there's no need to let it fuel division. You are siblings, not rivals."

Samael's shoulders stiffened, his gaze flickering between the angels around him. He exhaled sharply, stepping back.

"Fine," Samael muttered, though his tone was still edged with frustration.

Michael remained silent, his golden eyes narrowing. The anger in them hadn't faded, but Azazil's touch on his shoulder kept him rooted.

As Uriel, Azazil, and Levia finally succeeded in parting Samael and Michael, the tension in the air still crackled like a distant storm. Samael stood near the edge of the chamber, arms crossed, wings twitching with suppressed agitation. Michael, on the opposite side, was stiff and simmering, his golden eyes fixed on some unseen point. Neither looked ready to speak again, and their silence was an uneasy truce.

Gabriel entered with Sera at his side. The shift in the room was immediate. Even Samael, who rarely yielded to anyone, straightened at the sight of her. Michael's shoulders stiffened further, and his usual confidence wavered under Sera's calm yet penetrating gaze.

"Samael. Michael," Sera said, her tone steady but firm. "With me. Now."

The two brothers exchanged reluctant glances but obeyed, following Sera into a smaller adjacent chamber. Gabriel and the others remained outside, their relief evident as the door closed behind the trio.

Inside, Sera stood before Samael and Michael, her serene demeanor sharpening into something that brooked no argument. "Sit," she instructed. They did, though their wings remained slightly flared, a testament to their lingering pride and frustration.

Sera folded her hands in front of her, surveying them both in silence for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was measured, yet it carried an undercurrent of authority that neither archangel dared to challenge.

"Samael," she began, turning her gaze to him. "Tell me your side of this."

Samael's jaw clenched, but he met her gaze, his voice clipped but honest. "It started because I said something about how you appreciated my ideas. It wasn't meant to provoke him," he added quickly, casting a sidelong glance at Michael. "But he twisted it into something else. He accused me of gloating, of trying to undermine him, which wasn't my intention. Then, as always, he had to drag up every argument we've ever had—"

"Stop," Sera said, holding up a hand. Samael fell silent, though his wings twitched with the effort of restraint.

"Michael," she said, turning to the elder archangel. "Your side."

Michael's lips pressed into a thin line, but he spoke. "Samael's words were hardly innocent. He was gloating. He's always had a way of making himself seem more important than he is, and I—" He hesitated, as if realizing the trap he was setting for himself. "I called him out on it. Perhaps I was... harsher than necessary."

Sera's expression didn't change, but her silence spoke volumes. Both brothers looked away, suddenly feeling the weight of their actions.

"I see," Sera finally said, her voice low but carrying a quiet strength. "Samael, you were right in spirit, but wrong in execution. Stooping to Michael's level, letting his accusations provoke you—this is beneath you. You are better than this, and you know it."

Samael winced but nodded. "You're right," he admitted. "I'm sorry, Sera. And... I'm sorry, Michael," he added, his voice softer. His gaze flickered to his older brother, his expression genuine despite his discomfort.

Michael's jaw tightened, but he nodded in return, a grudging acceptance of the apology.

Sera's gaze shifted to Michael, and her expression hardened. "Michael, I am disappointed in you."

Michael's wings flared slightly, his pride rearing its head, but Sera's sharp look quelled it instantly. "You have allowed your ego to grow unchecked. Your arrogance blinds you, and it poisons your relationships with those who should be your allies. Samael may have his faults, but so do you. And your refusal to acknowledge them is what keeps this rift between you alive."

Michael's head lowered slightly, a flicker of shame crossing his face.

"And," Sera continued, her voice like steel, "I will tell God about this."

Michael's head shot up, his golden eyes wide. "Sera, please," he said, his voice almost desperate. "You don't need to involve Him. I—"

"It's not a matter of need," Sera interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. "It's a matter of accountability. You are His chosen leader among us, Michael. You, above all, should know better."

Michael opened his mouth to protest but saw the unwavering resolve in her eyes. He exhaled heavily, his wings drooping. "As you wish," he said finally, though his tone carried a note of defeat.

Sera stepped back, her expression softening slightly. "This is not about punishment, Michael. It's about growth. For both of you. Learn from this, or it will only happen again."

She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Remember," she said, glancing back at them, "your bond as brothers is stronger than any argument. Act like it."

With that, she exited the chamber, leaving Samael and Michael alone. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Samael cleared his throat, awkward but sincere.

"So... friends?"

Michael snorted softly, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Let's not push it. But... brothers. Always."

Samael nodded, and though the tension between them hadn't completely faded, a small crack of light had begun to break through the walls they'd built.

Chapter Text

The Celestial Hall of Eternity shimmered with an ethereal glow as Sera ascended the marble steps, her periwinkle-gray gown trailing behind her like rippling starlight. The hall was a sacred place where only the most trusted seraphim gathered to discuss and work on God's most ambitious creations. Today, she was meant to continue her efforts on the Humanity Project, a task that required focus and precision.

As she entered the hall, her six wings folded neatly behind her, she was surprised to hear raised voices echoing through the chamber. Sera's white irises shifted toward the center of the hall, where several seraphim stood in a tense circle. In the middle of it all was Samael, his presence unmistakable with his wide, expressive gestures and shining white suit, his top hat perched perfectly atop his peach-toned hair.

"I'm just saying," Samael argued, his vibrant voice carrying a mix of determination and frustration. "I've contributed so much to Sera's ideas for humanity. I should have the right to be here and see this through!"

One of the elder seraphim, her demeanor calm but her tone edged with disapproval, responded, "Samael, while your growth as a seraphim is commendable, you are still too young and inexperienced to take on responsibilities of this magnitude. This is not your place."

Samael's wings flared slightly, his frustration evident. "How am I supposed to gain experience if I'm always told to stay out of it? I'm not some fledgling anymore! I've earned the right to be heard."

Before the argument could escalate further, Sera stepped forward, her presence immediately commanding attention. The seraphim turned to her, their expressions a mix of relief and expectation.

"Lady Sera," one of them began, bowing slightly. "Please, speak to Samael. He has overstepped, and it's clear that by indulging him, he now feels entitled to more involvement."

Sera's serene expression remained steady, though inwardly, she felt a pang of conflict. She glanced at Samael, whose wide, hopeful eyes betrayed his frustration and hurt. Finally, she nodded. "I will speak with him."

The other seraphim stepped aside, leaving Sera and Samael alone in the center of the grand hall. Samael's posture straightened as Sera approached, his wings tucked back as if bracing himself for her words.

"Samael," Sera began, her voice calm but firm. "You have done much to help me refine the ideas for humanity, and I value the passion and creativity you bring. However, that does not grant you the right to dictate or involve yourself in matters that are not yours to oversee."

Samael's expression shifted, his brows furrowing. "But why? If my ideas are good enough to help shape this project, why am I not allowed to be part of it? It's not fair, Sera."

Sera's wings flared slightly, her tone growing sharper. "Fairness is not the issue here, Samael. You have a role in Heaven—to teach reverence and humility to the angels. My role is to oversee Heaven and carry out God's will. Just as I respect the boundaries of your duties, you must respect mine."

"But I could do more!" Samael protested, his voice cracking with emotion. "I want to do more."

Sera's gaze softened, but her resolve did not waver. "You will, Samael. In time. But for now, you must understand that maturity is not just about having ideas—it's about knowing when to step back and trust others to fulfill their roles."

Samael lowered his head, his wings drooping slightly. "So that's it? I just stay on the sidelines?"

A flicker of maternal warmth crossed Sera's face. Though she knew her decision was the right one, it was difficult to see the hurt in Samael's eyes. "You may not be ready to lead this project, but I will allow you to observe. You can watch as we work, see the progress we've made, and learn from it. That is how you'll grow."

Samael looked up, his expression conflicted. "That's all?"

"That is all," Sera said firmly, though her tone was gentler now. "This is not a punishment, Samael. It's an opportunity to learn and prepare for the responsibilities you will one day take on."

After a long pause, Samael sighed. "Fine. I'll watch."

Sera reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but trust me—it's for the best."

Samael nodded, though his heart felt heavy. Deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling of rejection, the ache that Sera, who had always encouraged him, would not let him help with something so monumental.

As Sera turned to rejoin the other seraphim, Samael lingered at the edge of the chamber, his vibrant glow dimmed slightly. He watched as Sera and the others resumed their discussion, his mind swirling with thoughts.

He would listen, he would learn—but the sting of being sidelined stayed with him, quietly fanning the flames of ambition within.

Sera stepped forward, her delicate fingers rising as she conjured a radiant orb before her. It shimmered with divine energy, an intricate globe she had spent countless hours perfecting—a world she had dubbed Earth. The other seraphim gathered around her, their lighted forms reflecting the celestial brilliance of the orb, while Samael, standing slightly apart, craned his neck to catch a glimpse.

As the orb spun gently in Sera's hands, Samael's sharp eyes noticed something familiar. Many of the features on Earth—the lush forests, the winding rivers, and even the sprawling deserts—had been inspired by his ideas. Yet, as he examined the details closer, he realized they had been changed. The jagged mountains he envisioned were softened into rolling hills, the storm-ravaged seas he imagined were now calm and inviting. To Samael, it felt... dull. Too serene.

Still, he chose not to complain. A small smile formed on his face as he thought, She used my ideas. Even if they were tweaked, she still used them.

Sera turned, her glowing white irises locking onto Samael's curious expression. "Come," she said, beckoning him closer. "Let me show you something."

The orb expanded, the globe within growing larger until it filled the center of the hall. With a wave of her hand, Sera zoomed in on a single point, a dazzling patch of greenery nestled amidst shimmering rivers and towering trees. "This," Sera began, her voice soft yet commanding, "is Eden. The Garden of Eden. A sanctuary for the first humans. A place of beauty, balance, and peace."

Samael stepped closer, his eyes widening as he took in the breathtaking sight. The garden was unlike anything he had imagined. Flowers of every imaginable color bloomed in harmony, their petals glistening with dew. Trees bearing golden fruits swayed gently in a nonexistent breeze, their branches cradling clusters of glowing orbs. Streams of crystalline water wove through the garden, their surfaces shimmering with divine light.

"It's... magnificent," Samael whispered, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

"This is where it will begin," Sera said, her gaze warm as she looked at Samael. "Watch."

Sera extended her hands toward the globe. From the golden dust of the Earth, two forms began to take shape. The dust rose and swirled, coalescing into figures that shimmered with a divine glow. Slowly, the figures solidified, their forms becoming flesh and blood.

Samael watched in awe as the first humans came to life. A man and a woman stood before them, their expressions fresh and innocent. They looked around, taking in their surroundings with wide eyes, marveling at the beauty of the garden that would be their home.

The seraphim observed silently, their collective presence radiating approval. Samael, too, felt a sense of wonder, though a small, inexplicable feeling stirred within him—a faint unease he couldn't quite place.

Within the globe, Sera stepped down into Eden, her towering, regal form softening as she knelt before the two humans. Her voice carried through the hall and the garden alike, resonating with divine authority. "You are Adam and Lilith," she said, her tone filled with warmth. "You are the first of humankind, equals in this sacred task. You will care for this garden, and from you, the life of the human race will begin. It is an honor, a divine purpose bestowed upon you."

The man, Adam, blinked in quiet reverence, his gaze fixed on Sera as though trying to comprehend her words. The woman, Lilith, mirrored his awe, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes as she glanced around Eden.

The seraphim nodded among themselves, their celestial forms glowing brighter in agreement. Samael, however, felt something strange gnawing at him. It wasn't jealousy or anger—no, it was something deeper, more subtle.

Why do her words feel... incomplete? he wondered, his gaze lingering on Sera as she continued to speak to Adam and Lilith.

Though he couldn't quite explain it, something about the way Sera spoke unsettled him. Her tone, though gentle, carried a weight that seemed almost too heavy for these new, innocent beings. And her mention of "divine purpose" sounded more like a command than an invitation.

Samael's wings twitched as he shifted uncomfortably. He glanced at the other seraphim, but they showed no signs of doubt. Their expressions remained serene, their approval evident.

Still, Samael couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Sera's words than met the ear. Something beneath the surface, something unspoken, lingered in the air.

He didn't dare voice his concerns, not now. But deep in his heart, the unease remained, a quiet whisper that refused to be silenced. For the first time, Samael began to wonder if Sera, despite her wisdom and authority, might not have all the answers.

Chapter Text

Samael wandered the celestial halls aimlessly, his usual exuberance dulled by the weight of his thoughts. His encounter with Sera and the seraphim left a bitter taste in his mouth, not because he had been excluded—he was used to that—but because something deeper gnawed at him. He needed clarity, and there was only one being in all of Heaven he trusted to provide it.

He found Veritas in her usual place, the Chamber of Reflection, a space of quiet radiance where truths often surfaced unbidden. The room was serene, bathed in soft golden light, and Veritas sat at its center, her silver hair flowing like liquid moonlight around her. Her sharp yellow eyes met Samael's as he approached, and a gentle smile crossed her lips.

"Samael," she greeted, her voice warm and inviting. "I was wondering when you'd come to me. Sit, and tell me what troubles you."

Samael sighed as he lowered himself onto the glowing floor across from her. For a moment, he said nothing, staring down at his gloved hands as if the words he sought might appear there. Finally, he began, his voice tinged with frustration.

"It's about what happened earlier... with Sera and the seraphim. I wanted to help create humanity. I had ideas, good ones! But they dismissed me, said I was too young, not ready. And Sera—she didn't defend me. She just agreed with them. It's like... no matter how much I try, I'll never really belong."

Veritas listened patiently, her tail curling around her as she considered his words. "I understand how you feel, Samael," she said softly. "Being excluded, feeling as though your contributions aren't valued—it's not an easy burden to bear. But tell me, did they reject your ideas, or you?"

Samael hesitated. "They used some of my ideas," he admitted. "But they changed them. Made them... different. More peaceful. More boring, if I'm being honest. I appreciated that they used them, but it's like they didn't trust me to be part of the process. I just feel left out."

Veritas nodded, her cat-like ears twitching slightly. "It's not uncommon, Samael. The elders often think they know best, and sometimes, they forget that wisdom can come from the younger among us as well. But I sense there's more troubling you. What else weighs on your heart?"

Samael looked up at her, his blue and purple eyes flickering with uncertainty. "It's... it's about the humans," he said finally. "When I saw Sera creating them, I was amazed. They were so... pure. Innocent. Curious. But then she started talking to them, telling them who they were, what they were supposed to do. It felt... wrong. Like they didn't even have a chance to figure it out for themselves. They were barely alive, and already, they were being told their purpose. Their job."

Veritas's eyes softened, and she leaned forward slightly. "I understand what you mean," she said. "It was the same for me, and for the other Virtues. When we were created, we were given our roles immediately. Told what we were meant to embody, how we were meant to serve. There was no discussion, no choice. It was simply what we were."

Samael nodded, a faint bitterness creeping into his voice. "It was the same for me too. The moment I was born, they told me I was to teach reverence and humility. That was it. No asking what I wanted, no considering what I might be good at. Just... orders. And I accepted it because I didn't know any better. Because I thought that's just how it worked."

Veritas's gaze grew distant, her sharp eyes clouded with thought. Samael's words echoed in her mind, stirring something she had long buried. The truth she had always held so dear now seemed veiled in an unsettling light. The roles they were given, the lack of choice—it was all so systematic, so rigid. Could it be that their very creation was flawed? That their purpose, so carefully assigned, had robbed them of something vital?

She shook her head slightly, dismissing the thought before it could fully take root. This was not the time to unravel such a truth, not here, not now. But the realization lingered, a seed of doubt that refused to be ignored.

"Samael," she said gently, her voice steady despite the storm brewing within her. "What you're feeling is valid. And perhaps there is merit in questioning the way things are done. But for now, focus on what you can do. Your role may have been given to you, but how you choose to fulfill it—that is where your freedom lies. And perhaps, in time, you will find a way to shape things for the better."

Samael frowned, but he nodded slowly. "I just... I don't want the humans to go through what we did. They're so new, so full of potential. They deserve to have a say in who they are, in what they want to be."

Veritas smiled softly, her tail brushing lightly against his arm. "Then perhaps that is something you can strive for, Samael. To ensure that they have the freedom we never did. But tread carefully. Change is not easily embraced, especially here in Heaven."

Samael leaned back, his mind racing with thoughts and possibilities. He still felt the sting of exclusion, the frustration of being sidelined. But Veritas's words offered a small measure of comfort, a glimmer of hope. He didn't have all the answers, but maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to make things different—not just for himself, but for humanity as well.

And as Veritas watched him, her own thoughts churned with unease. The realization she had come to—though she dared not speak it aloud—was one that could shake the very foundations of Heaven. But for now, she kept it to herself, unsure of what to do with a truth so profound, so unsettling, that it threatened to upend everything she believed in.

Veritas found Azazil in the tranquil Garden of Radiance, where he often meditated. The garden was filled with ethereal flora, their glowing petals swaying in a breeze that seemed to originate from the heavens themselves. Azazil was seated on a smooth stone, his golden-white tail curled around him as he gazed at the cascading light of a celestial fountain.

"Veritas," he greeted warmly, his serene blue eyes softening as he noticed her approach. "What brings you here? You look troubled."

She settled beside him, her robes shimmering like liquid light as she let out a deep sigh. "I needed someone to talk to... someone I trust. And I trust you, Azazil, more than anyone else."

Azazil's kind expression didn't falter, though a flicker of concern crossed his features. "You know I'm always here for you. What's on your mind?"

Veritas hesitated for a moment, her silver hair catching the light as it fell over her shoulder. "It's about the humanity project... and my conversation with Samael."

Azazil's wings shifted slightly, their golden hues glimmering with faint light. "Samael?" he asked gently. "What did he say?"

She recounted her earlier discussion with Samael—his feelings of exclusion, his unease about the way the first humans were created and immediately assigned roles, and how it mirrored their own experiences as celestial beings. Azazil listened intently, his gaze unwavering, his calm demeanor a source of comfort.

"He's right, you know," Veritas continued. "We were born into this existence and told what we are. Told what we must do. We never had a choice, Azazil. None of us did. Not me, not you... not even Samael."

Azazil's serene expression shifted, a hint of sadness appearing in his glowing eyes. "It's true," he admitted softly. "We accepted our roles without question because we believed in the divine plan. We trusted that our Creator knew what was best for us and for the universe."

"But what if..." Veritas hesitated, her cat-like ears twitching slightly as she lowered her voice. "What if it's not enough? What if we're more than just our assigned roles? What if the humanity project is just another way to perpetuate the same cycle?"

Azazil looked at her thoughtfully, his tail moving slowly, almost pensively. "Are you doubting the purpose we were given?" he asked, his tone free of judgment.

"I don't know," Veritas confessed. "I've always believed in truth, Azazil. It's who I am. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that truth is more complex than I ever imagined. Samael's words have stirred something in me, something I can't ignore."

Azazil was silent for a moment, his gaze focused on the fountain's flowing light. "Asmodel has expressed similar thoughts," he said finally, his voice measured. "He's spoken to me about the weight of our purpose, the lack of freedom we have as Virtues and Seraphim. He questions why we cannot choose our own paths."

Veritas looked at him sharply. "And what do you think?"

Azazil met her gaze, his serene blue eyes filled with a quiet wisdom. "I think his questions are valid, but they are also dangerous. To question our purpose is to question the foundation of Heaven itself. And yet..." He paused, his voice softening. "And yet, I can't help but feel that there is more to existence than what we've been told. More to us."

Veritas sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "I came to you because I knew you'd understand. You're the only other Virtue I can talk to about this. The others would see it as blasphemy."

Azazil placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his touch radiating warmth. "You're not alone in your thoughts, Veritas. And I'm here to listen, always. But we must tread carefully. These doubts... they can lead to places we might not be ready to face."

Veritas nodded slowly, though the unease in her heart remained. "Thank you, Azazil. I just... I needed to share this with someone."

Azazil smiled, a soft and reassuring expression. "You don't have to carry this burden alone. Whatever happens, we will face it together."

As Veritas stood to leave, she couldn't shake the feeling that her doubts were only the beginning of something much larger. And as Azazil watched her go, a quiet thought lingered in his mind: What if she's right?

Chapter Text

Plutus sat cross-legged on a mossy patch of ground beneath a vast celestial tree whose leaves shimmered in shades of green, gold, and soft orange. The air was filled with a gentle hum, the soothing melody of Heaven's harmony. He fidgeted with the star-shaped pendant on his outfit, his wings twitching nervously as he awaited Levia's arrival. It wasn't often that he got time alone with her, and every moment felt like a precious gift.

When she arrived, her presence was like a tranquil wave washing over him. Her shimmering hair flowed like light itself, cascading in waves of white, green, and lavender. Her serene emerald eyes, glowing with kindness, met his, and she smiled warmly.

"You wanted to talk, Plutus?" she asked gently, lowering herself to sit beside him. Her fin-like wings folded gracefully behind her as she settled in, her gown of silken water glistening in the golden light.

Plutus cleared his throat, his fingers fumbling with a star on his hat. "Y-yeah, I just thought... you know, it's been a while since we had some time to ourselves. Figured we could... talk." His Aussie accent wavered, his usual enthusiasm tempered by his nerves.

Levia tilted her head, her smile growing softer. "Of course. I always enjoy our talks."

Plutus's heart raced. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away, his green cheeks taking on a faint orange hue. He took a deep breath, preparing to speak, but before he could muster the courage, Levia spoke again.

"Have you noticed Samael lately?" she asked, her tone tinged with concern.

Plutus blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, Samael? What about him?"

"He's been... distant," Levia said, her gaze drifting upward to the golden leaves. "He spends less time with Sera and his siblings. I've barely seen him around them. It's not like him to pull away like this." She clasped her hands in her lap, worry evident in her voice. "Do you think something might've happened?"

Plutus tilted his head thoughtfully. "Dunno if it's really a bad thing, though. He's been hanging out with us more, hasn't he? The Virtues, I mean."

Levia looked at him, her brows furrowing slightly. "But that's what worries me. Samael's always been so close to his family. For him to pull away like this..."

Plutus rubbed the back of his neck, his wings shifting slightly. "Maybe it's not that he's pullin' away, y'know? Maybe he's just... finding somethin' different with us. I mean, look how he treats us. He listens to us, really listens. He cares about what we think, what we feel. He doesn't just see us as 'the Virtues.'"

Levia's expression softened as she considered his words. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Plutus said with more confidence. "I think he sees us like family. And maybe that's somethin' he needs right now."

Levia let out a soft sigh, her worry easing slightly. "I suppose you're right. I just... I can't help but worry about him. I know he carries so much on his shoulders, and I hate to think he might be struggling alone."

Plutus's heart swelled at her compassion. "That's one of the things I like about you, Levia," he said, his voice softening. "You care so much about others. You're always thinkin' about their feelings, wantin' to help. It's... it's beautiful."

Levia turned to him, her emerald eyes glowing with warmth. Without a word, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around him in a gentle hug.

Plutus froze, his breath catching in his throat as her touch sent a wave of warmth through him. His wings quivered, and his cheeks turned a deep shade of orange. "I-I... um..."

"Thank you, Plutus," Levia said softly, her voice full of gratitude. "You always know how to put things into perspective. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Plutus's heart felt like it might burst. He slowly raised his arms and hugged her back, his movements awkward but sincere. "A-anytime," he managed to stutter, his voice barely above a whisper.

As Levia pulled back, her serene smile never wavered. Plutus watched her, his thoughts a whirl of emotions. He still hadn't managed to tell her how he felt, but in that moment, her hug and her words felt like enough. For now.

"Come on," Levia said, rising gracefully to her feet. "Let's go find Samael and see if he's alright."

Plutus nodded, scrambling to his feet. "Yeah, let's do that."

As they walked side by side, Plutus couldn't help but glance at her, his heart still racing. He'd find the right moment to tell her someday. For now, he was just happy to be by her side.

Veritas sat with Asmodel and Triel in a quiet corner of Heaven's vast gardens. The air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers, and the tranquil rustle of leaves complemented the serene glow of the Virtues gathered. It was rare for them to have a moment together, and the gravity of their discussion added weight to the peace of their surroundings.

"I spoke with Samael recently," Veritas began, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight. Her voice was calm, but the underlying concern was evident. "He's so passionate about the Humanity Project. He believes it's a necessary step, but it's clear how much he struggles with the skepticism and... the constant judgment."

Triel tilted her head, her antennae swaying gently. Her warm, cheerful voice carried a note of understanding. "Samael's ideas always stir the waters, but isn't that the point? Change doesn't happen in silence. I mean, sure, the Humanity Project's a big leap, but doesn't it deserve a shot? He's seen something in it that we haven't."

Asmodel leaned forward slightly. His smooth voice tinged with hesitation. "I'm still not entirely convinced. Humanity's flaws could introduce chaos to the balance we maintain. And yet..." He sighed, a rare glimpse of vulnerability in his unyielding resolve. "I cannot ignore Samael's conviction. He wouldn't propose this lightly."

Veritas nodded, her glowing yellow eyes soft with understanding. "He told me what he saw—their potential for love, growth, and resilience. Yet he's been dismissed, even looked down upon by some of the Seraphim. He's always been our Little Morningstar, striving to illuminate paths others don't yet see. But it pains him, you know. He hides it well, but I could feel it."

Triel's butterfly-like wings shimmered in hues of pink and orange as she leaned back, her expression thoughtful. "Poor Samael. He's got so much heart, but people get caught up in their own fear of change. Maybe... maybe one of us should go with him next time. If we see what he sees, maybe we'll understand better."

Asmodel's wings, vibrant with gradients of cyan and yellow, stretched slightly as he considered her words. "It's a wise suggestion. While I still have my reservations, I cannot condemn what I have not experienced myself. If Samael's vision truly holds merit, it is only fair to evaluate it firsthand."

Veritas smiled faintly. "That's exactly what I was thinking. If one of us accompanies him, it'll show that we're open to his ideas. He needs to know he's not alone in this."

"Not alone, huh?" Triel grinned, leaning her cheek against her hand. "It'd do him some good to have support from his family too, not just the Archangels. I think it's about time we remind him of that."

The three Virtues sat in contemplative silence for a moment, their individual auras blending into a harmonious glow.

"So, who should go first?" Veritas finally asked, her silver hair cascading over her shoulder.

Asmodel straightened, his beak-like face reflecting an aura of calm authority. "I will. If I am to pass judgment on this project, I must see its merits and flaws for myself. It is only just."

"And Azazil should go too," Triel added, her tone playful yet sincere. "The guy's got a heart as big as the heavens. If anyone can see the beauty in something, it's him."

Veritas chuckled softly. "Agreed. Azazil's empathy could offer a perspective we might overlook."

"Then it's settled," Asmodel said with a decisive nod. "The next time Samael descends to observe humanity, Azazil and I will join him. Perhaps this experience will shed light on the path forward."

Triel smiled brightly, her wings fluttering gently. "And maybe, just maybe, it'll help Samael feel a little less like he's carrying the weight of Heaven on his own."

Veritas's expression softened, her voice carrying a mix of gratitude and pride. "Thank you. Both of you. Samael needs this support now more than ever."

As the three Virtues shared a moment of quiet understanding, their resolve solidified. Samael's vision was bold, but in their unity, they could offer him the strength to face the challenges ahead.

Plutus and Levia found Samael leaning against a marble column in one of Heaven's quieter courtyards. The faint hum of distant angelic hymns filled the air, blending with the soft rustling of ethereal winds. Samael's usually lively demeanor seemed dimmed, his glowing wings folded tightly behind him, and his gaze distant as he stared at the flowing waters of a nearby fountain.

"Hey, Little Morningstar," Plutus began gently, his tone cheerful but cautious. He approached Samael with his usual bounce, though his movements softened upon seeing the Seraphim's pensive expression. Levia followed closely, her soothing presence filling the space as she gave Samael a warm smile.

Samael turned to face them, his lips curving into a faint grin. "Plutus. Levia. Didn't expect to see you two wandering around together. What brings you here?"

Levia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "We came to check on you. You've been quieter than usual lately." Her voice was calm, her glowing eyes watching him with genuine concern. "Is everything alright?"

Samael sighed, his glowing halo dimming slightly. "Everything's fine, I suppose. Nothing I can't handle."

Plutus raised an eyebrow, the stars on his jester hat jingling softly. "That doesn't sound very convincing, mate. Besides, we weren't born yesterday—well, metaphorically speaking. You've been off. Something's bothering you, isn't it?"

Samael hesitated before finally relenting with a sigh. "It's not really a big deal," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just... family stuff."

Levia's expression softened. "How are things with Uriel and Gabriel?" she asked, sitting down beside him gracefully. Her wings folded neatly as she rested her hands on her lap.

Samael perked up slightly at the mention of his siblings. "Uriel and I are fine. She's always been understanding, even if she doesn't always agree with me. Gabriel's good too—he's mellowed out a lot since we started working on some projects together. He actually listens now, which is a miracle in itself."

Levia smiled. "That's wonderful to hear. And Michael?"

Samael chuckled dryly, his eyes brightening for a moment. "Believe it or not, he and I have been... getting along better, thanks to you and Azazil nudging us. He's still a bit of a hardhead, but he's been more open lately. We've even been sparring—civilly, I might add. No broken wings this time."

Levia's smile widened, her relief evident. "I'm glad. It's important to mend those bonds."

Plutus shifted on his feet, his star bells jingling and twitching nervously. "What about Sera?" he asked hesitantly. "You two have always seemed close... well, kinda."

At the mention of Sera, Samael's face fell. He looked away, his hands clenching briefly before relaxing. A long silence followed, heavy with unspoken emotion.

"She's... complicated," Samael finally said, his voice quieter. "She cares about me. I know she does. But it's like she doesn't take me seriously. I'm always her 'Little Morningstar,' the younger one who needs guidance, who doesn't know what he's talking about. She doesn't see me as an equal. Never has."

Plutus tilted his head, his cheerful expression fading into a concerned frown. "What makes you say that?"

Samael hesitated, his voice trembling as he continued. "When I wanted to do more for the humanity project... when I had ideas to make it better, to truly help them, she didn't even hear me out. She shut me down, dismissed me like I was some naive child. I know I have my duties—teaching the cherubs humility is important, I get that—but I wanted to do more. I wanted to prove to her that I could be more. That I'm more than just the baby of the family."

His voice broke, and he quickly looked away, blinking back tears. "But she wouldn't even defend me. She wouldn't listen. She just... cast me aside."

Levia reached out, her glowing hands gently cupping Samael's face and guiding his gaze back to her. Her emerald-green eyes shimmered with compassion. "Samael, I'm so sorry," she said softly. "That must have hurt deeply."

"It did," he admitted, his tears finally spilling over. "I just wanted her to see me for who I am, not who she thinks I am. But no matter what I do, it's never enough."

Plutus, uncharacteristically quiet, stepped forward and placed a hand on Samael's shoulder. "You are enough, mate," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the usual nervous edge. "She just doesn't see it yet. But we do. And we'll keep reminding you until you believe it."

Levia pulled Samael into a gentle embrace, her wings wrapping around him protectively. "You've always had such a bright light, Samael," she whispered. "Don't let anyone—anyone—diminish it. Not even Sera."

Samael let out a shuddering breath, leaning into her comfort as Plutus joined the embrace, his jester-like attire crinkling softly. The three of them stayed that way for a while, surrounded by the quiet serenity of the courtyard, the weight of Samael's pain slowly lifting in the presence of his friends.

Chapter Text

Asmodel and Azazil found Samael seated on a ledge overlooking the crystalline expanse of Heaven. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was distant, lost in thought. He turned his head as they approached, his luminous eyes brightening with recognition.

"Ah, my favorite Virtues," Samael greeted, his usual grin appearing. "What brings the two of you here? Not another lecture, I hope?"

Azazil chuckled softly, his serene presence immediately easing the tension. "Not a lecture, Samael. We were actually wondering if we could accompany you to oversee Sera and the others' work on humanity."

Samael's eyes lit up, and he sat up straighter. "Really? You two want to come along? I thought you might be busy with your own duties."

"We've made time," Asmodel replied, his smooth and measured tone tinged with a hint of curiosity. "Besides, we believe it's an important moment, one worth witnessing firsthand."

Samael's smile widened, and he sprang to his feet, his wings flaring with excitement. "I don't see why not! This is going to be amazing!" He barely waited for a response before launching himself into the sky, a streak of light darting across the horizon.

Azazil and Asmodel exchanged amused glances before taking flight themselves, following at a more measured pace.

"He's certainly excited," Azazil remarked, his golden-white wings gliding effortlessly through the air.

"Excitement is a rare balm for the soul," Asmodel replied, his vibrant wings catching the light. "But it's what lies beneath that excitement that concerns me."

Azazil nodded. "You're referring to what he shared with Veritas during the meeting."

"Precisely." Asmodel's voice grew quieter, more contemplative. "His exclusion from the humanity project—the way Sera and the other Seraphim seem to view him—it weighs heavily on him. And rightly so. He should have been a central part of this creation, not relegated to the sidelines."

"I agree," Azazil said, his serene demeanor briefly shadowed by concern. "And what of Adam and Lilith? Samael's insights were valid. Humanity's foundation should reflect balance and unity, yet it seems the Seraphim may not share that vision."

There was a pause as they both considered the gravity of the situation.

"Do you think Sera and the others are truly open to collaboration?" Asmodel asked. "Or are we walking into a situation where dissenting voices are unwelcome?"

Azazil sighed, his tranquil gaze fixed ahead. "Samael's frustration stems not just from being excluded but from being dismissed—his voice, his vision, his value. If that pattern continues, it could lead to something far worse than frustration."

Asmodel's bright eyes glimmered with quiet resolve. "Then we must ensure our presence has purpose. If we see something amiss, we must speak. For Samael, for humanity, for the greater harmony we're meant to uphold."

Azazil smiled faintly, his warmth returning. "Agreed. But first, we'll need to catch up with Samael before he's halfway to the Celestial Hall without us."

The two Virtues increased their pace, their luminous forms cutting through Heaven's radiant expanse as they followed the trail of their exuberant companion. Both felt the weight of their shared resolve, knowing that their presence at the creation of humanity might shape the course of events in ways they couldn't yet foresee.

In the distance, Samael's glowing figure flew ahead, an eager beacon of energy and hope. He didn't know it yet, but the support of Azazil and Asmodel might become one of the greatest blessings of his tumultuous journey.

Samael, Azazil, and Asmodel entered the Celestial Hall, the grand chamber of radiant light and swirling energy where the seraphim gathered to oversee the creation of humanity. At the center of the hall, a vast globe floated, pulsating with divine energy and displaying the world below in vivid, moving detail.

Sera stood at the head of the assembly, her imposing figure radiating authority. Her six wings shimmered faintly as she turned to face the newcomers. "Samael," she began, her voice calm yet questioning, "what are the Virtues doing here?"

Samael grinned, his excitement undimmed by the tension in the room. "They wanted to observe! I thought it'd be nice to have their company."

Azazil stepped forward, his golden-white wings folding gracefully behind him. "More than that, Sera. We hoped to offer our insights, should they be needed. After all, humanity's creation is a monumental endeavor."

Asmodel inclined his head, his tone smooth and composed. "We mean no disrespect, High Seraphim. We only wish to contribute where we can, as guardians of virtue."

Sera's gaze lingered on them for a moment before she nodded. "Very well. You may observe."

Murmurs of discontent rippled through the other seraphim. One, a tall figure with fiery wings, stepped forward, his expression stern. "This project was entrusted to us, the seraphim. Why should we tolerate interference from Virtues?"

"Agreed," another added, her voice sharp. "God has given us this responsibility. We don't need anyone else meddling."

Sera raised a hand, silencing them with a glance. "Enough. The Virtues will stay. Let us return to our work."

She summoned the globe, which expanded in size and detail, revealing the Garden of Eden. Adam and Lilith were visible within its lush expanse, walking side by side. They admired the flowers, the trees, and the shimmering rivers, their laughter carrying faintly through the celestial display. At one point, Adam playfully tapped Lilith's arm and darted away, prompting her to chase him, both of them smiling and carefree.

Samael leaned closer to the globe, his expression softening. "They're adorable," he said, a genuine warmth in his voice.

But not everyone shared his sentiment. A seraphim with sharp, golden wings frowned deeply. "This is what they're doing? Playing? They should be fulfilling their duties, not acting like children."

Another seraphim nodded. "Their task is to ensure the continuation of the human race. If they don't begin soon, they'll be failing their purpose—and us."

Several seraphim murmured their agreement, their voices growing louder and more insistent.

Asmodel, his expression calm but resolute, raised a hand. "Forgive me, but isn't it premature to speak of failure? Adam and Lilith are still new to existence. Should they not have time to understand each other before they bring new life into the world?"

A seraphim scoffed. "You're a Virtue. This is not your domain. Mind your business."

Asmodel's serene demeanor remained unshaken. "Love, relationships, and intimacy are my domain. Rushing them into this denies the very foundation of what you seek: a bond built on understanding, respect, and mutual choice."

Azazil stepped forward, his voice gentle yet firm. "You're so focused on their duties that you've forgotten they are living beings, not tools. Have you considered how they might feel? A little empathy would go a long way."

The seraphim bristled, their pride wounded. "Empathy?" one snapped. "We're talking about God's will, not their feelings. This isn't about what they want."

"Then perhaps you misunderstand God's will," Azazil replied, his serene gaze unwavering.

The room erupted into heated arguments, the seraphim's voices clashing with the calm but insistent tones of the Virtues. Samael, caught between the two sides, turned to Sera, his expression pleading.

"Sera," he said, "they're not wrong. Asmodel and Azazil have valid points. Maybe we should consider—"

But Sera didn't let him finish. Her patience worn thin, she spread her six wings wide, her voice ringing out with commanding authority. "Enough!"

The hall fell silent instantly, the sheer force of her words demanding obedience. The seraphim froze, their prideful posturing subdued, while the Virtues inclined their heads respectfully. Samael watched her closely, his wide eyes betraying a mix of admiration and unease.

Sera's gaze swept across the room, her tone sharp and unyielding. "This discord serves no purpose. We are here to guide humanity, not to quarrel amongst ourselves. If we cannot find unity in this hall, how can we expect it from those we create?"

She paused, her expression softening just slightly as she addressed the group. "We will proceed calmly. If anyone has further concerns, they may voice them in turn. But let there be no more shouting."

The seraphim and the Virtues exchanged quiet glances, the tension simmering but contained. For the moment, Sera's command held sway.

She stood at the head of the Celestial Hall, her serene yet authoritative voice cutting through the lingering tension. "I do not wish to displease God by failing to fulfill the task He has entrusted to us. The creation of humanity is a sacred duty, and we must see it through. However," she added, her tone softening, "I will speak with Adam and Lilith myself to understand their hesitation."

She turned her gaze to the gathered seraphim, her wings fanning out to emphasize her command. "While I am gone, there will be no further arguments. I trust you all to maintain order in my absence."

The seraphim, though visibly unsettled, bowed their heads in agreement. Samael offered her a supportive smile, while Azazil and Asmodel inclined their heads respectfully.

With a graceful sweep of her wings, Sera descended from the hall, her form shimmering as she entered the Garden of Eden.

She found Adam and Lilith resting on the soft grass beneath a sprawling tree, its branches adorned with glowing fruit. The pair seemed at ease, watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky.

Sera's presence immediately drew their attention, and they sat up, their expressions curious and slightly cautious. She approached them with a measured grace, her halo glowing faintly.

"Adam, Lilith," Sera began, her voice gentle but firm, "I have come to speak with you about the task God has entrusted to you. You were created to be the beginning of the human race, to bring forth children who will inhabit and steward this world. Yet, I see you have not begun this sacred duty."

Lilith's brows furrowed slightly, and she exchanged a glance with Adam before responding. "With respect, High Seraphim, Adam and I barely know each other. We were brought into existence only recently, and while the Garden is beautiful, we've had little time to understand ourselves, let alone each other."

Sera's lips pressed into a thin line. "I understand your perspective, Lilith, but you must realize the urgency of your role. God Himself has decreed this, and we must honor His will."

Lilith's gaze remained steady, unwavering. "And we will, but not without first building a proper bond. How can we raise children together if we do not truly know or trust one another? This isn't something that can be rushed."

Sera hesitated, her wings shifting slightly as she considered Lilith's words. Her own desire to please God and fulfill the divine mandate warred with the logic of Lilith's reasoning. She turned to Adam, her expression expectant.

"Adam, do you feel the same?"

Lilith looked to Adam, her eyes urging him to speak his mind. After a moment of contemplation, Adam nodded. "I do. Lilith is right—we need time. We're learning, growing. The world is still so new to us. We will fulfill our purpose, but we need more time to be ready."

Sera sighed, her composure faltering for just a moment. She could feel the weight of the seraphim's pride and God's expectations pressing upon her, but she also couldn't deny the truth in their words.

"Very well," she said at last, her voice quiet but resolute. "I will grant you more time. But understand this—your task is sacred, and it cannot be delayed indefinitely."

Adam and Lilith nodded, their expressions a mix of relief and gratitude.

Sera offered them a small, reluctant smile before ascending once more to the Celestial Hall.

Back in the Celestial Hall, Sera addressed the gathered seraphim, Samael, Azazil, and Asmodel. "Adam and Lilith have explained their reasoning. They wish to spend more time getting to know one another before fulfilling their duty. I have agreed to grant them this time, as their bond will only strengthen their ability to fulfill God's will."

The seraphim exchanged uneasy glances, their pride clearly wounded, but none dared to challenge Sera outright. One finally muttered, "If that is your decision, High Seraphim, then we will abide by it."

Samael smiled brightly, clapping his hands together. "See? They just needed a little understanding. I think this is a wonderful outcome!"

Azazil nodded approvingly. "It's encouraging to see Adam and Lilith stand their ground. They are learning to act with conviction—a trait humanity will need."

Asmodel added, his tone calm and measured, "They have shown wisdom beyond their brief existence. This bodes well for their future and the future of humanity."

As the tension in the hall eased, Azazil and Asmodel turned to leave. Samael, noticing their departure, called out, "Wait—where are you two going?"

Azazil glanced back with a gentle smile. "We've seen enough, Samael. Adam and Lilith will find their way, given time and space. There's no need for us to linger."

Asmodel nodded in agreement. "Our purpose here is fulfilled. Besides," he added with a faint grin, "it seems you've got things under control."

Samael pouted slightly but waved them off with a fond smile. "Fine, fine. Go on, then. But don't stay away too long. Things are always more interesting with you two around."

With that, the two Virtues departed, their figures fading into the radiant light, leaving Samael behind with a thoughtful expression as he turned back to the globe, watching Adam and Lilith's laughter echo faintly through the divine hall.

As Azazil and Asmodel stepped out of the radiant expanse of the Celestial Hall, the quiet air of the surrounding gardens felt like a balm to their frayed tempers. The soft glow of celestial light and the gentle hum of creation around them offered little comfort, however, as the weight of what they had witnessed lingered heavily between them.

Azazil exhaled deeply, his serene face marred with uncharacteristic frustration. "I'm sorry, Asmodel, but I can't hold my tongue any longer. The arrogance of those seraphim... I've rarely seen anything like it. They've turned this sacred task into a contest of pride and control."

Asmodel's wings shifted restlessly as he crossed his arms, his glowing eyes narrowed. "They act as though humanity is a project to be completed for accolades, rather than a sacred responsibility. There's no reverence, no true understanding of what this means." His voice sharpened. "And Sera, though she may be well-intentioned, is so bound by her duty to please God that she's blind to the harm being done."

Azazil nodded, his calm demeanor cracking further. "It's painful to see. Adam and Lilith aren't objects or tools—they're souls. Living beings with thoughts, feelings, and a capacity for growth that should be nurtured, not forced. But instead, they're treated like means to an end. The seraphim don't see them as equals, and that lack of empathy is dangerous."

Asmodel's expression darkened. "Dangerous and infuriating. Did you hear the way they spoke to me? To us? They dismissed our insights as if love and empathy have no place in this." He clenched his fists. "The irony, Azazil. They were created to serve God's will, and yet they undermine the very essence of what humanity is meant to represent—compassion, connection, choice."

Azazil ran a hand along one of his shimmering horns, his wings folding tightly against his back. "I don't know how much longer I can stand to be around them without losing my temper. If they continue on this path, it will only lead to suffering—for themselves and for humanity."

Asmodel nodded grimly. "I feel the same. Staying any longer would serve no purpose, save to test our patience. We've seen enough to understand how this will play out."

Azazil's eyes softened, though his tone remained firm. "We'll have to trust that Adam and Lilith will find their way despite the seraphim's interference. They showed courage today. That gives me hope."

"And Samael," Asmodel added. "At least he sees humanity with joy and wonder. He may be naive, but his heart is in the right place. Perhaps his presence will temper their arrogance, even if only a little."

Azazil gave a faint smile at that. "Perhaps. But I think it's time we step away from this... debacle. Let the seraphim handle their own mess. We're not going to stand by and be ignored or disrespected while they parade their egos around in the name of God's will."

Asmodel's expression softened, though his resolve remained strong. "Agreed. Let's go, Azazil. There's nothing more for us here."

Together, the two Virtues turned and walked away from the Celestial Hall, their forms glowing faintly as they ascended toward the heavens. The celestial gardens seemed to grow quieter as they departed, leaving behind the simmering tension of the seraphim's flawed stewardship.

Their parting words echoed softly in the stillness.

"Let's hope they don't destroy what they were meant to create," Asmodel murmured.

Azazil nodded solemnly. "For humanity's sake, I hope so too."

Chapter Text

Azazil and Asmodel returned to the Hall of Virtues, their usually serene demeanors visibly strained. The other Virtues had gathered in their shared sanctuary, their presence creating an aura of warmth and light that would calm most storms. However, this meeting carried a different energy. Veritas, seated at the center, watched as Azazil and Asmodel approached, their expressions a mix of disappointment and resolve.

"Welcome back," Veritas said calmly, her golden eyes scanning their faces. "What did you observe?"

Azazil exchanged a glance with Asmodel before speaking. "There's much to unpack, Veritas. To begin with, Samael was truthful in his grievances. The seraphim, along with Sera, are handling the humanity project with... questionable methods."

"They're pushy," Asmodel interjected smoothly. "Too focused on fulfilling their divine mandate to consider the well-being of Adam and Lilith. Lilith, to her credit, stood her ground. She expressed a desire to build a bond with Adam before taking on the monumental task of creating the human race. Adam agreed, albeit hesitantly, but their wishes were nearly ignored by the seraphim."

"That's troubling," Triel said, her voice calm but tinged with concern. "Pushing them too hard sounds counterproductive. Did Sera at least listen to them?"

Azazil nodded. "She did, eventually. But it took Lilith's unyielding stance to make her relent. Sera herself seems conflicted, caught between her desire to please God and her role as a compassionate guide. The seraphim, however, are another matter entirely. They're treating Adam and Lilith more like tools than beings with agency."

Plutus leaned forward, his vibrant green wings catching the light. "I get that the seraphim are under pressure to please the big guy, but there's gotta be a better way. Pushin' Adam and Lilith into it like that doesn't sound like charity or love to me. It's just... wrong."

Veritas's gaze sharpened. "This aligns with what Samael told me. He sensed something off, and now it's clear he wasn't mistaken. The seraphim's arrogance is driving this project into dangerous territory. I cannot support it as it stands."

Levia's soft voice broke the tension. "I understand your concerns, but don't you think they deserve a chance to improve? This is a new project, and mistakes are bound to happen. With guidance, they might adjust their approach."

"I agree with Levia," Plutus said, though his tone carried hesitation. "Maybe the seraphim are just too focused on the outcome right now. If we give 'em some time, they might see reason."

Asmodel shook his head, his smooth voice laced with frustration. "Time isn't the issue, Plutus. It's their approach. They're not just making mistakes—they're fundamentally missing the point of what humanity is supposed to be. They're treating this as a task to complete, not as a living, breathing creation to nurture."

Triel tilted her head, her butterfly-like wings fluttering softly. "Then why don't we observe next? Belfagel and I could join Samael. Maybe we'll see something different. Maybe we'll understand what's going on better."

Belfagel crossed her arms, her sharp blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, but only to a point. If they're unintentionally mishandling things, it's worth figuring out why and helping them adjust. But if their arrogance is intentional... that's another matter."

Azazil and Asmodel exchanged a glance, their disapproval clear but their trust in the other Virtues unshaken. "If you're both willing to go, then do so," Azazil said. "But tread carefully. Samael's experience was painful enough—there's no need for any of us to suffer more than necessary."

Veritas nodded, her silver hair shimmering like moonlight. "Triel and Belfagel, you have our trust. Observe carefully, and don't be afraid to speak out if you see something amiss."

Triel smiled warmly, her laidback tone lightening the atmosphere. "Don't worry, Veritas. We'll take good care of Samael, too. He's been through enough already."

Belfagel gave a curt nod. "We'll get to the bottom of this, one way or another."

With the decision made, the Virtues slowly dispersed, each lost in their own thoughts. Azazil and Asmodel lingered outside the Hall, their disappointment palpable.

"This project..." Asmodel muttered, his smooth voice heavy with frustration. "It could have been beautiful, Azazil. Instead, it's a mess of egos and misplaced priorities."

Azazil sighed, his serene blue eyes dimmed by discontent. "I know. And I fear that if things continue this way, the project may do more harm than good. We can only hope Triel and Belfagel will fare better than we did."

They stood in silence for a moment, the celestial winds brushing past them. Though they had done their part, the weight of the humanity project lingered, casting a shadow over their once-unwavering faith in Heaven's plans.

Triel and Belfagel found Samael reclining on a low, golden bench in one of the gardens near the Hall of Virtues. His wings spread lazily, catching the celestial light, and his expression was relaxed. It was a rare sight to see Samael so calm and at ease, especially given the tension that surrounded the humanity project.

"Samael," Triel called, her cheerful voice cutting through the serene atmosphere. She approached with Belfagel following close behind, her sharp blue eyes scanning him for any signs of distress.

"Triel! Belfagel!" Samael sat up, a broad grin spreading across his face. "What brings you two here? Looking to join me for a stroll through Eden next time?"

Triel chuckled, folding her arms casually. "Actually, we wanted to talk to you about what happened while Azazil and Asmodel were observing the seraphim."

Belfagel added, her tone more serious, "They came back with... a lot of concerns. Let's just say their take on things wasn't exactly glowing."

Samael tilted his head, his expression curious but unbothered. "Concerns? What concerns? Everything seemed fine to me, for the most part."

Belfagel raised an eyebrow. "From what Azazil and Asmodel said, there was a lot of tension. Arguments, ego clashes, and some serious control issues with the seraphim. That doesn't sound 'fine.'"

Samael waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, sure, there were some heated moments. Azazil and Asmodel did get into it with the seraphim, but I think they're just... passionate. The seraphim have their way of doing things, and sometimes they're a bit rigid. But honestly? I think Sera's starting to come around."

Triel and Belfagel exchanged nervous glances. Triel's antenna-like extensions twitched slightly as she gauged his tone. "So, you're saying Sera's starting to listen more?" she asked cautiously.

"Exactly!" Samael's grin widened, and he leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "She went down to talk to Adam and Lilith herself. Sure, she was a bit pushy at first, but she eventually let them take their time. I think that's progress! And hey, the seraphim might be a little... proud, but who isn't? They're just trying to do their best to please God."

Belfagel frowned slightly. "You're confident they're adjusting?"

Samael nodded. "Absolutely. It's not perfect, but what is? The seraphim are learning, just like Adam and Lilith. It's a process, you know? Besides," he added with a shrug, "everyone argues sometimes. It doesn't mean they can't work together."

Triel sighed softly, her smile slightly strained. "You're optimistic, I'll give you that."

Belfagel's frown deepened, her sharp gaze lingering on Samael. "Azazil and Asmodel didn't share your confidence. They seemed convinced that the seraphim are too caught up in their pride to see the bigger picture."

Samael's smile faltered for a moment before he straightened, his voice firm. "Well, maybe they're just being too critical. I saw Sera listening to Adam and Lilith, and that's what matters, right? Besides, if there are problems, I'm sure they'll figure it out. Sera always does."

Triel and Belfagel exchanged another glance, their expressions unreadable. After a moment, Triel spoke, her voice light but deliberate. "Well, we'll see for ourselves soon enough. We were planning to observe the project with you next time."

Samael's face lit up. "Really? You're coming with me? That's great! I'd love for you two to see how things are shaping up. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

Belfagel crossed her arms, her gaze steady. "We'll see. We're not going in with any expectations. We just want to get a clearer picture."

"Fair enough," Samael said with a grin, standing up and stretching his wings. "I'm glad you're coming along. It'll be nice to have more Virtues there to keep things balanced."

Triel's smile softened, and she placed a gentle hand on Samael's shoulder. "We're not just going for the project, Samael. We're going to support you, too. If things get rough, you can count on us to have your back."

Samael's grin turned more genuine, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Triel. And you too, Belfagel. It means a lot."

As the three prepared for their upcoming observation, Triel and Belfagel couldn't shake the words of Azazil and Asmodel from their minds. While Samael's optimism was infectious, they both knew there was more to uncover. And this time, they intended to see it all for themselves.

Samael eagerly led Triel and Belfagel into the Celestial Hall, his wings fluttering with excitement. The great chamber shimmered with celestial light, the seraphim gathered in a semi-circle around the glowing globe that represented Earth. Sera stood at the forefront, her presence commanding and serene, but her expression shifted into mild unease as she noticed Samael's companions.

A couple of the seraphim groaned audibly, exchanging glances. "More Virtues?" one muttered, clearly exasperated. "What now?"

Sera turned her attention to Samael, her brows furrowing slightly. "Samael, what is the meaning of this? Why have you brought them here?"

Samael stood his ground, his tone firm but respectful. "Triel and Belfagel want to observe, just as Azazil and Asmodel did. Their feedback could be useful, Sera. After all, the last meeting showed that some of the seraphim's methods need to be questioned."

Sera's lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, her composed demeanor faltered. "Samael," she began, her tone tinged with exasperation, "we know what we're doing. This project is under the seraphim's purview, as entrusted by God Himself. But..." She hesitated, glancing at Triel and Belfagel. "If they wish to observe, so be it. However, it would be best if they kept their suggestions to themselves this time."

Triel, arms crossed and already irritated by the reception, narrowed her eyes. "The problem wasn't the suggestions, Sera. It was the seraphim's arrogance. Maybe if—"

"Let's focus on humanity," Sera interjected, her attention shifting back to the globe, cutting Triel off.

Triel gritted her teeth, her antenna-like extensions twitching with annoyance. Belfagel placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of restraint, though her own frustration was evident in her sharp gaze.

As the group turned their attention to the globe, the scene within Eden unfolded. Adam and Lilith were tending to the lush garden, cultivating the vibrant plants and maintaining the land. However, it didn't take long for Triel and Belfagel to notice a troubling pattern.

Lilith was meticulously working, her hands deftly pruning vines and planting seeds. Meanwhile, Adam lounged beneath a tree, idly watching her. Belfagel frowned, her sharp eyes scanning the scene. "It seems Lilith is doing most of the work," she remarked.

One of the seraphim scoffed, dismissively waving a hand. "Adam has already done his share. He deserves a break."

Triel raised an eyebrow, her tone incredulous. "His share? From what I see, Lilith's workload has been far heavier. Are you sure you're not just favoring Adam because he's more compliant and less vocal than Lilith?"

The seraphim bristled, their pride flaring visibly. "We favor Adam because he fulfills his role with humility. Lilith, on the other hand, questions and hesitates. Her defiance slows progress."

Belfagel's patience snapped. "Progress? There's no diligence in leaving one to toil while the other lazes about. There's supposed to be balance between them, and this—" she gestured at the globe, "—is anything but."

Triel crossed her arms, her golden eyes blazing. "Favoritism isn't going to help humanity. If anything, it's setting them up for failure. Lilith isn't defiant; she's standing her ground, and I don't blame her. She's being treated unfairly."

The seraphim's arrogance only grew, their wings flaring as they defended their actions. "God entrusted us with this project," one declared, their voice dripping with disdain. "The Virtues have no say in how we handle it."

Samael stepped forward, his voice tentative but resolute. "Enough! This isn't about whose project it is. We're all supposed to be working together. Can't we just—"

"You're a young seraphim," one of the seraphim cut in coldly. "This is beyond your station, Samael. Focus on your duties and stay out of matters that don't concern you."

Samael froze, their words hitting him like a physical blow. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears as he turned toward Sera, silently pleading for her to defend him. But Sera remained silent, her gaze fixed on the globe.

The silence was deafening. Samael's tears finally spilled over, and he let out a choked sob. Triel's entire demeanor shifted in an instant, her calm composure giving way to fiery indignation.

"That's it," she said, her voice low and furious. Her wings flared as she stepped forward, glaring at the seraphim and Sera. "How dare you. How dare you treat him like this."

"Triel, this isn't the time—" Sera began, but Triel cut her off.

"No, Sera, it is the time. You're so busy trying to please God and run this project that you've lost sight of what matters. Humanity isn't going to thrive under this kind of favoritism and arrogance. And Samael—" she pointed to the weeping seraphim, "—he's done nothing but try to help, and you let him be humiliated. Again. What kind of leadership is that?"

The seraphim began to protest, but Triel silenced them with a sharp glare. "Don't even start. I've heard enough of your self-righteous nonsense. You've let your egos blind you, and I'm done listening to it."

Turning to Samael, Triel softened, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Samael. You don't need to stay here and take this."

Belfagel nodded in agreement, her voice firm. "Let's go. There's no point in staying where we're not respected."

Triel led Samael out of the Celestial Hall, her arm around his shoulders as he quietly sobbed. Belfagel followed closely behind, her sharp gaze daring anyone to stop them. The great doors of the hall closed behind them with a heavy finality, leaving the seraphim and Sera in stunned silence.

Chapter Text

Triel and Belfagel flew swiftly back to the Hall of Virtues, Samael cradled between them. He wept softly, his shoulders trembling as he clutched at Triel's arm, seeking comfort. The radiant skies of Heaven seemed duller somehow, dimmed by the sorrow that hung heavy around them.

Triel's voice was soft yet firm as she murmured to Samael, her words a balm to his bruised spirit. "It's okay, Samael. You don't have to carry this alone. We're here for you."

Belfagel's expression was grim, her focus set on the path ahead. She didn't say much, but her protective presence was palpable, like a shield around Samael.

When they landed at the Hall of Virtues, Plutus and Levia were already waiting at the entrance, their faces lighting up with concern as they saw the group approach.

"What happened?" Plutus asked, his usual jovial tone replaced with worry. His Australian accent slipped through softly as he added, "Samael, mate, you alright?"

Belfagel stepped forward, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. "He's not alright. The seraphim dismissed him—again. Sera didn't defend him—again. He tried to keep the peace, and they humiliated him for it. It was..." She paused, shaking her head. "It was disgraceful."

Levia's soft green eyes widened with concern as she stepped closer to Samael, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. "Samael, I'm so sorry."

Samael sniffled, leaning into Triel as she rubbed soothing circles on his back. "I just... I just wanted to help," he whispered. "I thought I was doing something good..."

Levia and Plutus exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them. "We've got an idea," Plutus said, his tone brightening just a little. "Come on, Samael. Let's get you outta here for a bit."

Triel raised an eyebrow, her antenna-like extensions twitching with curiosity. "What are you two up to?"

"You'll see," Plutus replied with a grin. "Trust us."

He and Levia gently coaxed Samael away, Plutus wrapping an arm around him while Levia held his hand. Triel hesitated, glancing back at Belfagel, who gave her a reassuring nod.

"Go with them," Belfagel said. "I'll handle things here."

As Triel followed Plutus, Levia, and Samael, Belfagel turned to the remaining Virtues, who had gathered in the central chamber. Azazil, Veritas, and Asmodel were already there, their expressions a mix of curiosity and concern.

"What happened?" Veritas asked, her golden eyes sharp.

Belfagel let out a heavy sigh. "It was worse than we expected. The seraphim were as arrogant as ever, brushing off every suggestion and defending their blatant favoritism toward Adam. Lilith is being overworked while Adam lounges around, and they're justifying it because Adam's more 'compliant.' When Samael tried to mediate, they dismissed him for being young. And Sera..." Belfagel hesitated, her voice tightening with anger. "She stood there and let it happen. She didn't say a word to defend him."

Azazil's serene expression darkened, his usual calm replaced by a rare flicker of frustration. "That is unacceptable. Samael's efforts have been sincere and valuable, and they treat him like a nuisance?"

Veritas crossed her arms, her tail flicking irritably. "This is exactly why I had reservations about the humanity project. The seraphim's pride is blinding them, and now they're creating imbalance in humanity before it's even begun."

Asmodel's voice was calm but cold, his wings shifting slightly. "It's disgraceful. They are supposed to guide humanity, not impose their egos on them. And to belittle Samael, who has done nothing but try to contribute..."

Azazil nodded solemnly. "We've witnessed enough. Their behavior cannot continue unchecked."

Levia's absence was felt keenly, her gentle presence a much-needed counterbalance in times like this. But even without her, the hall was alive with the weight of their shared disappointment and anger.

Belfagel continued, her tone softening slightly. "Triel was furious. She called them out and took Samael out of there before things got worse. I think she did the right thing."

"She always has his back," Asmodel said with a small smile, his voice momentarily lighter.

"We all should," Veritas added. "It's clear that the seraphim won't. Not unless something changes."

The Virtues nodded in agreement, their resolve hardening. While Samael was with Levia and Plutus, the rest of the Virtues began to discuss their next steps. Whatever lay ahead, one thing was clear: the seraphim's unchecked pride would not go unchallenged.

The gentle sound of trickling water and the soft rustle of feathers greeted Samael as Levia led him, Plutus, and Triel into her sanctuary. The indoor pond was a haven of tranquility, its clear waters shimmering in the celestial light that filtered through the high, arched windows. Ducks of various colors and sizes swam lazily in the water or preened themselves along the edges. The entire space exuded peace, a reflection of Levia's nurturing spirit.

"This is my little oasis," Levia said softly, a warm smile gracing her lips. "It's where I take care of my animals. I thought you might like it here, Samael."

Samael sniffled, still shaken from earlier but visibly calmer in the serene environment. His eyes widened as Levia knelt and gestured toward one of her ducks—a small one with pristine white feathers and an inquisitive expression.

"This little one is Snow," Levia said gently, holding the duck out toward Samael.

Samael hesitated for a moment before reaching out to stroke the duck's soft feathers. A small smile tugged at his lips. "He's... really cute," Samael murmured.

Levia's smile widened. "I'm glad you think so. Let me introduce you to the whole family."

She stood and called softly to the other ducks, who waddled over in response, a line of tiny ducklings trailing behind. Samael's face lit up at the sight of the baby ducks, his earlier sadness melting away as he crouched to watch them toddle around.

"They're adorable!" Samael exclaimed, his voice filled with childlike wonder. He reached out carefully, letting one of the ducklings climb into his hand.

Levia giggled at the sight, her kind heart warmed by Samael's joy. "They seem to like you, Samael."

Plutus, standing nearby, blushed as he watched Levia. Her gentle care and kindness as she introduced Samael to her ducks left him flustered. Triel noticed immediately, a sly grin spreading across her face.

"Plutus," she teased in a low voice, nudging him with her elbow. "You've got that look again. Just confess your feelings already."

Plutus turned bright red, waving his hands defensively. "I-I don't know what you're talkin' about, Triel!" he stammered, his Australian accent growing thicker in his flustered state.

"Uh-huh," Triel said, her grin widening. "You're about as subtle as a thunderclap, you know that?"

Plutus groaned, running a hand through his hair as he glanced at Levia, who was now giggling as Samael played with the ducks. "She's just... she's amazin', you know?" he muttered. "But I'm not ready yet. What if it ruins things?"

Triel rolled her eyes but softened her tone. "She'd be lucky to have you, Plutus. But fine, I'll let you chicken out for now."

They fell into a quieter conversation, their eyes occasionally flickering toward Samael, who was now laughing as one of the ducklings tried to nibble at his finger.

Plutus sighed, his earlier blush fading as his expression turned somber. "You know, this thing between Sera and Samael... it's not right."

Triel's playful demeanor disappeared instantly, replaced by a simmering anger. "You're telling me. She's supposed to care about him, but all she does is keep him at arm's length. Samael idolizes her, and she doesn't even see it."

"She cares about him," Plutus said hesitantly, "but not enough. Not enough to break out of her rigid ways and really be there for him."

Triel's fists clenched at her sides. "Care isn't enough, Plutus. Not when she treats him like this. A mother—" She paused, her voice sharp with frustration. "A real mother doesn't let her child feel like they're not good enough. She doesn't let them be humiliated, ignored, or cast aside. Sera is not a mother. Not to Samael. She's anything but."

Plutus looked at her carefully. "You care about him a lot, don't you?"

Triel nodded, her voice softening as she watched Samael. "Someone has to. He needs someone who will actually love and take care of him. He deserves that much."

Plutus smiled faintly, his earlier frustration fading into admiration. "You're good for him, Triel. He's lucky to have you in his corner."

"And he's lucky to have all of us," Triel replied firmly. "We're his family now, Plutus. The family that actually sees him."

Plutus nodded as they both turned their attention back to Samael and Levia. Samael was laughing freely now, his earlier pain replaced with the pure joy of being in the moment. The sight filled both Plutus and Triel with determination. They would stand by Samael's side, no matter what.

Sera stood at the grand entrance of the Hall of Virtues, her tall, regal form illuminated by the warm light streaming from within. Her expression was calm but resolute, though a faint hint of unease lingered in her eyes as she approached the gates. She had come to speak to Samael, to explain herself, perhaps even to make amends. But as she stepped forward, Belfagel and Veritas blocked her path, their combined presence commanding and unyielding.

"You shouldn't be here, Sera," Belfagel said firmly, her glowing eyes narrowed. "Haven't you done enough?"

Sera's lips pressed into a thin line, her voice steady but tinged with guilt. "I only wish to speak with him. To explain—"

"Explain what?" Veritas interrupted sharply, her golden eyes piercing as they met Sera's. "How you stood by while the seraphim humiliated him? How you refused to defend him, despite knowing how much he looks up to you?"

Sera faltered but remained composed. "I didn't intend to hurt him. My decisions are guided by what I believe is best for Samael, for all of us. He's... not as put together as his siblings. His actions can be erratic, and his behavior—"

"Enough," Asmodel's smooth, authoritative voice cut through the air as he stepped forward, his expression grim. "We all saw him, Sera. Crying, devastated, because the one person he trusts the most wouldn't stand up for him. Do you even understand how much that broke him?"

Azazil, standing beside Asmodel, spoke next, his usual warm demeanor replaced by quiet disappointment. "I thought you were starting to take him seriously. That you were finally seeing him for the archangel he's trying to become. But today, you proved otherwise. He tries so hard, Sera. And yet you dismiss him as if his efforts mean nothing."

Sera's calm façade wavered as she looked between the Virtues, her voice softening. "I care for Samael deeply. I do. But you have to understand, he's not like his siblings. He's... he's still childish. He doesn't think things through, and—"

"Childish?" Belfagel repeated, her voice rising with incredulity. "Childish? He's young, yes, but he's also creative, passionate, and endlessly determined. Do you know how much courage it takes for him to speak his mind, especially when he knows you won't take him seriously?"

Azazil crossed his arms, his golden scales catching the light as he stared at Sera. "What's truly childish, Sera, is holding someone's age or eccentricity against them instead of guiding them with love and patience."

"And what's irresponsible," Veritas added, her tone icy, "is expecting him to grow into a responsible archangel when you constantly undermine him at every turn."

Sera's wings twitched slightly, a rare sign of discomfort. "I only want what's best for him," she insisted.

"Then start acting like it," Belfagel snapped. "Because what you've done so far has only hurt him. And we're not letting you do it again."

Sera looked at the Virtues, her resolve beginning to falter under the weight of their words. "I came here to try to make things right."

"You want to make things right?" Asmodel said, his voice low but cutting. "Then leave him alone. Let him heal. Because right now, your presence will only make things worse."

Azazil stepped forward, his towering form casting a long shadow as he addressed Sera directly. "You're no longer welcome here, Sera. Until you can truly understand what Samael needs and show him the respect he deserves, you have no place in the Hall of Virtues."

Sera's eyes widened, the finality of Azazil's words hitting her like a blow. She opened her mouth to protest but found no words. The Virtues stood united, their resolve unshakable.

"I..." Sera finally whispered, her voice barely audible. She turned slowly, her wings drooping slightly as she began to walk away.

As she left the Hall of Virtues, the doors closed behind her with a resounding echo, sealing her out. Inside, the Virtues exchanged heavy glances, their collective anger and disappointment palpable.

"I hope she learns from this," Veritas said quietly.

"She has to," Azazil replied, his voice weary but resolute. "For Samael's sake."

Belfagel placed a hand on Asmodel's shoulder, her expression softening. "Let's focus on making sure Samael knows he's not alone. That's what matters most right now."

The others nodded in agreement, their thoughts turning to the young archangel who needed their unwavering support more than ever.

Chapter Text

The gentle quacking of ducks echoed softly in the distance as Samael's boundless energy began to wane. His gleeful laughter turned into quiet chuckles, and soon, his wings drooped as his steps grew slower. Levia noticed the change, her gentle smile never faltering.

"Come on, Samael," she said softly, her hand brushing against his shoulder. "Let's get you somewhere cozy. You've had a long day."

Samael yawned, his glowing eyes half-lidded as he nodded. "I suppose I could use a nap," he admitted, rubbing his eyes.

Levia led him to the guest room within the Hall of Virtues. The room was serene, bathed in soft, golden light that filtered through translucent curtains. A simple but plush bed sat in the center, adorned with white linens that seemed to shimmer faintly. Samael shuffled to the bed, collapsing onto it with a relieved sigh.

Levia pulled the covers over him, tucking them in gently. She perched on the edge of the bed, her expression warm as she watched him settle in.

Samael glanced at her, his voice quiet and tinged with guilt. "Levia... I'm sorry. I'm not the perfect angel everyone expects me to be. I try so hard, but it's never enough."

Levia's heart ached at his words. She reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. "Oh, Samael," she said, her voice as soothing as a lullaby. "You don't need to be perfect. None of us are. What matters is that you're you, and we love and accept you for who you are."

A small, tired smile appeared on Samael's face. "Thank you, Levia," he murmured, his voice fading as sleep began to claim him.

Levia leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Rest now, little Morningstar," she whispered. "We'll be here for you."

Samael's breathing evened out as he drifted into a peaceful slumber. Levia lingered for a moment, watching over him before rising and leaving the room quietly.

In another part of the Hall, Triel and Plutus were waiting for her. Plutus was pacing, his usual energy barely contained, while Triel leaned against a pillar with her arms crossed.

Levia approached them, her serene presence calming the room. "He's asleep," she said softly. "He needed the rest."

Plutus stopped pacing and looked at her. "We were thinking," he started, his voice soft but eager, "that maybe we should go with Samael next time to the Celestial Hall. You know, to oversee humanity."

Triel's brows furrowed. "I don't know, Plutus," she said, her tone cautious. "It didn't exactly go well last time, and I'm not thrilled about throwing him back into that environment."

Levia stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute. "Samael needs support. Plutus and I can provide that. We'll be there for him, to make sure he knows he's not alone. And... I think it's important for us to see what's happening firsthand."

Plutus nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Besides, Samael lights up when he's with us. We can keep him grounded, and maybe—just maybe—we can help smooth things over with the seraphim."

Triel sighed, glancing at the two of them. "You're both really set on this, aren't you?"

Levia placed a hand on Triel's shoulder. "We are. We trust your judgment, but we also trust that we can handle this."

Triel looked between them, her gaze softening. "Alright," she finally said. "But promise me you'll look out for him. The seraphim can be... well, you've seen it."

Plutus grinned. "No worries, mate. We've got his back."

Levia smiled. "We'll make sure he's safe and supported, no matter what."

Triel nodded, her expression still tinged with concern. "I'm trusting you both. Don't let me down."

Levia and Plutus exchanged determined looks. Samael wasn't alone—not with them by his side. And they were ready to face whatever awaited at the Celestial Hall.

The next morning, the Hall of Virtues was bustling with quiet activity. Levia and Plutus stood by the grand archway, their wings softly glowing in the golden light streaming through the stained-glass windows. Samael approached them, looking rested but resolute, his usual exuberance tempered by a quiet determination.

As the three prepared to leave, the rest of the Virtues gathered nearby, their expressions a mix of concern and disbelief.

"You're really going back there?" Belfagel asked, her tone sharp with worry. "After everything that happened last time?"

Samael nodded firmly. "Yes, I am. I still believe in this project, even if it's flawed. Maybe... maybe this time will be different." He glanced at Levia and Plutus, his voice softening. "And I think with them there, we might get through to the seraphim. Their kindness and compassion could make all the difference."

Triel crossed her arms, her face a mixture of concern and frustration. "Samael, are you sure about this? You don't have to prove anything to anyone. We all see how much you care about this project, but putting yourself back in that situation..." She trailed off, her golden eyes narrowing slightly.

Veritas stepped forward, her sharp yellow gaze piercing through Samael. "Triel's right. You've already been hurt by their arrogance and dismissal. Why go back? What are you hoping to achieve?"

Samael straightened his posture, his glowing eyes meeting Veritas's unflinchingly. "Because I still have hope," he said firmly. "Maybe it's foolish, but I can't just give up. If there's even a small chance that this project can be something great, something worth all the pain and struggle, then I have to try. And I'm not alone this time."

Levia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her serene smile radiating reassurance. "We believe in you, Samael. And we'll be right there with you."

Plutus nodded enthusiastically. "Too right, mate. No way we're letting you face this alone."

Triel sighed, her antenna-like extensions twitching slightly as she looked away. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that," she muttered. "Just... be careful, okay? All of you."

Veritas's lips pressed into a thin line, her gaze softening slightly. "I can't say I agree with your decision, but I respect it. Just remember, Samael—you don't have to carry this burden alone."

As the three prepared to take flight, Asmodel's voice broke the silence. "I don't like this," he said, his smooth, sophisticated tone unusually troubled. "This won't end well."

Veritas nodded solemnly. "It rarely does when pride and arrogance are involved. But they've made their choice. All we can do is hope they return unscathed."

Samael glanced back at the group one last time, a faint smile on his lips. "Thank you, all of you. I'll do my best to make this worth it."

With that, Samael, Levia, and Plutus took off into the skies, their wings shimmering as they ascended. Triel watched them go, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

"I don't like this either," she muttered under her breath.

As the three disappeared into the distance, the remaining Virtues exchanged uneasy glances. The air in the Hall felt heavy with apprehension, the weight of unspoken fears hanging over them like a storm cloud.

"Let's just hope they come back in one piece," Belfagel said quietly, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

Meanwhile, high above the shimmering expanse of Heaven, Samael flew with purpose, flanked by Levia and Plutus. Despite the knot of anxiety in his chest, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope.

"This time will be different," Samael whispered to himself. "It has to be."

Plutus glanced at him, a cheerful grin breaking across his face. "Don't worry, mate. We've got this."

Levia nodded, her gentle voice carrying over the wind. "No matter what happens, we're with you, Samael. Always."

With their support, Samael felt a renewed sense of determination. Together, they flew toward the Celestial Hall, ready to face whatever awaited them.

The Celestial Hall was bathed in golden light as Sera and the other seraphim gathered around the radiant globe of Earth, prepared to continue their work on humanity. Their voices were hushed as they murmured among themselves, refining their plans. The atmosphere was one of tense determination—until the grand doors opened.

Samael, Levia, and Plutus stepped inside, their presence immediately drawing the attention of everyone in the room. The seraphim went silent, their glowing eyes narrowing with unease. Sera turned to face the three, her expression a mixture of surprise and something unreadable.

"Samael," she began softly, her tone cautious. "About yesterday—"

But Samael raised a hand, silencing her. His expression was calm yet resolute, his glowing eyes meeting hers with unwavering focus. "Sera," he said firmly, his voice echoing slightly in the vast chamber. "Before you say anything, I need to speak. And I need you to really listen."

The seraphim exchanged glances, some frowning, others folding their arms in disdain. Sera tilted her head slightly, her wings shifting. "Go ahead," she said at last, her voice guarded.

Samael took a deep breath. "I'm here because I still believe in this project. I believe it has the potential to be something incredible, something worthy of Heaven's ideals. But the way you—and the rest of the seraphim—have been handling it has made it hard to see that potential."

Gasps rippled through the room, and several seraphim opened their mouths to retort, but Samael continued before they could interrupt.

"I came to help because I wanted to contribute," Samael said. "Not because I think I know better than you, but because I care. Because I see the flaws in this project, and I believe they can be fixed. When I tried to speak up, I was dismissed, mocked, and cast aside. And when the virtues gave their feedback, you treated them with the same disdain."

Plutus stepped forward, his cheerful expression replaced by a rare look of solemnity. "Samael's right. We're here to help, not to take over. We're virtues, after all—our whole purpose is to guide and support." His voice softened as he added, "And honestly, a bit of humility wouldn't hurt."

Levia's gentle voice joined in. "All we want is to ensure this project succeeds. That's why we're here—not to interfere, but to balance things. You are the seraphim, entrusted with this responsibility. But we are all part of Heaven's design. Shouldn't our perspectives matter too?"

Samael stepped forward again, his gaze locking onto Sera's. "You've been dismissing us, brushing us aside because you think you know better. But that arrogance is blinding you. And it's hurting this project more than you realize."

The room fell into a heavy silence. The seraphim bristled, their egos wounded by Samael's blunt words. Sera took a deep breath, her serene facade cracking just slightly. Her wings shifted behind her, the crown-like halo above her head glowing faintly.

"I hear what you're saying," she said finally, her voice measured. "But I also think you don't fully understand the weight of this responsibility. This project was entrusted to the seraphim by God Himself. We bear the burden of ensuring its success, and we cannot afford mistakes."

Samael's jaw tightened. "I understand the responsibility, Sera. But you can't carry it alone. You and the seraphim are so focused on not failing that you've lost sight of what really matters—Adam and Lilith, their lives, their choices. You're treating them like tools for a task instead of beings with their own purpose."

Sera closed her eyes for a moment, as if steadying herself. "You're passionate, Samael, and I respect that. But this is not your burden to bear. You may observe, but you and the virtues will keep your suggestions to yourselves."

Samael felt his hands clench at his sides, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "So you're not going to listen at all," he said, his voice low.

"I am listening," Sera replied, though her tone made it clear she wasn't letting his words sink in. "But the seraphim are capable of handling this project. We don't need interference."

Levia placed a gentle hand on Samael's arm, and Plutus frowned but didn't speak. Samael exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. "Fine," he said finally, though his voice was tight with frustration. "We'll observe. But I still believe you're making a mistake."

Sera nodded curtly and turned back to the globe, her wings spreading slightly. "Let's continue," she said, her tone dismissive.

As Samael, Levia, and Plutus moved to the edge of the hall to observe, Samael felt a heavy weight settle on his chest. He wanted to believe things could still improve, but Sera's rigid stance made it hard to hold on to that hope.

Plutus leaned over to him, his voice soft. "We'll figure this out, mate. Don't let 'em get to you."

Levia gave Samael a reassuring smile, her calm presence helping to ease his frustration. "We're here for you," she said quietly.

Samael nodded, though his heart still felt heavy. All he could do now was hope that something—anything—would shift before it was too late.

Chapter Text

The Celestial Hall of Eternity was quiet save for the hum of the radiant globe projecting the Garden of Eden. Adam and Lilith worked in harmony, tending to the lush paradise. As Samael, Levia, Plutus, and the seraphim observed, the initial tension from the day before had dissipated—if only slightly. For a moment, it seemed like everything was under control.

But the quiet didn't last.

"They've been there long enough," one of the seraphim muttered, their glowing wings rustling with irritation. "Still no children."

Another seraphim sighed, folding their arms. "We've entrusted them with a sacred task. If they cannot fulfill it, they're failing not just us but God Himself."

Plutus tilted his head, his jester's bells tinkling faintly as he shifted. "Why not just make more humans, then?" he asked, his tone both curious and exasperated. "You lot are all about creating things. Just snap your fingers and boom—population problem solved."

The seraphim bristled at his words, their pride visibly wounded. Sera raised a hand to silence them before the conversation escalated. Her gaze turned to Plutus, her voice calm but firm. "It has to be Adam and Lilith," she explained. "They were made to be the foundation of humanity. If we simply created more, they would not learn the responsibility of nurturing and guiding others. They wouldn't understand what it means to care for the lives they bring into the world."

Plutus frowned, his golden-green wings fluttering. "Fair point, I guess," he conceded. "But what if they're just not ready yet? You're asking a lot of two people who've only just started figuring things out."

"That's not an excuse for delay," a seraphim snapped, their frustration evident. "If they cannot fulfill their purpose, then perhaps they should face consequences."

The room grew still as the words sank in.

Levia's serene expression darkened. "Consequences?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. "They're living beings, not tools. You can't punish them for not meeting your arbitrary timeline."

The seraphim's response was dripping with passive aggression. "We understand your compassion, Virtue of Kindness," one of them said, their tone almost mocking. "But perhaps you're too soft to see the bigger picture. This is about fulfilling God's will."

Plutus scoffed, stepping forward. "Oh, right, because forcing them into something they're not ready for is such a divine approach," he said, his voice rising. "You're not helping them grow—you're just trying to tick a box so you can feel like you've done your job."

Levia added, her voice steadier but no less resolute, "They need time. Time to learn, time to understand themselves and each other. You can't rush that, no matter how impatient you are."

The seraphim's feathers ruffled with indignation. "Perhaps you virtues should stick to your roles and leave the actual work to those entrusted with it."

"Enough," Sera said sharply, cutting through the brewing argument. Her voice carried the weight of her authority, and even the virtues fell silent. "There will be no punishment," she continued, her tone brooking no argument. "However, I will speak to them again. They need to understand the importance of their duty and the urgency of this task."

Samael, who had been quiet until now, shifted uncomfortably. His glowing eyes flicked between the seraphim and Sera, a sinking feeling settling in his chest. Something about this situation felt wrong—like they were on the edge of a precipice, and one wrong move would send everything spiraling out of control.

As Sera prepared to descend to Eden, Samael finally spoke up. "Sera," he said hesitantly, "are you sure this is the right approach? They've already made it clear they need more time. Pushing them further might... backfire."

Sera glanced at him, her expression softening briefly. "I understand your concern, Samael," she said. "But this is my responsibility. I will ensure that Adam and Lilith understand their purpose."

Samael wanted to argue, to tell her that this wasn't about understanding but about forcing compliance. But he could see the determination in her eyes, the unyielding conviction that she was doing what was best.

As she descended toward the globe, Samael turned to Levia and Plutus. "I don't like this," he murmured, his voice low enough that the seraphim wouldn't hear. "Something's going to go wrong. I can feel it."

Levia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, her green eyes warm and reassuring. "We'll handle it if it does," she said softly. "You're not alone in this, Samael."

Plutus nodded, though his expression was more serious than usual. "We've got your back, mate," he said. "No matter what happens."

Samael nodded, but the uneasy feeling in his chest didn't fade. As the globe shifted to show Sera approaching Adam and Lilith, he could only watch and hope that his instincts were wrong.

In the Garden of Eden, Adam and Lilith were seated under the shade of a massive tree, its golden leaves shimmering softly in the sunlight. The serene scene was disrupted as Sera descended, her radiant wings casting a holy glow across the garden. Adam and Lilith looked up, their faces showing contrasting emotions—Adam's caution and Lilith's defiance.

"Adam, Lilith," Sera greeted, her tone calm but tinged with the weight of expectation. "I've come to speak with you about the urgency of your role. You were created for a sacred purpose—to begin the human race, to nurture and guide it into prosperity."

Lilith raised an eyebrow, her posture stiffening. "We're aware of our purpose," she replied, her voice measured but firm. "But as we've said before, we need time. We're not ready."

Sera's serene expression faltered slightly. "This isn't a matter of readiness," she said, her tone taking on a subtle edge. "This is about fulfilling God's will. You've been given a divine task—one that is both an honor and a blessing. It is not something to delay or question."

Lilith stood, crossing her arms as she stared Sera down. "An honor and a blessing?" she said, her voice rising. "I never asked for this. I never asked to be created, or to carry the weight of this 'divine task.' You talk about blessings, but all I feel is pressure and control."

Adam hesitated before rising to stand beside Lilith. He looked at Sera nervously, his voice softer but still clear. "We're not saying we won't do it," he said, glancing at his wife for reassurance. "But can't we have time to... figure things out? This is all so new. Can't you... lay off a bit?"

Sera's patience wavered, frustration flickering in her usually composed demeanor. "This isn't just about you," she said, her voice growing sharper. "This is about humanity itself. You were made for this, chosen for this. You cannot simply delay God's will because you feel unprepared. This task is far greater than your personal desires."

Lilith's eyes blazed with defiance. "Greater than our personal desires? We're supposed to bring life into this world, but you expect us to do it without any regard for what we feel or what we need? If this is God's will, then maybe God should have thought about that before creating us!"

The air seemed to grow heavier as Sera's frustration met Lilith's fiery resistance. Samael, watching from the Celestial Hall, was captivated. He couldn't help but admire Lilith's courage, the way she stood her ground against an authority as powerful as Sera. A faint blush crept across his cheeks as he murmured, "She's incredible."

Back in the hall, the seraphim were far less impressed. Their wings rustled with agitation, their voices a mix of shock and indignation. "How dare she speak to Sera that way?" one of them hissed. "She's defying her creator! This is unacceptable."

Another seraphim nodded, their tone cold. "She must learn respect. Sera has shown nothing but patience, and this is how she repays it?"

Levia stepped forward, her expression calm but resolute. "Respect goes both ways," she said, her voice steady. "Lilith has every right to express herself. She's not a tool, and you can't treat her like one."

Plutus, standing beside her, crossed his arms. "Exactly! She's got a spine, and good on her for using it. She's not hurting anyone—she's just standing up for herself. Maybe you lot could learn a thing or two from that."

The seraphim turned on them, their feathers bristling. "You virtues forget your place," one of them snapped. "God entrusted us with this project. We don't need your opinions or interference."

Levia's usually gentle demeanor hardened. "If you think treating Lilith like this is going to help her fulfill her purpose, you're wrong. Compassion and understanding are what she needs, not demands and threats."

As the bickering intensified, Sera, still in the garden, began to feel the discord echoing through the Celestial Hall. Her connection to the seraphim allowed her to sense their growing agitation, the brewing storm of conflict threatening to spill over. She sighed, her frustration mounting. Turning back to Adam and Lilith, she softened her tone slightly.

"This conversation isn't over," she said firmly. "But for now, I will leave you to reflect on what I've said."

Without waiting for a response, Sera ascended back toward the Celestial Hall. As she re-entered the space, the tension was palpable. The seraphim fell silent, their gazes fixed on her expectantly.

Samael, Levia, and Plutus stood to the side, watching her warily. Samael's unease deepened as he caught the faint flicker of frustration in Sera's eyes.

Sera took a steadying breath, trying to compose herself, but the discord in the room grated on her already strained nerves.

"I was gone for only a few minutes," Sera said, her voice low but laced with annoyance. "And somehow, everything has devolved into chaos. What happened?"

The seraphim immediately began speaking over one another, their voices a cacophony of indignation. "The virtues undermined us again!" one of them snapped. "They defended Lilith's blatant disrespect and questioned our handling of the situation!"

"They think they know better than us," another chimed in, glaring at Levia and Plutus. "Always sticking their noses where they don't belong."

Levia, standing beside Plutus and Samael, flinched at the venom in their words. Her lip trembled as she tried to speak, her usual calm composure wavering. "We were only—only trying to help," she stammered, her voice breaking slightly. "This isn't about us versus you; this is about what's right for Adam and Lilith. Can't you see that?"

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she bit her lip to stop herself from sobbing. Plutus, standing beside her, saw her distress and something inside him snapped.

"No, I've had enough!" Plutus roared, his voice booming through the hall. His wings flared, and his usual jovial demeanor was replaced by righteous fury. "You lot don't get it, do you? You think this is about power or authority, but it's not! It's about people. Adam, Lilith, Samael, everyone you've hurt with your arrogance and ego!"

The seraphim recoiled slightly at the intensity of Plutus's outburst, but he didn't stop. He turned toward Sera, his voice trembling with anger. "Do you even realize what you've done? You made Samael cry! You've treated the virtues—your peers—as nuisances instead of allies! And now you've made Levia, the kindest of us all, break down because of your nasty attitudes!"

Levia reached out to gently touch Plutus's arm, trying to calm him, but he shook his head, his eyes blazing. "No, Levia, they need to hear this. You don't deserve this treatment, and neither does Samael."

Samael stepped forward, his face pale but resolute. "Sera," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest, "say something. Anything."

But Sera said nothing. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she looked away, as if searching for an answer that wasn't there.

Samael's jaw tightened, his frustration bubbling over. "You know we're right," he said, his voice rising. "Levia, Plutus, Azazil, Asmodel, Veritas, Triel—they're all right! I'm right! And deep down, you and the seraphim know it too! But you refuse to admit it because you're too proud. Too selfish. God gave you this task, and instead of embracing it with humility, you've let it feed your egos."

The seraphim began to protest, but Samael silenced them with a sharp glare. "No. Don't you dare interrupt me. This project is doomed to fail with you in charge. You're the only problem here—not Adam and Lilith, not us virtues, you. And until you realize that, this whole thing will keep falling apart."

Sera's composure finally broke. Her wings unfurled, and her voice cut through the air like a blade. "That's enough, Samael! You think you know better than us? Than me? You're out of line!" She pointed toward the exit, her blue eyes blazing. "Leave. You and the virtues. Leave this hall and don't come back."

Samael stared at her, stunned. His chest felt tight, but he stood his ground. "We were planning to leave anyway," he said quietly, his voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. He turned on his heel, his wings unfurling as he led Levia and Plutus out of the hall. "Come on."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving the seraphim and Sera in tense silence. One of the seraphim sneered, their feathers ruffling. "Who do they think they are? Acting like they know better than us. We were chosen by God—"

"Enough," Sera snapped, her voice sharp and weary. The seraphim fell silent, startled by her tone. She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly as she pressed them together. "I don't want to hear it. This project is God's will, and it's my job to see it through. No more arguments. No more distractions. We finish this, and we please God. That's all that matters."

Her words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the growing storm of conflict she had unintentionally fostered. For all her desire to maintain order, Sera seemed oblivious to the irony of her own actions. And as she turned back to the globe, the tension in the Celestial Hall remained, a fragile silence masking the deeper fractures threatening to shatter the heavens.

Chapter Text

The Hall of Virtues was quiet and serene, a stark contrast to the tension-filled Celestial Hall Samael, Plutus, and Levia had just left. The three of them entered, their wings drooping and their steps heavy. The other virtues immediately looked up, sensing something was wrong.

Azazil was the first to approach, his golden scales catching the soft light as he moved toward the group. His eyes were calm but concerned. "What happened?" he asked, his voice gentle yet firm.

Samael didn't answer. Without a word, he walked past Azazil and the others, his shoulders tense. He found a small corner of the hall and sank into a chair, his wings wrapping around himself like a protective shield. His silence was deafening.

Plutus sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, his jester-like hat shifting slightly with the movement. "It didn't go well," he admitted, his voice unusually subdued. "I... I might've lost my cool."

Levia stepped in, her tone soft but tinged with sorrow. "It wasn't just Plutus. The seraphim... they're impossible to reason with. They've let their pride and sense of duty completely blind them."

Azazil's usually serene expression darkened, and Asmodel, standing nearby, folded his arms, his wings twitching in irritation. "So, they're just as bad as we thought," Asmodel muttered.

"They're worse," Plutus said, his tone bitter. "I tried to defend Levia when they started getting passive-aggressive, and... I snapped. I told them exactly what I thought about their arrogance, their treatment of Samael, and their entire approach to humanity."

Levia nodded, her emerald-green eyes glistening. "We thought maybe they'd listen, but they didn't. Sera... she..." Levia trailed off, glancing at Samael, who was still huddled in his corner. She lowered her voice. "She didn't defend him. Not once."

Veritas frowned, her golden glow dimming slightly. "So, Samael was right," she said quietly. "They never intended to take him seriously."

Triel's pink and orange wings fluttered as she approached Samael cautiously, her steps light and deliberate. She knelt beside him, her voice soft. "Samael? Hey, kiddo. Talk to me."

But Samael didn't respond. He stared ahead, his glowing blue eyes distant and unfocused. Triel placed a gentle hand on his arm, but when he still didn't react, she sighed. "Okay," she said softly. "I'll give you some space, but I'm here if you need me."

She stood and rejoined the others, her expression tight with anger and concern. "This isn't right," she said, her usually laid-back tone hardening. "He deserves better than this."

Azazil nodded solemnly. "He does. We all knew the seraphim were difficult, but if they've hurt him this much..." His voice trailed off as he glanced at Samael, his heart aching for the young archangel.

Asmodel's voice cut through the room, steady and sharp. "The seraphim have clearly made up their minds. They think they're above everyone else, including the virtues and Samael. Their arrogance will be their downfall."

Plutus clenched his fists, his usually cheerful face set in a grim line. "I've never felt so furious before," he admitted. "They're supposed to represent Heaven's ideals, but they're the furthest thing from it. They're not helping humanity—they're controlling it. And they're hurting everyone in the process."

Levia nodded, her voice trembling slightly. "I agree. I wanted to believe in them, but now... I can't. I don't know how we're supposed to work with them."

Veritas folded her hands, her golden eyes narrowing in thought. "Perhaps we're not meant to," she said. "If they refuse to listen, maybe it's time we focus on supporting Samael instead. He's the one who truly cares about this project's success."

Triel sighed, glancing back at Samael. "Yeah," she said softly. "He's the only one who really cares—for the right reasons. And they've broken him."

The virtues continued their discussion, their voices low and somber as they debated their next steps. But no matter how the conversation turned, their thoughts kept returning to Samael, sitting silently in the corner, his heart heavy with disappointment and hurt.

For now, they decided to let him have his peace, knowing he needed time to process everything that had happened. But deep down, each of them knew this wasn't the end of the conflict. The fractures within Heaven were growing, and it was only a matter of time before something—or someone—broke.

Days passed in the Hall of Virtues, yet the tension that had taken root after Samael, Levia, and Plutus's return lingered like a storm cloud. The virtues continued their duties, but a shadow of discontent crept into their once-steadfast resolve. In quiet moments, their conversations circled back to the seraphim, to Sera, and to the mounting frustration they all felt.

In the grand atrium of the Hall, the virtues gathered, their voices low and sharp.

"They're supposed to uphold Heaven's ideals, just like us," Levia said, her normally soft tone carrying an edge. "And yet they act as if those principles don't apply to them—like they're above it all. It's infuriating." Her glowing, seafoam-green wings twitched in irritation, and her usual gentle aura seemed strained. "Why do they get to act like this and still be held in higher regard than us?"

Azazil sat nearby, his golden-white tail curled neatly around him. He was silent, but his serene expression was gone, replaced by a brooding intensity. His patience, once boundless, was wearing thin. He clenched his clawed hands, his voice low but vibrating with an undercurrent of wrath. "They've twisted what this project was meant to be. And they've twisted us. We're expected to uphold Heaven's values, but for what? To watch them trample over everything we stand for?"

Belfagel, leaning against a nearby pillar, let out a tired sigh. The golden flame atop her head flickered faintly, the symbol of her determination dimmed. "Why should we bother?" she said flatly, her arms crossed. "If the seraphim aren't worried about upholding the virtues of Heaven, why should we? It's exhausting—always striving, always sacrificing, only to be ignored. Maybe they have it right. Maybe it's not worth it."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any she had spoken before. A ripple of unease passed through the group, though no one contradicted her.

Plutus, usually the beacon of enthusiasm, sat quietly beside her, his vibrant green-and-yellow wings drooping. When he finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically bitter. "Charity only works when it's deserved," he muttered. "And what have the seraphim done to deserve anything from us? They treat us—and Samael—like dirt. Maybe... maybe I should stop being so giving. Maybe it's time I thought about myself for once. Being selfish doesn't sound so bad anymore."

Veritas, sitting across the room, stared down at her glowing hands, her sharp yellow eyes dim with frustration. "They have the audacity to call themselves servants of truth," she said coldly. "But their truth is twisted—a warped version of reality that only serves their ego. And us? We're expected to embody these ideals without falter, while they defile the very principles we're meant to protect." Her voice grew softer, almost to herself. "What's the point of truth if it's only ignored? If it's manipulated to suit arrogance and pride?"

Triel, her butterfly-like wings folding behind her, paced the room. "And what about balance?" she snapped. "Where's the balance in all this? They act like we're supposed to accept their authority, even when it's clear they've lost all sense of moderation. How are we supposed to maintain harmony when everything around us is chaos?" Her usually calm tone was sharper than usual, a sign of how deeply the hypocrisy had unsettled her.

Asmodel, standing by one of the tall windows, gazed out at the shimmering horizon of Heaven. His voice, when it came, was quiet but laced with frustration. "Sacred love, sacred purpose—these were supposed to be the foundation of our creation," he said, his radiant wings shifting slightly. "But now I see it's just a gilded cage. We're bound by these ideals, but the seraphim... they're free to act however they please, all because God chose them for this project. It's maddening."

Silence fell for a moment as the virtues exchanged glances, each of them grappling with the dissonance between their divine roles and the reality they faced. Levia finally broke the quiet, her voice trembling with emotion. "I envy them," she admitted, her glowing green eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I envy their freedom—their ability to act without consequence. And I hate that I feel this way, but I can't help it. It's not fair."

Azazil's tail twitched, his serene facade cracking further. "And I'm tired of being calm," he said bluntly. "I'm tired of being patient. They don't deserve it. None of them do. If anything, they deserve a taste of their own arrogance."

The virtues fell into uneasy silence again, the weight of their collective frustration palpable. They had never spoken this way before, and yet none of them could deny the truth in each other's words.

Finally, Veritas spoke, her voice steady but heavy with resignation. "This isn't just about the seraphim," she said. "It's about us. About what we're becoming. If this continues, if things don't change... I'm afraid of what we might turn into."

Triel stopped pacing and looked at Samael, who sat silently in the corner, his head bowed. "And what about him?" she asked softly. "He's the only one who hasn't given up—who still believes in this project, despite everything. But how long can he hold on? How long before they break him completely?"

No one had an answer. The virtues sat in uneasy silence, the weight of their doubts and frustrations hanging heavy in the air. For the first time, they began to wonder if their divine roles, their sacred virtues, were worth the cost of their own happiness and purpose. And though none of them said it aloud, each of them felt the same gnawing fear: that the cracks forming within them might one day shatter them completely.

Later, Samael sat alone in his room, the echoes of the virtues' voices from earlier still bouncing around in his mind. He remained silent, unable to shake the turmoil that clawed at his heart. The wounds from the recent events at the Celestial Hall and the lingering disappointment in Sera weighed heavily on him. A part of him longed for some semblance of normalcy, for a moment to escape the confusion and pain.

Then, like a soothing balm, the sweet, unmistakable scent of honey cakes wafted through the air. His head lifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. Honey cakes could only mean one thing.

His curiosity piqued, Samael quietly slipped out of his room and followed the tantalizing aroma to the kitchen. The glow of the room's warm light spilled into the hallway, and as he peeked around the corner, he spotted a plate of honey cakes sitting unattended on the counter. The kitchen was empty.

Perfect.

Grinning to himself, Samael tiptoed into the room, his fingers twitching in anticipation. Just as he reached for one of the golden cakes, he felt a pair of hands grab him and a playful voice rang out.

"Gotcha!"

Samael barely had time to react before he was tackled to the floor by Triel, who laughed as she pinned him down. "You didn't think I'd just leave those cakes out for anyone to take, did you?" she teased, her butterfly-like wings fluttering behind her.

Samael groaned, though a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "A trap? Seriously?"

"Of course!" Triel grinned, her laid-back tone dripping with mischief. "Honey cakes are sacred in this kitchen, Samael. You've gotta earn them."

The two began to playfully wrestle on the floor, their laughter echoing through the kitchen. For the first time in days, Samael felt a small flicker of light breaking through the darkness in his heart. Finally, Triel relented, sitting back and crossing her arms.

"Alright," she said, her cheerful tone softening. "I'll let you go—on one condition."

Samael raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"You talk to me. No dodging, no brushing me off. Deal?"

He hesitated for a moment, but the sincerity in her eyes broke through his defenses. With a sigh, he nodded. "Fine."

Triel smiled triumphantly and helped him up, but as Samael reached for a honey cake, she swiftly pulled the plate away and replaced it with a bowl of steaming food. "Ah, ah. First, you eat this. Then you can have the honey cakes."

Samael groaned dramatically, but he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "You're relentless."

"Just looking out for you, kid," Triel said with a wink.

As Samael ate, Triel sat beside him, her usual calm energy radiating like a steady anchor. It wasn't long before Samael began to open up.

"It's... Sera," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I've basically cut her off. I've spent so long looking up to her, seeing her as someone who could guide me, someone who cared about me. She was like a mother to me. But now..." His voice cracked slightly, and he set his fork down. "Now I don't even know what she is to me anymore."

Triel listened intently, her expression soft and understanding. "You're hurt, Samael. And you have every right to be. Sera's treatment of you—it wasn't fair. But that doesn't mean you're alone."

Samael looked up at her, his eyes glistening. "I just wanted her to see me as more than a child. To take me seriously. But no matter what I do, it's never enough. It's like... like I'm not enough."

Triel reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Samael," she said softly, "you are more than enough. I've always believed in you, even when you didn't believe in yourself. I see how much you care, how much you want to do good. That's why I'm here. That's why we're all here. Because we care about you."

Samael's lips trembled, and he reached over to hug her tightly. Triel wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he let out a few quiet sobs.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Thank you for being there for me."

Triel smiled, her wings glowing faintly brighter. "Always, Samael. Always."

For a moment, the weight on Samael's heart felt a little lighter. As they pulled away, Triel handed him a honey cake with a grin. "Alright, now you've earned it."

Samael laughed softly and took a bite, the sweetness melting on his tongue. He glanced at Triel, his heart swelling with gratitude. For the first time in days, he felt a flicker of hope.

Chapter Text

The crisp sound of metal against metal echoed through the training grounds as Heaven's most elite warriors, the Executioners, honed their skills under Michael's watchful eye. A unique force handpicked and trained by the Archangel himself, they were a group forged to respond to emergencies, crises, or wars—unlikely as such events were in the celestial realms. Still, Michael believed in preparation, and he ensured they were nothing less than perfect.

The warriors moved with precision, their strength and discipline evident in every swing and strike. Among them were Vagatha, Michael's steadfast lieutenant, known for her unwavering loyalty and empathetic leadership, and Lute, a fearsome Executioner who embodied strength and duty, taking her role as a protector of Heaven with utmost seriousness. Vagatha barked orders, her voice firm yet encouraging, while Lute demonstrated advanced techniques to a group of newer recruits.

Michael stood at the edge of the training grounds, his golden eyes scanning the scene. He was usually completely focused, offering critiques and guidance where needed, but today, his mind wandered. His gaze drifted, his thoughts elsewhere, away from the disciplined warriors before him.

His mind was on Samael.

Michael exhaled softly, his wings shifting as he leaned against a marble pillar. It had been so long since he'd last seen his younger brother. Since Samael began spending most of his time with the virtues, Michael realized he had no idea what his brother was doing or how he was feeling. He thought back to their relationship over the eons, and a pang of guilt gripped him.

He hadn't been a good brother to Samael.

Michael's jaw tightened as memories surfaced—of lectures, scoldings, and dismissive remarks. He'd always held Samael to impossibly high standards, pushing him to embody perfection as an Archangel. It wasn't until their reconciliation not long ago that Michael began to see how much he had hurt Samael with his pride and rigidity. While they had made amends, that didn't erase the years of strain.

"Sir?" Vagatha's voice cut through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present.

Michael blinked, straightening. "Yes, Vagatha?"

The lieutenant approached him, her sharp, discerning gaze softening with concern. "You seem... distracted. Is everything all right?"

Michael hesitated before nodding. "I'm fine," he replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

Vagatha tilted her head slightly, clearly unconvinced. Behind her, Lute approached, her tall frame imposing yet respectful. "Sir," Lute said, her voice steady but direct, "your focus is usually sharper than a blade. Today, it feels like your mind is elsewhere."

Michael frowned, glancing between his two warriors. It was rare for him to show vulnerability, but he trusted Vagatha and Lute. With a sigh, he admitted, "I've been thinking about Samael."

The two women exchanged a glance. Vagatha stepped closer. "Your brother?"

"Yes." Michael crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "We reconciled some time ago, but I can't help but feel... I wasn't the brother he needed me to be. And now, he's spending all his time with the virtues, and I haven't seen him in ages. I don't know what he's doing, how he's feeling. It's... unsettling."

"Have you tried reaching out to him?" Vagatha asked gently.

Michael shook his head. "No. Samael and I have always been... complicated. He's sensitive, and I'm—" He paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Let's just say I'm not exactly nurturing."

"Sir," Lute said firmly, her piercing gaze meeting his. "You're a warrior and a leader, but you're also his brother. You don't need to be nurturing to show him you care. Sometimes, just being there is enough."

Michael considered her words, his expression softening slightly. "Perhaps you're right."

Vagatha smiled warmly. "We'll hold down the fort here, Michael. If you need to step away and see Samael, we've got it covered."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "You're volunteering to oversee the training?"

Vagatha's confidence faltered for a moment, but she quickly straightened. "Yes, sir. I won't let you down."

Michael chuckled softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I have no doubt you'll manage, Vagatha. I'll leave things in your capable hands."

As he prepared to leave, he glanced at Lute. "Make sure the recruits don't slack off."

Lute gave a sharp nod. "Understood."

With that, Michael spread his wings, their radiant glow catching the sunlight as he took off into the sky. His destination was clear—he needed to find Uriel. If anyone knew where Samael was, it would be her.

As Vagatha watched him disappear into the horizon, she turned back to the training grounds, clapping her hands together. "All right, Executioners! Let's show Archangel Michael that we can handle things in his absence. No slacking!"

Lute stepped forward, her commanding presence silencing any murmurs of doubt. "Form ranks! Let's get to work."

Though Michael's mind was elsewhere, he left the training grounds in capable hands. Now, his focus was on reconnecting with Samael—and perhaps easing the guilt that had weighed on his heart for far too long.

Uriel reclined in her chambers, her fingers massaging her temples as she attempted to soothe the dull ache that had taken root in her head. A long line of angels and cherubs had come to her that day, each seeking her guidance on matters both trivial and profound. It was her role to offer wisdom and light, but even an Archangel could feel the strain of constant demands.

As she let out a weary sigh, there was a knock at her chamber door. Before she could respond, it swung open, revealing Michael, his golden wings folded tightly against his back. His expression was a mix of determination and unease.

"Uriel," Michael began, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. "We need to talk."

Uriel raised an eyebrow, her voice dry as she gestured toward the chair opposite her. "By all means, come in. It's not as if I needed the rest or anything."

Michael ignored her sarcasm, pulling up the chair and sitting down heavily. "It's about Samael."

Uriel's expression softened slightly, though her tone remained teasing. "Oh, so the great Michael finally wants to talk about how he's been a terrible brother?"

Michael scowled, a tinge of guilt flashing in his eyes. "I didn't come here for judgment, Uriel. I came to see if you've spoken to him recently—or if he's come to you."

Uriel leaned back, crossing her arms. "I won't sugarcoat it, Michael. You weren't exactly winning any 'Brother of the Millennium' awards back in the day." She smirked faintly, but her voice softened as she continued. "That said, Samael hasn't come to me directly. I've been busy, but I did send Gabriel to keep an eye on him."

Michael blinked in surprise. "Gabriel?"

"Yes," Uriel said, nodding. "Gabriel's been keeping me updated on what Samael's been up to. You know how much Gabriel dotes on him. Besides, I trust him to keep an eye on things when I can't."

"And?" Michael prompted, leaning forward. "What's been going on with Samael?"

Uriel sighed, resting her chin on her hand. "From what I've heard, Samael's been spending a lot of time with the virtues. He's gotten especially close to them—particularly Triel, Levia, and Plutus. He's also been trying to involve himself in the humanity project. And..." she hesitated, her gaze flickering toward Michael. "From what Gabriel's said, he's been struggling."

Michael's frown deepened, and he ran a hand through his golden hair. "Struggling how?"

Uriel shrugged lightly. "Feeling left out, undervalued, the usual. It doesn't help that Sera and the seraphim haven't exactly been treating him kindly. I imagine it's been... difficult for him."

Michael sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I should have reached out sooner."

Uriel smirked faintly. "Yes, you should have. But better late than never, I suppose. Gabriel will have more details if you're looking for specifics."

Almost as if on cue, the door to Uriel's chambers opened again, and Gabriel entered, carrying a stack of scrolls. He paused mid-step, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw Michael sitting there.

"Michael?" Gabriel asked, blinking. "What are you doing here?"

Michael crossed his arms. "Talking about Samael. Uriel says you've been keeping tabs on him."

Gabriel hesitated, glancing between the two of them before sighing and setting the scrolls on a nearby table. "I have," he admitted, pulling up a chair. "And... you'll want to get comfortable. There's a lot to go over."

Michael and Uriel exchanged a look before turning their attention back to Gabriel. The younger Archangel seemed nervous as he folded his hands in his lap, his wings shifting slightly.

"Start from the beginning," Michael said, his tone firm but not unkind. "What's been happening?"

Gabriel nodded, taking a deep breath before launching into his explanation. "Samael's been trying to prove himself—to Sera, to the seraphim, to everyone. He wants to be involved in the humanity project because he believes in it, but the seraphim haven't been treating him with respect. They've dismissed him, mocked him, and even Sera hasn't defended him the way she should have."

Michael's jaw tightened, his golden eyes narrowing. "Go on."

Gabriel continued, his voice tinged with both anger and sadness. "Samael's been leaning on the virtues for support. They've been there for him in a way we haven't, and he's grown close to them. But the seraphim's arrogance has made things worse. It's not just Samael who's upset—many of the virtues are, too. They've started questioning their own roles and the way Heaven operates. There's... tension brewing, Michael. A lot of it."

Uriel's expression grew serious, the playful edge in her demeanor fading. "How bad is it?"

Gabriel hesitated again before responding. "Bad enough that Samael, Plutus, and Levia went to the Celestial Hall recently to observe the humanity project, and they left furious. Samael hasn't been the same since. He's hurt, Uriel. Deeply. And it's not just the seraphim's fault. Sera's refusal to stand up for him has been a big part of it."

Michael leaned back in his chair, his expression dark. "And what about us? What have we done to help him?"

Gabriel looked down, his wings drooping slightly. "Not enough," he admitted quietly. "Samael's been feeling alone, and we've been too focused on our own duties to notice."

Uriel rubbed her temples, her headache returning in full force. "This is a mess," she muttered. "A complete mess."

Michael stood abruptly, his wings flaring out slightly. "I need to see him."

Gabriel glanced up. "Michael—"

"No," Michael interrupted, his tone resolute. "I need to talk to Samael. I need to make this right."

Uriel sighed, standing as well. "If you're going, then I'm coming with you. We've both neglected him for too long."

Gabriel stood, too, his expression determined. "Then we go together."

The three Archangels shared a solemn nod before leaving Uriel's chambers, their thoughts heavy as they made their way toward the Hall of Virtues. It was time to face Samael—and to finally make amends.

Uriel, Michael, and Gabriel approached the Hall of Virtues, their footsteps echoing faintly in the quiet, serene space. Despite their shared resolve to make amends with Samael, an air of unease lingered between them. As they reached the entrance, they were met by Veritas, who stood in their path with her arms crossed, her sharp yellow eyes fixed on Gabriel.

"You're back," Veritas said, her voice calm but teasing. "And you brought friends this time."

Gabriel rubbed the back of his neck, visibly sheepish. "Uh... yeah. Hi, Veritas."

She raised an eyebrow. "You know, sneaking around isn't really becoming of an Archangel. I've spotted you a few times already."

Uriel smirked faintly, glancing at Gabriel. "Caught red-handed?"

Gabriel sighed, clearly embarrassed. "Okay, fine. I wasn't exactly subtle."

Veritas shook her head, a hint of amusement in her expression. "Lucky for you, I let it slide. Samael's been through enough without me adding to his worries." She stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter. "Go on, then. He's inside. But don't overwhelm him—he's been doing... better. Slightly."

The three Archangels nodded their thanks and entered the hall. The atmosphere inside was calm but tinged with a subtle melancholy. Samael sat near a window, gazing out at the celestial expanse, his posture slouched and his wings slightly drooped. He seemed lost in thought, but when he turned and spotted Uriel and Gabriel, his face lit up.

"Samael!" Gabriel called, rushing over with open arms. Samael didn't hesitate, practically leaping to embrace both Uriel and Gabriel. The hug was tight, and Samael held on for a moment longer than usual, as if drawing comfort from their presence.

"I missed you guys," Samael said softly, his voice tinged with relief.

"We missed you too," Uriel replied, her tone warm and genuine. "It's been far too long."

Samael turned his gaze to Michael, who stood a few steps away, looking hesitant. The room grew silent as the two brothers regarded each other. Finally, Michael stepped forward, his expression unusually vulnerable.

"Samael..." Michael began, his voice quieter than usual. "I—" He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I've been a terrible brother to you. I know that. And I know apologizing won't erase what I've done, but... I want to try to make it up to you."

Samael's eyes widened slightly, and he blinked in surprise. "Michael..."

Michael stepped closer, placing a hand on Samael's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Samael. Truly. I've let my pride and my sense of duty blind me to what really matters—you. You're my brother, and I should have treated you like one."

For a moment, Samael said nothing, his gaze dropping to the floor. Then, slowly, he reached out and pulled Michael into a hug. "I forgive you," Samael said, his voice trembling slightly. "You're still my brother, Michael. That hasn't changed."

The room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief as the tension eased. The four Archangels sat down together, their conversation flowing more easily now. Uriel and Gabriel explained how their duties had kept them from spending as much time with Samael as they would have liked, and Samael reassured them that he didn't take it personally.

But when the topic shifted to Sera and the seraphim, Samael's expression darkened.

"They hurt you," Uriel said gently, her brow furrowing. "And I'm sorry you had to go through that, Samael."

Samael nodded, his voice quieter now. "It's not just that they hurt me. It's that Sera didn't do anything. She didn't stand up for me, even when she knew I was right. I thought... I thought she cared about me. Like a mother would. But now..." His voice broke slightly, and he looked away. "Now, I don't know what to think."

Gabriel placed a comforting hand on Samael's arm. "You're not alone, Samael. You've got us. And the virtues clearly care about you too."

Samael's expression softened. "Yeah... especially Triel. She's always been there for me."

Michael, his expression grim, spoke up. "The seraphim have always had big egos. Even before the humanity project, they acted like they were above reproach. It doesn't surprise me that they treated you the way they did."

Gabriel frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think God knows about all of this?"

The question hung in the air for a moment before Veritas, who had been quietly observing from nearby, let out a groan. "Of course. Why didn't we think of that sooner?"

Azazil, Asmodel, and Belfagel, who had been sitting further back, all exchanged looks of realization before groaning in unison.

Azazil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We could've just gone straight to God about this from the start."

Samael blinked, his wings shifting slightly. "You're right. It's so simple, but none of us thought to do it."

Belfagel crossed her arms, her expression irritated. "Well, better late than never, I suppose."

Veritas nodded firmly. "Then it's settled. We'll request a meeting with God."

The group collectively agreed, their determination renewed. They would finally bring their concerns to the one being who could truly address the situation—and perhaps, at long last, find a way to set things right.

———————————————————————

Meanwhile a different conversation was taking place in the Celestial Chambers of Light, where Sera sat before God himself. The golden glow of the chamber wrapped around her like a warm embrace, but her mind was far from at ease.

God, dressed in his usual radiant attire, smiled warmly as he regarded Sera. "Sera, my dear, how are you doing?"

The question caught her off guard, and she hesitated before answering, her composure briefly faltering. "I'm... fine, my Lord," she replied, straightening her posture.

God tilted his head slightly, his kind eyes studying her. "Are you sure? Is there nothing weighing on your heart?"

Sera's wings shifted uncomfortably, but she forced a gentle smile. "No, my Lord. I assure you, I'm fine."

God regarded her in silence for a moment, his gaze as soothing as it was piercing. Eventually, he nodded, letting the subject drop—for now. "Very well," he said softly, his voice carrying a note of understanding. "How is the humanity project coming along?"

Sera felt a pang of unease at the question but kept her tone even. "There have been... some challenges," she admitted. "But things are beginning to go smoothly. The seraphim and I are committed to carrying out the task you've entrusted to us."

God's expression softened further, his tone taking on a paternal warmth. "Sera, the task I entrusted to you is not simply about completing a goal or fulfilling an order. It's about teaching humanity to love, to nurture one another, and to learn to love me, with your guidance."

Sera's breath caught in her throat. Her face, already pale, drained further as his words sank in.

"That's why I gave you and the seraphim this job," God continued. "Because I believed in your kindness and fairness. I knew you would do a wonderful job with humanity."

Sera's mind raced, her chest tightening with guilt. Kindness? Fairness? The words echoed in her head like accusations. She thought back to how she had treated Adam and Lilith, how she had pushed them to fulfill their purpose without giving them room to grow or feel loved. How she had dismissed Samael, and disregarded the virtues who had tried to help. It all crashed down on her, and the weight was unbearable.

She forced herself to speak. "The first humans... were made to begin the human race," she said quietly, more to justify her actions to herself than to God.

God nodded gently. "That is one goal," he agreed. "But the seraphim's true priority is to ensure that Adam and Lilith know they are loved. That they know I love them. And to guide them with only the best intentions in mind."

Sera felt her stomach twist, her guilt now almost suffocating. Her wings trembled slightly as she rose from her seat. "If you'll excuse me, my Lord," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

God's brow furrowed slightly. "Sera, are you alright?" he asked, his tone filled with concern. "If you need help with humanity, I can—"

"No," Sera interrupted, her voice somber but firm. "Thank you, my Lord, but the seraphim and I will take care of things." She bowed deeply before turning and leaving the chamber.

God watched her go, his warm smile still in place, but as the chamber fell silent, a single tear slid down his face. He sat back, his expression heavy with sorrow.

He knew Sera was lying. He knew she was struggling, weighed down by the burden of the project he had entrusted to her. And he knew she would ultimately refuse his help, no matter how much he offered.

God, being all-knowing, was aware of every event that would unfold—every decision, every consequence, every moment of joy and sorrow. But knowing didn't make it hurt any less. He sighed deeply, his gaze turning to the infinite expanse of light around him.

"I had so much faith in my creations," he murmured to himself, his voice tinged with quiet grief. "My children... I just wish they had more faith in me."

Chapter Text

The Hall of Virtues was alive with energy as Samael and the Virtues prepared themselves for the long-awaited meeting with God. After weeks of frustration, pain, and conflict, there was a collective sense of relief that they were finally taking their concerns to the one being who could truly make a difference. Samael was more animated than he had been in days, his usual radiant smile lighting up the room as he moved about, helping the others prepare.

"This is it!" Samael said, his voice brimming with excitement. "If anyone can understand what's been happening, it's Him. He'll see reason. I just know it."

The Virtues couldn't help but smile at his optimism. Even Veritas, who often wore a more serious expression, had a faint smirk.

"I can't believe we didn't think of this sooner," Triel admitted, shaking her head in amusement. "Instead of all the arguing and chaos, we could've just gone straight to God."

"We're angels," Belfagel said dryly. "Shouldn't asking God be our first instinct?"

"Hey, hindsight is divine clarity, right?" Plutus joked, earning a laugh from Levia, who gave him a playful nudge.

Despite their cheerful banter, there was an underlying sense of anticipation. Asmodel adjusted his robes, his typically calm demeanor hiding a flicker of nervous energy. Azazil, though outwardly stoic, had a faint crease of worry on his brow as he watched Samael dart about with renewed enthusiasm.

In the corner, Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel observed the scene quietly. It was rare to see the Virtues so united and hopeful, and it stirred mixed emotions in the three archangels.

"They're... spirited," Gabriel remarked, his tone light but thoughtful.

"They have reason to be," Michael said, though his arms were crossed. "If anyone can address this mess, it's Him."

Uriel, however, remained silent. Her sharp, perceptive eyes watched Samael in particular. He looked brighter, lighter, as if the weight he'd been carrying had finally lifted. And yet, a nagging worry gnawed at her.

"Uriel?" Gabriel nudged her gently. "You're unusually quiet. What's on your mind?"

Uriel sighed softly. "It's not that I don't think God will help. It's just... His way of helping isn't always what we expect. Or even what we think we need."

Michael frowned. "Are you saying you don't trust God?"

"Of course not," Uriel said quickly, her voice steady. "I trust Him with everything. But you both know how He works. Sometimes His lessons are... difficult."

Gabriel placed a comforting hand on Uriel's shoulder. "He'll see how important this is. Samael's been through enough. God wouldn't let this go unnoticed."

Michael nodded in agreement. "Besides, He's the one who entrusted the Seraphim with humanity. If they've been acting out of line, He'll correct it."

Uriel gave a small nod, though her worry didn't completely fade. She could only hope they were right.

As the time for their departure drew near, Samael gathered everyone together. His excitement was contagious, and even the more reserved Virtues couldn't help but feel hopeful.

"Alright, everyone," Samael said, clapping his hands together. "This is our chance to set things right. Let's show Him what we're made of!"

Plutus pumped a fist into the air. "For Heaven's virtues!"

"For kindness and patience," Levia added with a warm smile.

"For diligence!" Belfagel declared, her eyes sparkling with determination.

"For truth," Veritas said firmly.

"For temperance and harmony," Triel chimed in, giving Samael a supportive nod.

Samael beamed, his wings shimmering with excitement. "And for family."

Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel exchanged glances before stepping forward.

"We're with you," Michael said, his voice steady. "No matter what."

Gabriel nodded. "It's time for the four of us to stand together again."

Uriel gave Samael a rare, genuine smile. "Lead the way, little brother."

With that, the group took flight, their collective light illuminating the path to the Celestial Chambers of Light, where God awaited. For the first time in a long while, Samael felt truly hopeful.

Yet, in the back of his mind, a small voice whispered: What if He doesn't see it the way I do?

The Celestial Chambers of Light shimmered with divine brilliance as Samael, the Archangels, and the Virtues approached, their wings glowing faintly under the radiant, golden dome. The air was thick with an indescribable sense of presence, one that made even the boldest among them tread lightly. This was where they would speak directly with God—the Creator, the All-Knowing.

As they entered the chamber, God was already there, seated in a radiant throne that seemed to shift between physical and ethereal forms. His expression was warm, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. He smiled gently at them, gesturing for them to approach.

"My children," God said, his voice a melody of wisdom and compassion. "What brings you here today?"

Samael hesitated for a moment, feeling small under the Creator's gaze. But then he gathered his courage, stepping forward to explain. Together, he and the others recounted everything—Sera and the seraphim's rigid oversight of the humanity project, the exclusion of the Virtues, the tensions and conflicts, and their own frustrations with how the situation had been handled. They spoke openly, passionately, and without fear of holding back. Samael's voice quivered at times, but he held firm, determined to make God understand.

God listened intently, his expression unreadable as he absorbed every word. When Samael finished, the chamber fell silent for a moment, the weight of their words hanging in the air.

It was Uriel who spoke first. "Father, with all due respect, we believe the humanity project would be better overseen by the Archangels or the Virtues. The seraphim—though well-meaning—have proven unsuited for such a delicate task. Their rigidity and arrogance have caused more harm than good."

The other Virtues nodded in agreement, and even Michael added his voice to the plea. "We care about the success of this project, and it's clear that something needs to change. Samael has witnessed this firsthand. Surely, Father, you can see that."

But to their surprise, God shook his head gently. "I understand your concerns, my children. I truly do. But I've recently spoken with Sera about her goals for the project. I am certain she now understands the depth of her responsibility. I have faith in her, and I believe she will make the right choices."

The room was stunned into silence for a moment before Plutus and Levia stepped forward. Levia's voice was soft but steady. "Father, with all due respect, we also had faith in Sera and the project, but... it hasn't brought us much peace. It's only caused division and heartache."

Plutus nodded, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced with quiet frustration. "Kindness and charity have their limits, Father. How can we continue to believe in something when all evidence points to failure?"

God smiled kindly at them, but his voice was firm. "I understand your pain, Plutus, Levia. But I promise you, everything will be fine. These struggles, these hardships—they are all part of the process. Trust that everything will sort itself out in time."

Azazil clenched his fists, his golden scales seeming to darken for a moment as he fought to contain his frustration. "Sort itself out?" he muttered under his breath, his patience wearing thin. To him, God's words felt distant, even dismissive, as though their struggles were insignificant in the grand scheme of creation.

It was Michael who finally broke the silence. "Father, with all due respect, the humanity project is bound to fail under Sera and the seraphim's oversight. They're too proud, too rigid. Do you... do you even care about this project at all?"

God's gaze sharpened slightly, but his voice remained calm. "Michael, I care deeply about this project. That is why I chose Sera to lead it. These trials are not just for humanity—they are for her as well. Sera has much to learn, but I believe she will rise to the occasion. She may falter now, but in time, she will come to understand her mistakes and correct them. She will grow into the leader I know she can be."

The chamber fell silent again, tension building as God's words hung in the air. His statement carried a strange weight, almost prophetic in its tone. But it wasn't comforting to the others—it felt ominous, like an acceptance of the chaos that had already unfolded.

Samael couldn't help but mutter under his breath, "Are we talking about the same Sera? The one who refuses to change and hates being challenged?"

Veritas, who had been silently seething throughout the meeting, finally exploded. "Enough!" she shouted, her voice echoing like thunder in the chamber. Everyone froze, stunned by her outburst.

Veritas stepped forward, her golden eyes blazing with fury. "I have had enough of this! You speak of faith, Father, but what about accountability? What about the pain and suffering that has already been caused because of Sera's arrogance and the seraphim's egos? You keep saying everything will be fine, that we should trust her, but how many more mistakes have to be made before you step in?"

The silence that followed Veritas's outburst was suffocating, like a storm ready to break. All eyes were on her as her chest heaved with frustration. Even God, eternal and unshaken, seemed momentarily stunned by her raw emotion.

Samael stared at Veritas, his heart pounding. For the first time, he saw the full extent of her frustration, the cracks in her usually composed demeanor. And for the first time, he realized just how deeply this had affected all of them—not just him.

"You're God," Veritas began, her voice trembling with both anger and despair. "You can do anything. You can make things better now. You have the power to step in, to fix what's broken before it falls apart even more. But you just... hope? Hope has gotten us nowhere. It's not enough!"

God opened his mouth to speak, but Veritas wasn't done. She stepped closer, her golden eyes blazing with fury and tears. "You talk about faith, about letting things play out, but what about responsibility? You created all of this. The seraphim, humanity, us. How can you sit back and watch when things are so clearly going wrong? It's your project, your creation! Your indifference is maddening!"

The room was dead silent as Veritas's words hung in the air, echoing off the walls of the chamber. God's serene expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of sadness crossing his face. Then he spoke, his voice soft but firm.

"If I stepped in every time there was a problem," God said, his tone heavy with meaning, "there would be no free will. No one would learn, no one would grow. The seraphim, humanity, even you—all of you—have choices to make. You have lessons to learn. And those lessons are not always easy, nor are they painless."

His gaze swept over the group, resting briefly on each of them. "You see it as indifference, but it is anything but. I care deeply, more than you could ever know. But I cannot force things to go the way you wish. That would rob everyone of the chance to make their own path, to learn, to become something greater."

There was a long pause before Azazil finally spoke, his voice trembling with barely contained anger. "How can we have faith in you, Father," he said, his usual gentle tone replaced with bitter frustration, "when we can't even count on you to help in moments like this? How can you expect us to trust in you when it feels like you don't care about our struggles?"

"I do care," God said earnestly, but the words seemed hollow to those gathered. His vast wisdom and understanding didn't translate into the comfort they sought, and the gap between them only grew wider.

"No, you don't," Veritas said sharply, her voice cold. "You say you care, but you don't act like it. You want faith? Faith has gotten us nothing but heartache. We've done our best to uphold your virtues, to stay true to your teachings, but where has that gotten us? Nowhere. We're done with this."

Before anyone could respond, Veritas spread her wings and took off, the wind from her flight stirring the still air in the chamber. The others watched her leave, her departure heavy with finality.

Samael turned to God, his heart breaking under the weight of his next question. "Are you really not going to help?" he asked, his voice small and trembling. "Is this... is this really all there is?"

God's expression softened, and for a moment, his infinite wisdom seemed to dim under the weight of mortal understanding. "I have already explained why I cannot intervene," he said somberly. "Please, Samael. Have faith."

Samael's shoulders sagged, his wings drooping as he looked down. Without another word, he turned and left, following the path Veritas had taken. One by one, the Virtues and Archangels began to leave as well, some silent, others muttering their frustration.

Uriel was the last to remain, standing quietly as God's presence filled the emptying room. He looked at her, his sadness plain on his face. "I am trying to help," he said softly, his voice almost pleading. "I am. You have to believe me."

Uriel's eyes were sharp, her tone cutting as she responded. "You didn't do anything."

Her words hit him like a blow, and he looked down, his radiance dimming slightly. Uriel turned on her heel and walked out, her footsteps echoing as she left him alone in the vast chamber.

When the last of them had gone, God leaned back in his throne, his form slumping slightly. A single tear fell from his eye, shimmering like liquid gold as it disappeared into the ether.

"If only they knew," he whispered to the empty room, his voice tinged with sorrow. "If only they understood..."

He closed his eyes, his infinite knowledge both a blessing and a curse. The events unfolding were set in stone, each step leading to a destiny he could not alter without unraveling everything. Even knowing the end, knowing the lessons that would be learned and the changes that would come, didn't ease the pain of watching his children struggle.

Samael sat alone in the corner of the Hall of Virtues, his wings drooping low as he stared at the floor, lost in thought. The once vibrant and dramatic Morningstar now seemed like a flickering ember, his usual energy replaced by a quiet, suffocating sorrow. Nearby, Veritas, Plutus, Belfagel, and Azazil gathered, their voices low but laced with frustration and indignation.

"I cannot believe him," Veritas muttered, pacing as her golden eyes flashed with anger. "Faith? He tells us to have faith while he sits back and watches this disaster unfold. How dense can he possibly be?"

Plutus crossed his arms, his usual cheer dampened by the weight of the situation. "I don't know if it's dense or if he just doesn't care. If he cared, he'd step in, right? But no, he just tells us to wait. To hope." His voice cracked slightly as he vented his frustration.

Belfagel leaned against the wall, her sharp blue eyes narrowing. "What's the point of upholding these virtues if the very ones who claim to represent them—the seraphim—get a free pass to trample on them? It's infuriating."

Azazil, who had been silent, finally spoke, his usual calm demeanor replaced by simmering anger. "I have lost patience with this entire situation. God expects us to carry these impossible burdens, to uphold these virtues perfectly, yet he coddles the seraphim like they can do no wrong. It's hypocrisy, plain and simple."

The other virtues nodded in agreement, their collective anger building like a storm. Even Michael, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, looked troubled. "He's our father," Michael said, his tone measured but tinged with disappointment. "We're supposed to trust him, to believe in his plan, but right now? Right now, I don't see how he's helping anyone. Not Samael, not us. It's like we don't matter."

Uriel, sitting quietly beside him, sighed deeply. "I've always believed in Father's wisdom, but this... I can't ignore how unfair it feels. Samael deserved better than this. We deserved better than this."

The virtues murmured their agreement, their collective resentment and pain filling the room. Across the hall, Gabriel sat beside Samael, his expression soft and sympathetic. "It's not right," Gabriel said gently, trying to find the right words to comfort his younger brother. "You've done everything you could, Samael. Everything. None of this is your fault."

Samael looked at Gabriel, his usually vibrant eyes dulled with exhaustion. "It doesn't matter," he said quietly, his voice heavy with defeat. "I thought... I thought God would listen. I thought he'd care. But he just... told us to wait. To have faith. I don't even know what that means anymore."

Gabriel hesitated, unsure of how to respond. After a moment, he placed a comforting hand on Samael's shoulder. "The seraphim will be their own downfall," he said softly. "You'll see. They're so full of themselves, so convinced of their own righteousness, that they'll make a mistake. A big one. And when they do, God will have no choice but to step in."

But Samael didn't seem comforted by the thought. He shook his head slowly. "Even if they do, it doesn't change the fact that God turned his back on us. On me. I trusted him, Gabriel. And now... I just feel so empty."

Gabriel's heart ached for his brother, but he didn't know what else to say. He sat with Samael in silence, hoping his presence alone could offer some comfort. But Samael's expression remained hollow, his shoulders slumping further under the weight of his despair.

Finally, Samael stood, his movements slow and deliberate. "I'm going to my room," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I need to rest."

Gabriel nodded, watching as Samael began to walk away. Across the room, Triel, Asmodel, and Levia noticed Samael's departure. Their eyes followed him as he moved toward the corridor leading to his quarters, their expressions filled with concern.

"Did you see his face?" Levia whispered, her voice trembling. "He looks so... broken."

Triel's hands clenched into fists, her serene composure cracking under the weight of her emotions. "I can't stand seeing him like this," she said, her voice laced with anger and sadness. "He doesn't deserve any of this."

Asmodel's usually calm expression was grim. "He's trying to hold on, but it's clear this is tearing him apart," he said. "I don't know how much more he can take."

Levia nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. "We have to do something. We can't just sit here and watch him suffer."

Triel's gaze hardened as she watched Samael disappear down the hallway. "We will," she said firmly. "We'll find a way to help him. Even if no one else will."

Chapter Text

The seraphim, their patience worn thin from weeks of stagnation, were restless as they gathered in the Celestial Hall. Sera was late, again, leaving them to their frustrations and brewing resentment. One by one, the angels voiced their grievances, their annoyance growing louder with each passing moment.

"This is getting us nowhere!" one of them exclaimed, slamming their hand against the table. "How long are we supposed to wait for humanity to fulfill its purpose? We were entrusted with this task, and we are failing."

Another seraphim nodded in agreement. "If Sera won't act decisively, then we will. It's our duty to ensure the success of this project."

A small but determined group of seraphim, emboldened by their shared frustration, decided to take matters into their own hands. Without informing Sera or consulting with anyone else, they descended to Earth, their luminous forms glowing against the backdrop of the Garden of Eden.

As they approached the garden, they found Adam and Lilith sitting beneath a tree, enjoying the gentle breeze. The seraphim's arrival was swift and imposing, their presence disrupting the tranquility.

"Adam. Lilith," one of the seraphim called out, their tone sharp and commanding. "We've come to discuss your failure to fulfill your purpose."

Lilith immediately stiffened, her emerald eyes narrowing. "Failure?" she repeated, her voice laced with defiance. "We've done everything you've asked—tended the garden, maintained its beauty. What more do you want?"

"Your purpose," another seraphim said coldly, "is to populate the Earth. To bring life to the human race as God intended. Yet here you are, wasting time."

Lilith rose to her feet, her expression unyielding. "We will have children when we're ready," she said firmly. "Not when you demand it."

Adam, however, cowered under the seraphim's imposing gazes. "Lilith," he said nervously, glancing at her. "Maybe we should listen to them. They're our creators. They know what's best."

Lilith turned to Adam, her face a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. "Adam," she said quietly, "don't tell me you're just going to obey them like a spineless puppet."

Adam's face reddened with anger, his fear of the seraphim momentarily replaced by a surge of indignation. "Hold your tongue, Lilith!" he snapped. "They're right. This is what we were made for. Why can't you just accept that?"

The seraphim, witnessing Adam's compliance, lavished him with praise. "Adam," one said, their voice dripping with approval, "you truly are the perfect man, made in our image. Obedient, humble, and dutiful."

Another seraphim cast a disdainful glance at Lilith. "Unlike you, Lilith. You were created to complement Adam, yet you defy us at every turn. You are lesser than him in every way."

Lilith's hands balled into fists, her frustration boiling over. "Enough!" she shouted, her voice shaking with fury. "I will not be treated like some tool for your amusement. I am no lesser than Adam, and I will not bow to your arrogance!"

Her defiance enraged the seraphim, who stepped closer, their voices rising in unison. "You will do as you're told," one hissed. "You and Adam are under our authority. Defy us, and there will be consequences."

Adam, emboldened by the seraphim's favor, turned to Lilith, his expression dark. "Stop this, Lilith," he said sternly. "You're embarrassing yourself."

When Lilith refused to back down, Adam's anger reached its peak. In a moment of blind rage, he raised his hand and struck her across the face.

The sound of the slap echoed through the garden, followed by a heavy silence. Lilith's cheek burned with pain, but her eyes blazed with a mixture of shock and fury. She touched her cheek, her voice low and trembling with emotion.

"That," she said coldly, "was the last straw."

The seraphim looked on in stunned silence as Lilith turned away from Adam and the garden. One of them stepped forward, their voice panicked. "Lilith, where are you going? The earth isn't fully developed yet. If you leave the garden, you could die!"

Lilith didn't even glance back. "I'd rather fucking die living freely," she said, her voice icy, "than live in this so-called paradise as your prisoner."

Adam called after her, his voice desperate and demanding. "Lilith! Come back here now!"

But Lilith didn't stop. Her bare feet carried her across the lush grass, her figure disappearing into the distant horizon. She didn't falter, didn't hesitate, and never looked back.

The remaining seraphim stood frozen in the Garden of Eden, the once-serene paradise now heavy with tension and panic.

"She left," one seraphim whispered, their voice trembling. "What do we do now?"

Adam paced anxiously, his hands wringing together. "Bring her back!" he snapped, his face red with frustration. "You're the ones in charge, aren't you? Just... do something!"

But the seraphim exchanged nervous glances. None of them knew how to proceed. Their authority had been defied, their control shattered. It was uncharted territory.

"We can't just summon her back," one of them murmured. "She has free will. If she refuses to return..."

Another interrupted, their voice rising in panic. "This is a disaster! If Sera finds out—no, if God finds out—we'll be blamed for everything!"

As if summoned by their fear, Sera finally arrived at the Celestial Hall. Her sharp eyes scanned the gathered seraphim, immediately sensing the tension.

"What happened here?" she asked, her tone firm but curious. "Why are you all in such a state?"

The seraphim exchanged uneasy glances, none of them wanting to be the first to speak. Sera's patience waned as the silence stretched on. "Well?" she pressed, her voice growing colder. "Someone explain."

Finally, a single seraphim stepped forward. Zadkiel, half-seraphim and half-archangel, stood tall despite the weight of the moment. His light blue wings shimmered faintly, but his expression was somber.

"I'll tell you," Zadkiel said, his voice steady yet filled with quiet fury. "Lilith has left the garden."

Sera's eyes narrowed. "Left?" she repeated, her tone sharp. "What do you mean, 'left'? Why would she leave?"

Zadkiel took a deep breath, his words cutting through the air like a blade. "Because of us. Because of what we've done. A group of us descended without your approval, demanding that Adam and Lilith fulfill their purpose and begin reproducing. When Lilith stood her ground, they became hostile. Adam, swayed by their words, struck her in anger. That was the final straw for her. She chose to leave rather than remain here under such conditions."

Sera's expression hardened as she processed the information. Her gaze swept over the other seraphim, who now looked anywhere but at her. "And who, exactly, is responsible for this?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.

No one spoke at first. But Zadkiel, unwilling to let the truth be buried any longer, pointed to the small group of seraphim who had initiated the confrontation. "They are," he said plainly. "But it's not just them. This entire project has been mishandled from the start. Samael and the virtues saw it, and I see it too. We've been arrogant, controlling, and blind to the consequences of our actions."

The accused seraphim bristled, their pride wounded, but they didn't dare speak up against Zadkiel. Sera, however, was stunned. She hadn't expected such a blunt condemnation, least of all from one of her own.

"And you," Sera said, her voice quieter now, "you admit to these faults, Zadkiel?"

Zadkiel nodded, his blue eyes unwavering. "Yes. I've kept silent for too long because I didn't want to displease you or God. But I'm done. I hate what we've become. I hate what we're doing. This isn't creation—it's tyranny. And I want no part of it."

Sera stood in silence for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on her. She felt a strange pang of guilt, one that had been growing ever since her conversation with God. Zadkiel's confession only made it worse.

Finally, Sera turned to the guilty seraphim. "You will remain here and reflect on your actions. Do not interfere further."

With that, she spread her wings and ascended, her path taking her down to Earth. She landed in the garden near Adam, who was pacing nervously. The sight of her made him freeze, his face pale.

"Sera," he stammered, "I—I didn't mean to—"

"Silence," Sera commanded, her tone icy. She approached him slowly, her gaze piercing. "You struck Lilith, your equal, your partner. Do you understand the gravity of what you've done?"

Adam hung his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was angry. She wouldn't listen. I thought..."

"You thought wrong," Sera interrupted, her voice sharp. "Lilith is not your subordinate. She is not a tool. She is her own person with her own will, just as you are. And now, because of your actions, she has left the safety of the garden."

Adam sank to his knees, his hands covering his face. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Sera's gaze softened slightly, though her tone remained firm. "Sorry won't bring her back, Adam. It won't undo the harm you've caused. From this moment on, you will learn to control your anger and respect those around you."

She turned away from him, her heart heavy as she looked out over the garden. The beauty of Eden now felt like a mockery, its perfection shattered by the chaos they had wrought.

Sera stood rooted in the Garden of Eden, her wings trembling as the weight of everything crashed down on her. The sight of Adam, kneeling in remorse, only deepened her sense of failure. She had been entrusted with nurturing humanity, guiding them, teaching them love and understanding—and she had failed. Not just with Adam, but with Lilith.

Lilith, who was now out there somewhere in the vast, undeveloped Earth. Alone. Vulnerable. And Sera knew, deep down, it was her fault as much as it was Adam's or the seraphim's. She hadn't nurtured Lilith. She hadn't protected her. Instead, she had pressured her, controlled her, demanded compliance without understanding her needs.

God's words from their last meeting echoed in her mind, cutting through her growing panic: "It isn't just about completing a task, Sera. It's about teaching them to love, to nurture, to learn to love me through your guidance."

"I misunderstood everything," Sera realized, her heart sinking. She had focused so intently on the task of creation—on results—that she had missed the essence of what God had wanted. And now, everything had spiraled out of control. Lilith was gone. Adam was broken. The seraphim were in chaos. And her failures had set it all into motion.

Her breaths quickened as her panic grew. What if Lilith died? The Earth wasn't ready to sustain life beyond Eden yet. If Lilith perished, it would be on her. And how could she face God then? How could she explain that she hadn't just failed to guide humanity, but had driven one of them away entirely?

"I can't do this alone," she thought, her resolve cracking. "I never could. And I've pushed away the only ones who could've helped me."

Her wings drooped as the truth settled in her heart. There was only one angel—or group of angels—she could turn to for help now. The same ones she had dismissed, ignored, and hurt.

The virtues.

Sera's stomach twisted at the thought. They had been right all along, about everything. And she had rejected their wisdom, their warnings, their pleas to approach the humanity project differently. Worse, she had allowed her pride and the seraphim's arrogance to drive them away, leaving Samael—the one who had believed in her most of all—broken and alienated.

Would they even hear her out now? Could they? After everything she'd done?

Sera took a shaky breath, her wings fluttering weakly as she rose into the air. She had no choice. If there was any hope of finding Lilith and salvaging this project, she needed their help. And more than that—she needed their forgiveness.

As she flew toward the Hall of Virtues, her heart pounded with a mixture of fear and desperation. For the first time in her existence, Sera felt truly small. She prayed silently, not for herself, but for the virtues to have the compassion to listen. And for Samael, her Little Morningstar, to still have even a shred of faith left in her.

Chapter Text

The Hall of Virtues was calm and serene as always, the air thick with the energy of divine wisdom and guidance. But that serenity was shattered when Sera burst through the grand doors, her wings trembling, her face etched with desperation. The virtues, scattered throughout the hall, immediately turned their attention to her intrusion, their expressions a mix of confusion, irritation, and suspicion.

Azazil was the first to speak, his voice dripping with disdain. "What is she doing here?"

"I need your help," Sera said, her voice trembling. Her eyes darted to each virtue, her composure slipping further with every passing second. "Lilith has left Eden, and the Earth isn't ready to sustain her. If we don't find her, she might—" She choked on the words. "She might die."

Veritas scoffed, folding her arms. "And you think we're going to help you now? After everything?"

"You have some nerve," Belfagel added, her voice icy. "Barging in here, demanding our time, after you dismissed us like we were nothing."

Plutus snorted, his usual warmth replaced by bitter amusement. "This is rich. Now you're begging us to clean up your mess? Pathetic."

Azazil leaned against a pillar, his expression dark. "We warned you, Sera. We told you. But you and your precious seraphim thought you knew better. You turned us away, and now you come crawling back, expecting us to fix what you broke?"

Sera flinched at their words, but she refused to back down. "Please," she begged, her voice breaking. "Lilith doesn't deserve to die because of the seraphim's actions—because of my actions. I know I was wrong. I know I failed. But I can't do this alone."

Veritas laughed bitterly. "No, you can't. That's the only thing you've gotten right."

Sera turned to Levia, her voice trembling. "Levia, please. You've always been kind. You understand compassion. Help me save her."

Levia's gaze softened for a moment, but she shook her head sadly. "I can't, Sera. You've pushed us away too many times. I'm sorry." She turned her back, unable to meet Sera's pleading eyes.

Sera's desperation grew as she turned to Asmodel. "You're the Virtue of Chastity. You understand love, purity, and balance. Please—Lilith deserves a chance to find her place in the world."

Asmodel's expression was stern, his golden eyes full of disapproval. "Sera, you've done nothing but trample over the very virtues we uphold. Why should we help you now?" He shook his head. "You're not the leader we thought you were."

Finally, Sera turned to Triel, her voice cracking. "Triel, you care about balance. About harmony. You've always been nurturing, protective. Please, don't let Lilith die because of my mistakes."

Triel's expression twisted with anger, her wings flaring behind her. "Because of your mistakes?" she repeated, her voice rising. "This isn't just about Lilith. This is about how you've treated all of us. You've dismissed us, disrespected us, belittled us—and now you have the gall to ask for our help?"

Triel stepped closer, her voice trembling with fury. "You and your seraphim insisted this was your project. Your responsibility. You got to do whatever you wanted with it, no matter what we said. And now you want us to clean up after you? No, Sera. This is your mess. Fix it yourself."

Sera's knees buckled, and she fell to the floor, tears streaming down her face. She turned to her last hope—Samael.

"Samael," she whispered, her voice raw. "Please. You've always believed in me. You've always been the one to understand. I can't do this without you. I've been wrong about so much, but I'm trying to make it right. Please, help me."

Samael stood frozen, staring at her with a mixture of disbelief and anger. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and trembling. "Why should I understand?" he asked. "You said I was immature. That I didn't know better than you. That I was just a young seraphim who always made a mess of things. So why should I even bother?"

Sera's tears fell harder as Samael's words cut deep. "Samael, I—"

"No," he interrupted. "You don't get to apologize now. You don't get to use me now. I'm done." He turned and walked away, his steps heavy with frustration and pain. As he passed Triel, Asmodel, and Levia, they watched him in silence, their own disappointment in Sera clear on their faces.

Azazil stepped forward, crouching down to Sera's level. For a moment, it looked like he was going to comfort her. But then his hand shot out, gripping her chin firmly and forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

"You are pathetic," he hissed, his voice dripping with disdain. "And you are not welcome here. Get out."

He released her roughly, standing and turning his back on her. Sera sat frozen for a moment, her tears falling freely as the weight of their rejection settled over her.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her wings dragging behind her as she stumbled toward the door. As she left the Hall of Virtues, the echoes of her own failures rang in her ears.

Samael sat on the edge of his bed in the guest room at the Hall of Virtues. Over time, it had transformed into more of a personal refuge than a temporary stay. The soft glow of the celestial lamps illuminated the room, casting gentle light across the simple but comforting furnishings. Samael stared at his hands, the weight of recent events pressing on his chest like a stone.

Sera's desperate plea echoed in his mind, her voice trembling with guilt and fear. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to push the thought away. "She's only desperate because she has no other options," he muttered to himself. "She made this mess. Why should I have to clean it up?"

But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, her words lingered. Lilith doesn't deserve to die because of the seraphim's actions. Because of my own.

Samael let out a long sigh, leaning back against the headboard and staring at the ceiling. He didn't feel bad for Sera or the seraphim—they had brought this upon themselves with their arrogance and stubbornness. But Lilith... Lilith was different.

He thought about the first time he had seen her through the globe in the Celestial Hall. Her fiery spirit, her unshakable resolve, her refusal to bend to the will of the seraphim. She was so unlike anyone else he had ever met. He admired her courage and conviction, her willingness to stand her ground even in the face of overwhelming pressure. She had been brave enough to speak her truth, no matter the consequences. And now, she was out there somewhere—alone, vulnerable, and in danger.

Samael's thoughts shifted to Adam. He pictured the man pacing anxiously in the Garden of Eden, worried about his wife. Samael frowned, unsure of what to think about him. Adam had seemed so timid, so quick to fall in line with the seraphim's demands. But maybe that was just his way of coping with the pressure. Maybe he was scared too.

Samael sat up, running a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't care," he said softly, as if trying to convince himself. "This isn't my problem. It's their mess. They're the ones who should fix it."

But even as he said the words, he felt a pang of guilt in his chest. Lilith's defiant face flashed in his mind, followed by the image of her walking away from the Garden, her back straight and her head held high. She hadn't deserved to be treated the way she was. None of this was her fault.

Samael sighed again, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. For now, he decided to stay in his room and think. He wasn't ready to make any decisions yet. But deep down, he knew that no matter how much he wanted to wash his hands of the situation, he couldn't ignore the part of him that cared.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the celestial lamps. Samael rested his head on his knees, his thoughts a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

As the virtues continued their mocking and debates, Samael sat quietly in his guest room, contemplating everything he had overheard. The laughter and bitterness that echoed from the central chamber grated on him. He had always admired the virtues for their unwavering commitment to Heaven's ideals, but now, they seemed to be losing themselves. It felt wrong. All of it.

Samael's thoughts wandered to Lilith. Brave, defiant Lilith, who stood her ground in the face of immense pressure. She didn't deserve to be abandoned, no matter what mistakes had been made. If there was even a sliver of a chance to help her, he had to take it.

Veritas stood at the center of the gathering, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she recounted Sera's desperate pleas. "And then she begged. Oh, the great High Seraphim on her knees, groveling for our help. It was almost poetic, wasn't it?"

Levia chuckled softly, shaking her head. "If you ask me, letting her face the consequences is the kindest thing we could do. She'll learn far more this way than if we held her hand."

Plutus nodded, crossing his arms. "Exactly. She created this mess. She and her precious seraphim can clean it up. No need for us to get involved."

Belfagel leaned back in her chair, her tone lazy but biting. "Maybe next time, she'll think twice before looking down her nose at us. Doubtful, though."

Triel stood abruptly, her hands clenching into fists. "Enough!" she snapped, glaring at Veritas and the others. "This isn't right. I understand being angry, but this? Mocking her? Laughing at her desperation? That's not who we're supposed to be!"

Veritas raised an eyebrow, her expression unfazed. "Oh, spare me the sermon, Triel. Do you honestly think helping her would've made any difference? She's been ignoring us from the start."

"That doesn't mean we should sink to her level!" Triel shot back. "And you, Veritas—you haven't even observed humanity with Samael. How can you be so sure about any of this?"

Veritas shrugged, her voice cold. "I didn't need to. Everyone else's experiences told me all I needed to know. And let's not forget—I never supported this humanity project to begin with. It was doomed from the start."

Asmodel stepped forward, his expression weary. "This whole situation... it's changing us. All of us. And not for the better. I feel guilty about not helping Sera, about not doing the right thing. But I don't even know what the right thing is anymore."

Levia scoffed, her voice unusually sharp. "I don't feel guilty. Not one bit. We are helping her by letting her face this alone. If anything, we're teaching her a lesson she desperately needs to learn."

Azazil crossed his arms, his tone harsher than usual. "And you think we should've stepped in, Asmodel? After everything she's done to us? To Samael? Tell me, would you really have helped her?"

Triel and Asmodel exchanged a look, their faces conflicted. They couldn't bring themselves to answer. The truth was, they weren't sure. Forgiving Sera, let alone helping her, felt impossible. And yet, they couldn't shake the feeling that abandoning her entirely was wrong, too.

Azazil smirked bitterly at their silence. "That's what I thought."

In his room, Samael overheard every word. His heart ached as he listened to the virtues argue and mock and turn against everything they were supposed to stand for. Even Triel and Asmodel, who still tried to hold onto their principles, seemed lost.

He couldn't take it anymore.

With quiet determination, Samael slipped out of his room and made his way to the Hall's exit. He didn't need their approval or their help. This wasn't about Sera, the seraphim, or even God. This was about Lilith. She deserved better than to be abandoned, and Samael wasn't going to let her die because of everyone else's mistakes.

As he took to the skies, the voices of the virtues faded behind him. He flew faster than he had in years, his resolve hardening with every beat of his wings.

"I'll find her," he muttered to himself. "I'll find her and make this right."

Chapter Text

Lilith wandered through the dense forest, her bare feet brushing against damp leaves and uneven earth. The air was crisp, and the light of day struggled to break through the thick canopy of trees. She had been running for what felt like days, always looking over her shoulder, afraid that the seraphim might find her and drag her back to Eden. She had narrowly avoided them on several occasions, hiding behind trees or slipping into dark crevices when she heard their wings fluttering above. Their voices called her name in frustration, demanding her return, but she refused to answer. She would rather disappear into the wilderness than surrender her freedom.

Her stomach growled, and her limbs trembled with exhaustion. She had not eaten since she left Eden. The fruits and abundant food of the garden were now just a distant memory. She foraged what she could—berries and roots—but it wasn't enough to keep her strength. Her throat ached from thirst, and the cool forest air only deepened the chill that seemed to seep into her very bones.

Sitting by the base of a large tree, Lilith drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. The realization of her situation hit her harder with each passing moment. She was free, yes, but at what cost? She had no one. No one to share her freedom, her pain, her triumphs. Adam had turned his back on her, choosing to appease the seraphim rather than stand by her side. He was her husband, her partner, the one who was supposed to cherish and protect her. But when she needed him most, he had chosen obedience over love.

Tears began to spill down her cheeks as the loneliness consumed her. For the first time, the weight of her decision pressed down on her chest. She had no shelter, no companionship, and no certainty of survival. Her heart ached for the sense of belonging she had left behind. But what kind of belonging was it? She had been treated as less than Adam, expected to bow to the seraphim's demands, to be something she was not. She didn't regret standing her ground, refusing to be treated as inferior, but the reality of her isolation was suffocating.

"I don't want to die like this," she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. The sound of her own voice startled her—it was the first time she had spoken aloud in days. The loneliness was unbearable. She longed for someone, anyone, to hear her, to tell her she wasn't alone, that her life meant something more than just fulfilling a role someone else had written for her.

Doubt began to creep into her mind. Had she made a mistake? Was her freedom worth this anguish? The forest seemed endless, and every step felt heavier than the last. She leaned back against the tree, her vision blurred by tears, and let out a choked sob. Her independence had been a fierce declaration of her worth, but now, stripped of all comforts and companionship, she began to question if it had been the right choice.

"What now?" she murmured. "Where do I go from here?"

Her chest tightened as fear began to take hold. The world beyond Eden was vast and unknown. She had no plan, no direction, and no one to guide her. For the first time since she left, she allowed herself to admit the truth: she was scared. Scared of what lay ahead, scared of what she had left behind, and scared of the possibility that she might truly die alone.

As the day turned to twilight, the forest grew colder. Lilith wrapped her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly as she tried to keep her thoughts from spiraling further into despair. She stared up at the sky through the trees, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the faint light of the stars.

"I don't regret leaving," she whispered, her voice firmer now. "But I don't want to be alone anymore."

For now, she resolved to keep moving, to keep surviving. Even if she was unsure of her path, she couldn't give up. She had fought too hard for her freedom to let it slip away. But as she trudged through the woods, her heart weighed heavy with the knowledge that freedom, for all its value, was a lonely burden to bear.

Sera stood at the edge of the Garden of Eden, the celestial glow of the horizon dimming as night began to fall. Her expression was a blend of weariness and frustration, the weight of her responsibilities pressing harder than ever. She had no choice but to handle the situation alone, forcing herself to face the reality that neither the virtues nor Samael were coming to her aid.

She turned to the seraphim, who gathered before her, their expressions ranging from guilt to irritation. "You will continue searching for Lilith until the last light fades from the sky," Sera ordered, her tone sharper than usual. "This is your mess to fix, and you will not stop until we find her."

The seraphim grumbled quietly amongst themselves but obeyed, spreading their wings and taking off into the darkening skies. Sera watched them disappear into the distance before turning her attention to Adam, who stood silently nearby, his head bowed.

The first man had spent the day working tirelessly in the garden, following Sera's strict instructions. She had made sure he was no longer idle, assigning him tasks that would remind him of the responsibility he had failed to uphold. Yet, as she observed him, she couldn't help but notice the cracks forming in his demeanor. His movements were slower, his shoulders heavier with guilt.

As Adam finished watering the last of the fruit trees, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on the spot where Lilith used to sit and weave garlands from the flowers. His voice broke the silence, hesitant and laced with sorrow. "Sera," he called softly, turning to face her. "Is... Is she okay? Have the seraphim found her yet?"

Sera's heart sank at the question. She wanted to provide comfort, to assure him that Lilith was safe and would return soon, but she couldn't. Instead, she met his gaze with uncertainty. "Not yet," she admitted, her voice quieter than before. "But we are trying, Adam. We won't give up."

Adam's expression faltered, his guilt etched plainly across his face. He nodded slowly, his fingers clenching the edge of his cloth garment. "I just... I didn't mean for her to leave. I was scared. The seraphim were angry, and I thought I was doing the right thing. But now..." His voice cracked, and he looked down at his hands. "I miss her. I wish I could tell her that."

Sera didn't respond immediately, unsure of what to say. She wasn't used to comforting others in this way; her role had always been to enforce order, not to mend broken hearts. "Then work to prove it," she finally said, her tone softer. "Show her that you're willing to change, that you're capable of more than this."

Adam nodded again, determination flickering in his eyes. "I will. I'll make it right."

As the night deepened, Sera remained in the garden, watching over Adam as he tended to the final tasks of the day. She saw his resolve and his regret, but it wasn't enough to erase the pain caused by his actions. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to blame him entirely. This situation was a failure on many levels—her own, the seraphim's, and Adam's.

When Adam finally returned to his resting place, he turned to her one last time, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you think she'll ever forgive me?"

Sera's chest tightened. "I don't know," she admitted. "But for now, all we can do is keep trying."

As Adam fell silent and the night settled over Eden, Sera remained awake, her mind racing. She had to find Lilith. Not just for Adam, not just for the humanity project, but because she couldn't bear the thought of another life being lost because of her own failure. For now, all she could do was push forward and hope— hope that it wasn't too late.

Samael carefully crept through the shadows of the Celestial Hall, his movements slow and silent. He half-expected to be caught by one of the seraphim, but to his surprise, the hall was empty. In the center of the room, the glowing projection of Earth hovered, casting a faint light across the vast chamber. Samael stepped closer, his curiosity overriding his caution.

The projection displayed the darkened landscape of nightfall on Earth. He could see the seraphim scattered beyond Eden, searching frantically for Lilith. Their glowing forms flitted through the trees and over hills, their determination palpable even from this distance. Within Eden itself, Samael noticed Adam tending to the garden with a somber expression. Sera stood nearby, gazing off into the distance with an unreadable look on her face. The sight of them stirred something in Samael—an odd mix of pity and frustration.

"This is all so wrong," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.

Samael's gaze drifted to the edge of the projection, to the untamed wilderness beyond Eden's bounds. Somewhere out there, Lilith was alone, far from the safety of the garden. The thought of her struggling, abandoned by those who should have supported her, struck a chord in Samael's heart. He clenched his fists, his resolve hardening.

Without another thought, Samael closed his eyes and concentrated. A soft glow enveloped him, and in a flash, he transported himself to Earth.

He appeared just outside Eden's borders, the air cooler and the landscape wilder. Not wanting to be spotted by the seraphim, Samael quickly transformed into a snake. His lithe, shimmering form slithered close to the ground, blending seamlessly with the terrain. His serpentine body moved gracefully as he searched for Lilith, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any sign of her.

After what felt like an eternity, Samael finally spotted her. Lilith sat near a tranquil body of water, her knees pulled to her chest as she gazed at the moon's reflection. The soft melody of a tune hummed from her lips, carried gently by the night breeze. Samael froze, mesmerized. Up close, her beauty and presence were even more striking. Her defiance, her strength—it was no wonder she had left such a profound impression on him.

Summoning his courage, Samael began to speak from his hidden spot. "You sing beautifully."

Lilith flinched, her head snapping up as she quickly scanned the area. Her entire body tensed, and she instinctively moved to hide behind a nearby tree, her eyes darting wildly. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice sharp and wary.

"It's okay," Samael said gently, staying hidden. "I'm not one of the seraphim. I'm an archangel... My name is Samael."

Lilith didn't respond, but Samael could tell she was listening. He continued, keeping his tone calm and reassuring. "I've been observing you for some time, along with the seraphim. But I think the way they've treated you is wrong. You stood up for yourself, refused to be controlled, and I admire that. I understand why you left."

There was a long silence before Lilith finally spoke, her voice still cautious. "Why are you here?"

"I want to help you," Samael replied earnestly. "You don't deserve to die because of other people's actions. I'm not here to force you to do anything—I just want to make sure you're safe."

Lilith didn't respond immediately. Samael could feel her hesitation, her wariness. But slowly, her head peeked out from behind the tree, her sharp eyes scanning the darkness. "If you're really here to help me, show yourself," she said firmly.

Samael hesitated for a moment before speaking up. "Look down," he said softly.

Lilith blinked, confused, before lowering her gaze. Her eyes widened in shock as she spotted the snake coiled on the ground, its iridescent scales shimmering faintly in the moonlight. The snake's bright eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was only silence.

"Hello," Samael said awkwardly, his voice tinged with nervousness.

Lilith stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and confusion. "You're... a snake?" she asked incredulously.

Samael let out a small, sheepish laugh. "It's a long story."

Chapter Text

Lilith stared at Samael in his snake form, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "You think I'm stupid, don't you?" she muttered, her voice low but dangerous. "I've seen plenty of snakes. You're probably just trying to lure me out so you can attack me or... eat me!"

"What? No!" Samael exclaimed, his voice rising in panic. "I'm not here to hurt you! I told you, I'm an archangel! I'm here to help!"

But Lilith wasn't buying it. Before Samael could explain further, she raised her foot and attempted to stomp on him. Samael hissed in alarm, quickly slithering out of the way. "Wait! Please stop! Just listen to me!"

Lilith wasn't in the mood for talking. She grabbed a nearby stick and swung it at Samael with all her might. "You think I'm just going to fall for this? I've had enough of being tricked and controlled!"

Samael darted left and right, narrowly avoiding the blows. "Lilith, I'm trying to help you! This isn't a trick!" he shouted, dodging a particularly strong swing. "Can you stop trying to kill me for just one second?!"

Lilith ignored his protests, her anger fueling her attacks. She grabbed a large rock, hefting it above her head as she approached Samael. "Last chance, snake!" she hissed. "If you're lying to me, you're about to regret it!"

Samael froze in place, his forked tongue flicking nervously. "Okay, okay! Please don't crush me! I swear I'm telling the truth!" he pleaded, his voice trembling. "I really am an archangel, and I took this form to hide from the seraphim! If you don't believe me, let me transform back and prove it to you!"

Lilith's grip on the rock tightened. She glared at Samael, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "If you're lying, you won't get another chance," she warned, lowering the rock slightly but keeping it within reach. "Go on. Transform."

Samael hesitated for a moment, then his shimmering body began to glow. Slowly, his snake form shifted, his body elongating and reshaping until he stood before her in his true form. Samael dusted off his white suit, his wings stretching slightly as he offered a nervous smile. "See? Told you," he said, holding his hands up in surrender.

Lilith took a step back, her eyes widening slightly as she took him in. Her anger didn't completely fade, but she seemed slightly less hostile. "So, you really are an angel," she muttered. "What do you want from me?"

Samael's expression softened. "I told you—I just want to help. I know you've been treated unfairly, and I understand why you left Eden. You didn't deserve any of that."

Lilith studied him for a moment, her eyes scanning his face for any sign of deceit. Samael extended his hand cautiously. "I'm not your enemy, Lilith. I promise."

Lilith reached out slowly, but just as Samael thought she was going to take his hand, she grabbed his arm and yanked him into a nearby bush. Samael yelped in surprise, his wings brushing against the leaves as he tumbled into the foliage. "What—what are you doing?" he whispered, trying to regain his balance.

"Quiet!" Lilith hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. Her gaze darted toward the distance, her body tense. Samael followed her line of sight and saw faint glows moving through the trees. The seraphim had been drawn to the commotion.

Samael's heart sank. The seraphim were close—too close. If they found Lilith, they wouldn't stop until they dragged her back to Eden. He gently pulled Lilith's hand away from his mouth and whispered, "We need to get out of here. If they find us, it's over."

Lilith frowned, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "How do we do that without them noticing?"

"Hold on to me," Samael said, holding out his hand again. "I can teleport us somewhere safe, but you have to trust me."

Lilith hesitated, her brow furrowing as she glanced at the glowing forms of the seraphim drawing closer. Finally, with a reluctant sigh, she grabbed Samael's hand. "You'd better not make me regret this," she muttered.

"Trust me," Samael said, his voice steady despite the tension. He closed his eyes, focusing his energy. A soft, golden light enveloped them just as the seraphim's voices grew louder. The glow intensified, and in a flash, they were gone, leaving nothing but the rustle of disturbed leaves behind.

The seraphim arrived moments later, searching the area with narrowed eyes. One of them muttered, "She was here. I know it."

But Lilith and Samael were nowhere to be found.

Samael and Lilith reappeared in a secluded clearing, far away from the seraphim's prying eyes. The moonlight filtered through the trees, casting a soft, silvery glow over the quiet landscape. Samael exhaled a breath of relief, his wings folding behind him as he glanced around to ensure they were truly alone. "I think we're safe for now," he said, looking over at Lilith.

Lilith crossed her arms, still wary but visibly tired. "So, what now?" she asked, her voice tinged with frustration and exhaustion. "Are you here to drag me back like the others?"

Samael shook his head firmly. "No. I told you, I'm not like them. I just... I wanted to help you. I thought maybe we could talk."

Lilith's expression hardened. "Talk? About what? How I should go back to Eden and let them control my life again? Because if that's what you're about to say, I'll save us both the time—I'm not going back."

Samael raised his hands defensively. "I get it. I really do. I'm not here to convince you to go back if you don't want to. But, Lilith..." He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You're struggling out here. I can see it. Surviving outside of Eden isn't easy, and it's taking a toll on you."

Lilith's jaw tightened, and her fists clenched. "I'd rather struggle out here and live freely than go back and be a prisoner. Do you understand that?" Her voice wavered slightly, betraying the emotions bubbling beneath her defiant exterior.

Samael nodded, his expression softening. "I do. I really do. And I admire your strength. Most angels, most beings, would never have the courage to do what you did. To stand up for yourself like that." He paused, lowering his gaze. "But... what about Adam?"

Lilith's eyes flared with anger, and she took a step closer to Samael. "Don't you dare bring him up," she snapped, her voice trembling. "Adam is not my husband. Not anymore."

Samael blinked, taken aback by her sudden fury. "What do you mean? He—"

"He slapped me," Lilith interrupted, her voice sharp and bitter. "The moment he raised his hand against me, the moment he sided with those... those arrogant seraphim, he stopped being my husband. A husband is supposed to stand by his wife, not bow down to others and let her be humiliated and hurt."

Samael's eyes widened in shock. "He hit you?" he asked softly, the weight of her words sinking in.

Lilith's hands trembled as she nodded. "Yes. And that was it for me. I'm not going back to face more abuse, more judgment, more pain. I deserve better than that."

Samael was quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to the ground. "I... I didn't know," he said quietly. "I'm sorry. You're right—you deserve better. No one should have to go through that."

Lilith's anger began to fade, replaced by a weariness that seemed to settle into her very bones. "I just want to be left alone," she murmured. "I've had enough of people telling me what I should do, who I should be, and how I should live."

Samael looked at her with a mix of guilt and understanding. "I know how you feel," he admitted. "I tried so hard to make things better. I talked to Sera, to the seraphim, to my siblings. We even went to see God himself." He sighed, his wings drooping slightly. "But no one listened. No one cared enough to really hear us. I thought if I could just do more, try harder, maybe things wouldn't have come to this. Maybe you wouldn't have had to leave."

Lilith studied him for a moment, her expression softening. She could see the pain in his eyes, the weight of his own struggles etched into his face. "You tried," she said quietly. "You tried, Samael. That's more than anyone else ever did for me. And it's not your fault if no one listened to you. I'm not mad at you."

Samael's shoulders relaxed slightly, though the guilt lingered in his eyes. "I still feel like I failed you," he said. "You shouldn't have been forced to leave. None of this should have happened."

Lilith reached out hesitantly, placing a hand on his arm. "It was my choice to leave," she said firmly. "And it's not your fault that the others didn't care enough to help. You've been kind to me, even when I didn't make it easy for you. I... I'm sorry, by the way. For earlier. For trying to kill you."

Samael let out a small, humorless laugh. "It's okay," he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I probably would've done the same thing if I were in your position."

Lilith's lips curved into a faint smile of her own, and for the first time since they'd met, there was a sense of tentative understanding between them. They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them easing as the sounds of the night surrounded them.

Samael glanced at her, his voice soft. "I don't know what's going to happen next, but... I promise, I'll do whatever I can to help you. You're not alone in this, Lilith. Not anymore."

Lilith looked at him, her expression unreadable, but her eyes held a flicker of something—trust, perhaps. She gave a small nod. "Thank you, Samael," she said quietly.

 Lilith leaned back against a tree, her eyes flickering with thought. Samael sat across from her, tapping a finger against his chin as he mulled over their shared plan. The night air was cool, but the warmth between them was undeniable, a connection forged from mutual understanding and respect.

"I just want them to leave me alone," Lilith said softly, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. "I don't want to go back to Eden. I don't want to be around Adam. And I definitely don't want Sera or the seraphim dictating what I should do. I just want peace, Samael. Is that too much to ask for?"

Samael shook his head gently. "No, it's not," he said. "You deserve that much, at least." He glanced up at the stars, his mind racing as he tried to think of a way to give Lilith the freedom she craved. "What if we made them think you're... dead?" His voice was cautious at first, testing the idea.

Lilith blinked, sitting up straighter as she considered his words. "Dead?" she repeated, the concept slowly sinking in. "You think they'd stop looking for me if they believed that?"

Samael nodded. "Think about it. If they're convinced you're gone, they won't waste any more time searching. They'll go back to Eden, back to their project. No more seraphim breathing down your neck, no more Adam trying to convince you to come back."

Lilith's lips slowly curved into a small, approving smile. "I like the sound of that," she admitted. "But it has to be convincing. If they have any doubt, they'll just keep looking."

"Agreed," Samael said. "We'll need something definite, something that will leave no room for suspicion. It'll have to be perfect."

Lilith nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tracing patterns on the dirt as ideas began to form. "We could leave something behind. Something of mine. Maybe my hair, or a piece of my clothing. Something to make it look like I was attacked by a wild animal."

Samael's eyes lit up with inspiration. "That's good," he said. "But we'll need more than that. They'll want proof. What if we create a scene that tells a story? Something dramatic, but believable."

Lilith's smile widened. "Like torn-up ground, claw marks on the trees, broken branches. We could even leave some blood behind to make it look more real."

"Exactly!" Samael's excitement grew as they bounced ideas off each other. "I can use my abilities to create realistic-looking injuries on your clothing. We can find a predator's den nearby and make it look like that's where it happened."

Lilith's eyes gleamed with approval. "And we can lead a trail that eventually just... stops. Like I was dragged off somewhere and never found."

Samael nodded eagerly, impressed by her strategic thinking. "You're smart," he said, genuinely admiring her. "I see why the seraphim were afraid of you. You think ahead, and you don't give up easily."

Lilith chuckled softly. "And you're more imaginative than I thought, Samael. I've seen creativity before, but you? You're something else." Her tone wasn't condescending; it was genuine, filled with newfound respect.

They spent the rest of the night fine-tuning every detail of their plan, ensuring that nothing would be left to chance. Samael showed Lilith how to weave small illusions to make certain areas look more chaotic, while Lilith used her knowledge of the terrain to find the perfect spot for their staged scene. Together, they created a story of struggle, desperation, and a tragic end that no one would question.

As they worked, they exchanged stories, thoughts, and small moments of laughter that eased the tension surrounding them. Samael found himself relaxing in Lilith's presence, her strength and determination reigniting the part of him that had felt so lost lately. And Lilith, for the first time since leaving Eden, felt understood—like someone truly saw her for who she was and didn't try to change her.

By the time their plan was fully crafted, the first hints of dawn began to touch the horizon, casting a soft golden glow over the landscape.

Lilith leaned back against the tree, exhaling a tired but satisfied breath. "This will work," she said confidently. "I can feel it."

Samael smiled, a sense of accomplishment warming his chest. "I'm just happy I could help," he said. "After everything that's happened, it's nice to feel... useful."

Lilith turned to him, her expression softening. "You are useful, Samael. More than that—you're kind. You listened to me when no one else would. I appreciate that more than you know."

Samael felt a warm blush rise to his cheeks, but he nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of their shared experiences bringing them closer. Finally, Lilith reached out and gently touched Samael's hand. "We'll get through this," she said firmly. "We both will."

Samael met her gaze, his confidence renewed. "Yeah," he said. "We will."

As the sun continued to rise, they prepared themselves for the final step of their plan. Morning was approaching, and soon, they would execute the staged scene that would grant Lilith the freedom she so desperately desired. But for now, they waited, side by side, ready to face whatever came next together.

Chapter Text

The forest floor was still damp from the morning dew, a chill in the air as the sun began its slow climb into the sky. Lilith and Samael stood side by side, surveying the chosen location for their staged tragedy. Tall trees surrounded them, casting long shadows over the ground, their trunks and branches twisted in eerie angles. It was the perfect spot, secluded and silent, with no immediate danger of being interrupted until the plan was complete.

Lilith tightened the fabric of her tattered dress, carefully ripping it further to make the damage appear more convincing. She stained it with patches of red from the container Samael had conjured—an illusionary blood mix that would dry and look disturbingly real.

"Are you ready?" Samael asked softly, his voice filled with quiet concern.

Lilith nodded, a determined look on her face. "I am. Let's do this."

With that, they began their work.

Samael moved quickly, his illusions weaving seamlessly into the environment. He manipulated the terrain, creating deep claw marks on the trunks of nearby trees and dragging branches along the ground to create signs of struggle. Broken twigs and disturbed foliage added to the authenticity. As he worked, he summoned more illusions—glowing scratch marks across the dirt, torn patches of undergrowth, and a faint trail of what appeared to be blood leading further into the woods.

Lilith played her role perfectly. She scattered bits of her torn dress along the trail and smeared the illusionary blood in key places to suggest her movement as if she had tried to flee but was eventually overpowered. Her meticulous attention to detail left no room for suspicion, ensuring that the scene told a tragic and convincing story.

Finally, they arrived at the final piece of their puzzle: the illusion of Lilith's "remains." Samael created a twisted, horrifying vision—shredded cloth stained with large pools of blood, tufts of hair scattered nearby, and a mangled form beneath a cluster of broken branches that no one would dare inspect too closely.

Lilith took a step back and examined the scene with narrowed eyes. "They'll believe this," she said confidently. "They have to."

Samael placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "They will. You've been through enough. This will be your escape."

Lilith took a deep breath. "Let's lead them here."

With one final touch—a faint echo of distressed animal noises in the distance to draw attention—the trap was set. Samael moved to a safer location, hidden behind a thick patch of trees, and waited. Lilith got into position, playing dead, blending in with Samael's illusion.

It didn't take long for the seraphim to find the trail. The first of them stumbled upon the broken branches and claw marks, their sharp eyes catching the faint glimmers of blood on the leaves. Confused murmurs and concerned whispers spread among them as they followed the path deeper into the woods.

Then, the moment of truth arrived. One of the seraphim gasped, a high-pitched cry of horror as they spotted the mangled remains. Others quickly gathered, their eyes widening in disbelief. Some fell to their knees, covering their mouths, while others wailed in shock and grief.

"No—this can't be happening!" one seraph sobbed.

"She's gone! Lilith's gone!" another cried, their voice cracking as tears streamed down their face.

"This is our fault!" shouted another, their hands trembling as they clutched their head. "We pushed her too far! We—" They couldn't finish the sentence, breaking down into uncontrollable sobs.

A seraph who appeared to be their leader tried to regain control. "We need to go back. We have to tell Sera... She'll know what to do. Go! Now!"

The group scrambled back through the forest, their wings beating furiously as they took off toward Eden. Cries of panic and shouts of blame echoed through the woods, but Lilith and Samael remained hidden, waiting until the last of the seraphim had disappeared from sight.

As the early morning mist rolled through the forest, Samael and Lilith found a rare moment of stillness. Their plan was working. But even with everything in place, Samael couldn't help the twinge of guilt flickering in his chest.

He stood near the edge of the scene, brushing his hands against a tree as if grounding himself, while Lilith adjusted her position on the ground. Her "lifeless" form sprawled across the forest floor, and for a moment, Samael thought she looked too convincing.

"You're really good at this," he whispered, trying to shake off the unease.

Lilith opened one eye and smirked slightly. "You think I like pretending to be dead?" She propped herself up on her elbow briefly before flopping back down, her voice lowering. "But you've got a point—this is a little too easy for me."

Samael laughed quietly, though the sound was laced with discomfort. "I know they've been terrible to you, to both of us really, but still... watching them break down like that—some of them were crying. It felt... cruel."

Lilith sighed and stared up at the sky through the branches. "I get it. It's not exactly pleasant, seeing anyone in pain, even when they deserve it. But let's not forget who we're dealing with here. The same seraphim who humiliated you, dismissed you, and told me I was lesser because I dared to have my own voice."

Samael nodded silently, but the guilt hadn't entirely left him.

"They put me in this position," Lilith continued, her voice growing firm. "And I don't feel sorry for them. Not even a little bit. If they're devastated, good. Maybe now they'll understand what it feels like to be powerless and cast aside. They don't get to treat people like tools and expect everything to turn out fine."

Samael exhaled slowly, the weight of her words settling into him. "You're right. It's retribution."

"Exactly," Lilith said, sitting up briefly to brush some dirt off her hands. "Besides, we didn't actually hurt anyone. We're just making sure they leave me alone for good. And you know what? Maybe they'll finally get the message and start questioning their behavior."

A small, bitter chuckle escaped Samael. "I doubt that. They're too wrapped up in their self-importance to reflect on anything."

Lilith shrugged. "True. But at least I won't have to deal with it anymore. And maybe you'll have less to worry about too." She paused and gave him a soft, sincere look. "I'm sorry they treated you that way, Samael. You didn't deserve it."

He blinked, slightly taken aback by her genuine sympathy. "Thanks," he murmured. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad you stood your ground, even if it led to all of this. I admire your strength."

The warmth of his words lingered between them for a moment before they were broken by the faint sound of hurried footsteps approaching from the distance.

"They're coming back," Samael said, his body tensing as he stepped away from the scene. "Time to finish the show."

Lilith lay back down, adjusting her posture and closing her eyes as she fell into her convincingly limp form once more. "Go hide. I've got this."

Samael gave her one last glance before slipping into the shadows, concealing himself behind a thick cluster of trees. His heart raced, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. For once, he wasn't being dismissed or ignored—he was doing something important, and Lilith trusted him.

As Sera and the seraphim returned, Samael steadied his breathing and watched the scene unfold. This time, they would have no choice but to believe what they saw.

The sky was painted in soft hues of gold and pink as morning fully settled over Eden, but for Sera, the colors seemed muted, distant, and devoid of warmth. Her wings beat frantically as the seraphim escorted her to the forest with urgent voices and panicked instructions. They crowded around her, clamoring over each other, their eyes wide with fear and desperation.

"Please, Sera, you have to come quickly!"

"She's gone! We tried to find her—"

"This wasn't supposed to happen, we swear!"

Sera barely processed their words. Her mind raced through a series of hopeful yet panicked thoughts. Perhaps Lilith was just injured. Perhaps they had found her wandering, confused but alive. Maybe this could still be salvaged—there had to be a way. She was Sera, High Seraphim of Heaven, after all. She had to fix this.

Her heart pounded as she landed in the middle of the clearing, and for a moment, everything fell silent. The breeze carried the faint metallic scent of blood, the torn fabric from Lilith's dress fluttering weakly against broken branches. Sera's gaze slowly followed the trail, her eyes landing on the twisted, horrifying illusion of Lilith's "body."

The world blurred. Her breath hitched, her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the forest floor.

"No..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "No, no, no."

The seraphim gathered around her, horrified by the sight of their leader—once so composed and commanding—reduced to a fragile, shaking figure. They didn't know how to comfort her. They had never seen her break down like this. Sera buried her face in her hands, her sobs muffled against her trembling palms.

"She's really gone..."

One of the seraphim cautiously stepped forward. "Sera, we—what do we do? Adam will ask for her, and God—"

The mention of God made Sera's breath catch in her throat. Her mind spiraled into chaos. How was she going to explain this to Adam? How could she tell the first man that his wife—the woman meant to be his companion—was dead because of her failure to protect her? Worse, how could she face God, the very being who entrusted her and the seraphim with the sacred task of nurturing humanity?

She had already failed to guide Lilith, to make her feel valued and heard. Now, she had failed to keep her alive. Sera felt paralyzed, drowning in a sea of guilt, shame, and fear.

"We—we'll tell God something. We'll figure it out," one of the seraphim stammered, their own panic growing as Sera remained silent and lost.

"I—I need time," Sera choked out, her wings shaking as she struggled to her feet. "I can't—just stay here and wait for further instruction."

The seraphim exchanged worried glances as Sera suddenly took off, her wings beating furiously against the wind. She shot through the skies, past the trees, past the edge of Eden, and back through the Celestial Hall. But she didn't stop there. She kept flying, higher and higher, until the air grew colder and thinner. Only when she reached a vast expanse of clouds far away from Heaven's busy corridors did she finally stop.

Her legs buckled beneath her as she landed softly on the cloud, her wings folding weakly around her. The first sob escaped her lips, followed by another, and another, until she was crying uncontrollably. Her hands clutched at the fabric of her robes as she buried her face into the cloud's soft surface, the weight of her failure suffocating her.

I failed her.

I failed humanity.

I failed God.

The thoughts tormented her, each one hitting her like a dagger to the heart. Tears streamed down her face, soaking into the cloud as she rocked back and forth, her breathing uneven. Her shoulders shook violently, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Sera allowed herself to grieve without restraint.

She had spent so long trying to uphold her image as the composed, dutiful High Seraphim—too long, she realized. Every decision she made was guided by the need to please God, to prove that she could handle the humanity project. She had ignored everyone who tried to tell her otherwise, dismissed their advice, and now here she was—alone, crying on a distant cloud, while Lilith was "dead," Adam was heartbroken, and the seraphim were crumbling under their own guilt.

Why didn't I listen?

Sera sobbed harder, clutching at her chest as if trying to hold herself together. "I thought I was doing the right thing," she whispered into the empty air. "I thought I knew better."

But she didn't. Samael had tried to tell her. The virtues had tried to tell her. Even her own heart had whispered doubts, but she had silenced them all in favor of pride and duty. Now, she couldn't silence the echoes of her failure.

For a moment, she imagined what it would be like to stay here on this cloud forever, away from Heaven, away from God, and away from the mess she had created. But reality was cruel, and she knew she couldn't run forever. Adam would ask for Lilith, God would demand answers, and the virtues would continue to resent her. She couldn't hide.

With trembling hands, Sera wiped her tears away, though new ones kept falling. She didn't know how long she stayed there, crying into the clouds, grieving the loss of a woman she had failed to understand and nurture. But eventually, the sobs subsided into quiet sniffles, and her breathing steadied.

She had to go back. She had to face the consequences, even if they destroyed her.

But for now, she allowed herself to stay just a little longer, letting the cold air and the soft clouds cradle her as she whispered one final apology to Lilith—an apology that would never be heard.

The forest felt heavier after Sera left, the air thick with disbelief and sorrow. The remaining seraphim stood in scattered groups, their usual confident postures reduced to slumped shoulders and trembling hands. The only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the distant cries of birds, but even nature seemed muted compared to the weight of their failure.

One seraphim sniffled, breaking the silence. "She—she left us. Sera's never abandoned us before."

Another wiped tears from their eyes, their voice shaking. "If even she doesn't know how to fix this... what are we supposed to do? What do we tell God? What do we tell Adam?"

Grief swelled like a tidal wave, some seraphim whispering prayers, others staring at the ground as if the answer might miraculously appear there. A few of them stood frozen, eyes locked on the grisly scene of torn fabric and bloodstains, unable to comprehend how things had spiraled so quickly.

But then, amid the chaos, Zadkiel, the half-seraphim, half-angel, stepped forward, his usually gentle voice firm and commanding.

"Enough," Zadkiel said, his tone cutting through the mourning like a blade. His golden eyes, often warm and healing, were hardened with determination. "This is no time to wallow or worry. Sera left us in charge, and whether we like it or not, we need to act. If she can't lead us right now, then we have to lead ourselves."

"But what if we mess things up again?" one seraphim asked timidly.

"We won't," Zadkiel answered, his jaw set. "Because this time, we can't afford to. For Lilith's sake, for Adam's sake, and for our own. We've already been irresponsible, and I won't let us repeat that mistake." His voice cracked slightly before he forced himself to continue. "If I had been braver—if I had spoken up before—maybe Lilith wouldn't have had to leave. Maybe she'd still be here."

The guilt in his voice resonated through the group, and the seraphim quietly nodded, acknowledging their collective failure.

"We clean this up," Zadkiel continued, gesturing to the bloodstains. "No one gets near Lilith's body until Sera comes back. We owe her that much respect, even if we've failed her. And someone needs to break the news to Adam."

There was a pause before Zadkiel pointed to a small group of seraphim. "You three. Go to Adam. Be gentle with him. He needs to hear this from someone who can show compassion." The chosen seraphim nodded solemnly before taking off into the sky, heading back toward Eden.

The remaining seraphim bent down and began cleaning the patches of blood from the forest floor, their movements mechanical and somber. Zadkiel oversaw everything, ensuring that they worked efficiently without lingering. Despite their tears and trembling hands, they managed to remove most of the traces of the scene.

When the task was complete, the seraphim gathered their strength and silently retreated back toward Eden, leaving the forest in eerie quiet once again.

Lilith and Samael slowly emerged, the morning sunlight filtering through the trees and casting soft patches of light onto the forest floor. The sight of the freshly cleaned area where their staged death had played out left both of them in silence.

Lilith stood still, her bare feet brushing against the damp leaves, her gaze following the distant trail where the seraphim had departed. Samael stood beside her, his expression unreadable as he traced the spots of missing blood, now scrubbed away as if the tragedy had never happened.

Lilith exhaled, a wave of relief washing over her. "They believed it," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. "They actually believed it."

Samael smiled softly, though he could feel the tension still radiating from her. "You're free now," he said. "No more running. No more hiding."

Lilith turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Thank you, Samael. For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," he replied gently. "You're the one who fought for your freedom. I just helped you along the way."

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet aftermath, the forest around them slowly returning to its natural state. The distant sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze provided a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.

Lilith wiped her eyes and took a steady breath. "What now?"

Samael thought for a moment. "You go wherever you want to. Find the life you want to live. No one will stop you now."

"And you?" she asked, her gaze softening.

Samael hesitated before answering. "I need to go back. But... if you ever need me, I'll find you. I promise."

Lilith smiled faintly, the first genuine smile she'd worn in what felt like ages. "Then I'll hold you to that promise."

As dawn broke over the horizon, Samael and Lilith shared one final glance before parting ways. Lilith ventured deeper into the unknown, her heart filled with a newfound sense of hope and freedom, while Samael returned to the Celestial Hall.

Chapter Text

The golden hues of the sun painted the sky, casting long shadows across Eden's flourishing fields. Adam sat beneath the large tree where he and Lilith would rest after tending the garden, watching the soft glow of dusk settle over their home. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk, staring at the horizon with a weary but hopeful expression. He had convinced himself that Lilith would return soon, that this was just a passing dispute. She would come back, and they would sit here together again, watching the sun dip below the horizon like they always had.

But that hope was about to shatter.

A small group of seraphim, their usually proud and radiant forms weighed down by grief, approached Adam cautiously. Their wings twitched with unease, and their steps were hesitant. None of them wanted to be the one to deliver the news, but it had to be done.

Adam turned his head toward them, his face lighting up briefly. "Have you found her?" he asked, pushing himself up. "Where is she?"

The seraphim hesitated. The air felt heavier now.

One of them, a taller seraph with solemn eyes, took a step forward. "Adam... we need to talk."

Adam's smile faltered. He searched their faces, looking for reassurance, but all he found was sadness. His fingers clenched against the grass.

"What do you mean?" His voice wavered slightly. "She's okay, right? You found her?"

The seraphim shifted uncomfortably. "Lilith... she's gone."

Adam's body tensed. "Gone?" He let out a small, nervous chuckle, shaking his head. "She ran away, right? She's probably just hiding. She's stubborn, you know. But we can find her. Bring her back."

The seraphim lowered their gazes, their silence speaking louder than words.

"No..." Adam's voice cracked. "No, no, no—what are you saying? Where is she?!"

One of the seraphim finally answered, their voice barely above a whisper. "We found her body outside Eden. She didn't survive."

Adam's heart stopped. The world around him blurred, his breaths coming in shallow gasps.

"That's not true," he said quickly, shaking his head. "That's a lie. She—she can't be—" His chest tightened, and he forced a broken laugh. "You're angels! You have power! You can bring her back, right? Revive her! Fix this!"

The seraphim exchanged sorrowful glances before one of them softly responded, "That's not how it works, Adam."

"You created her!" Adam cried, tears streaming down his face. "You can create another! You can bring her back exactly how she was before. Just... just do it!"

Another seraph, gentle but firm, replied, "We could create a new companion, but she wouldn't be Lilith. She wouldn't have her memories, her personality. She would be someone different."

Adam stared at them, his breathing uneven, his fists trembling at his sides.

"I don't want a new Lilith," he spat, his voice filled with raw anger. "I want my Lilith. The one who sat under this tree with me. The one who laughed with me. The one who—" His voice cracked, the weight of his words breaking him. "The one who was my wife."

The seraphim remained silent, unable to offer any comfort.

Adam's fury turned inward as he stumbled back against the tree, his fingers digging into his hair. "No... no, this is my fault," he whispered hoarsely. "If I hadn't—if I had just stood up for her instead of—" He choked back a sob. His nails clawed against the bark, his body shaking. "I drove her away. I let them control me. I let them control her."

Tears streamed down his face, his breaths uneven and ragged. He sank to his knees, his sobs echoing through the silent garden. The seraphim stood around him, their expressions heavy with guilt and pity. They had their own regrets—how they treated Lilith, how they let things escalate, how they had let their arrogance blind them.

One of the seraphim took a step toward him, but another gently placed a hand on their shoulder, shaking their head. "Give him time."

Adam continued to cry, his shoulders shaking as guilt and grief consumed him. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispered. "I didn't mean it."

With that, they slowly stepped back, leaving Adam alone beneath the tree.

As they returned to the rest of their group, they were met by Zadkiel, who had just arrived with the others. He scanned their faces, immediately sensing that something was wrong.

"How did it go?" he asked.

The seraphim glanced at each other hesitantly before one of them motioned toward the tree, where the sound of Adam's anguished cries still filled the air.

Zadkiel's heart sank.

Zadkiel's expression fell. "I see."

The seraphim lowered their heads, their wings drooping slightly. "He didn't take it well," one of them admitted. "He kept asking us to bring her back."

Zadkiel let out a heavy sigh. "I expected as much. He loved her."

"He also blamed himself," another added. "We tried to stay, but it's... a lot. He needs space."

Zadkiel nodded solemnly. "You did what you could." He looked up at the sky, where the golden light of the afternoon was slowly fading into evening. "But now what?"

The seraphim shifted uncomfortably, some wiping away tears of their own. They had no answers, no plans. All they knew was that their failure had cost them dearly, and now they were left to pick up the pieces.

Zadkiel squared his shoulders, his resolve hardening. "We can't afford to make any more mistakes. Lilith is gone, and Adam is grieving, but we can't let this spiral further. We'll clean up the rest of the forest, cover any remaining traces, and focus on stabilizing Eden."

One seraphim hesitated. "What about Sera? She left."

Zadkiel frowned but kept his voice steady. "She'll be back. When she is, we'll figure out our next steps. For now, let's finish what we started."

The seraphim nodded, though their movements were slow and reluctant. They took off toward the forest, their wings casting long shadows across the grass as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. Zadkiel stayed behind for a moment, his gaze lingering on Adam grieving.

The weight of their collective failure settled upon them. There was nothing left to do but move forward, though none of them knew how.

For now, they mourned in silence.

Sera flew aimlessly through the celestial city, her wings heavy with exhaustion. The pristine streets below were filled with angels and cherubs, who paused in their daily tasks to look up at her, murmuring in surprise. The High Seraphim, always composed and steadfast, now looked lost and unmoored, her usual grace replaced by uncertainty.

She ignored their stares, flying past golden towers and shimmering bridges, past gardens filled with ever-blooming flowers and rivers that sparkled like liquid light. She didn't know where she was going—her mind was too clouded, too overwhelmed with the weight of her failure.

Finally, she found herself in a quieter part of Heaven, where a grand fountain stood at the center of an open courtyard. The water flowed in mesmerizing arcs, shimmering with divine energy, its gentle splashing filling the air with soothing white noise. Sera descended, her landing slow and deliberate, before settling onto a nearby bench. She stared at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly, and exhaled a long breath.

The image of Lilith's lifeless form, the horror on the seraphim's faces—every moment replayed in her mind over and over, each time striking deeper into her chest.

What was she supposed to do?

She didn't know how to face God. How could she explain this to Him? That the first woman He had entrusted to her care had died due to her failure? That all of this could have been prevented if only she had listened sooner?

She had failed. Failed Lilith. Failed Adam. Failed the virtues. Failed Heaven itself.

She clenched her fists.

I was supposed to guide them. To nurture them. I was supposed to be the one God trusted most. But they were right.

Her throat tightened.

I couldn't do this alone.

"I see you're troubled," a calm, knowing voice interrupted her thoughts.

Sera lifted her head slightly to see Uriel standing nearby, her expression gentle but perceptive. Her golden-rose eyes studied Sera carefully, her long platinum-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.

Sera had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed Uriel's approach.

Uriel took a step closer, tilting her head slightly. "You rarely leave the Celestial Hall when you're not overseeing humanity. For you to be flying around so aimlessly... something must be weighing heavily on your heart."

Sera sighed, rubbing her temple. "That's an understatement."

Uriel moved to sit beside her on the bench, her posture relaxed yet poised. "I have always been one to lend an ear," she said. "If you need counsel or simply a moment to vent, I will listen."

For a moment, Sera said nothing. She hesitated, her pride urging her to keep her burdens to herself, but the weight of everything was too much. She needed to tell someone.

Sera exhaled shakily, her hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her wings, usually poised and pristine, were slumped, heavy with exhaustion and grief. She could feel her breath uneven, her chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged intervals.

Uriel waited patiently, as if she could sense the storm brewing inside Sera. She said nothing—just listened, her presence warm but unobtrusive.

And finally, Sera snapped.

"I killed her."

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, raw and full of weight. Sera's voice was hoarse, brittle, barely more than a whisper, yet it cut through the quiet courtyard like a blade.

Uriel blinked, startled, but Sera wasn't looking at her. Her golden eyes were distant, staring into the glimmering water of the fountain as though searching for answers in its ripples.

"She's dead," Sera continued, her tone trembling with something between anger and despair. "Lilith is dead because of me."

Her jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists. "I was supposed to guide her. To teach her. To nurture her. That was the task God entrusted to me, wasn't it? To help humanity flourish? To make sure they knew they were loved? That they mattered?"

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "But I didn't do any of that, did I?" She scoffed, shaking her head. "No. Instead of being a guide, I was forceful. Instead of being nurturing, I was rigid. Instead of listening, I demanded."

Her breath hitched, but she pushed forward, unable to stop now that the floodgates had opened.

"I thought I knew best. I believed I knew best. I told myself that I was simply fulfilling God's will, that I was doing what was right, what was necessary." Her fingers dug into her lap. "But the truth is... I wasn't thinking about what was best for Lilith. I was thinking about what was best for me."

Sera let out a choked, bitter laugh.

"I was so consumed with proving myself. With proving that I was capable. That I could handle this. That I could complete the task God had given me without anyone's help. That I didn't need the virtues. That I didn't need Samael." She inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "But I was wrong. I was so wrong."

Sera's voice cracked.

"I failed her, Uriel."

For the first time, she turned to face her, and Uriel saw something she had never seen before—Sera's composure, completely shattered.

Tears brimmed in her deep blue eyes, her lips pressed into a thin line as she tried—failed—to contain her emotions.

"I failed her," she repeated, softer this time. "She was hurting. She was suffering, and I ignored it. I dismissed her struggles because they didn't fit into the vision I had of what humanity was supposed to be. And when she fought back, when she refused to conform to my expectations, I saw her as a problem to be fixed rather than a person to be understood."

Her wings trembled.

"She's dead because of my pride. My stubbornness. My inability to see beyond my own expectations until it was too late."

A heavy silence fell between them.

Sera inhaled shakily, wiping at her eyes before continuing.

"And now—now I have to face God. God, Uriel. Do you have any idea what He's going to say? What He's going to think? He entrusted Lilith's life to me, to us, and I let her die."

Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned away, her hands trembling in her lap.

"He'll be furious," she murmured. "And He should be. I have no excuse. No defense. I—I don't deserve one."

Her breath came uneven, sharp.

"The virtues were right," she admitted, her voice small, broken. "I couldn't do this alone. I thought I was better than them, that I didn't need their help, but they saw the truth long before I did. I was blind, I was arrogant, and because of it, I—" She swallowed thickly, struggling to form the words.

"I lost her."

A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the back of her hand.

"I was pathetic."

Uriel, stunned into silence, could only stare.

She had seen Sera stressed before, frustrated, even shaken. But never like this. Never so... broken.

This was not the Sera who stood tall as the High Seraphim, the leader who commanded Heaven's order with unwavering certainty.

This was someone drowning in guilt.

Someone who had realized, far too late, that the path she had walked was the wrong one.

Uriel opened her mouth to speak, but for a moment, no words came.

What could she say to this? What could anyone say?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Uriel reached out and gently placed her hand over Sera's own.

"Then tell Him," she said softly.

Sera looked up at her, wide-eyed, raw and vulnerable.

"Tell God everything," Uriel continued. "He is not a being of wrath, Sera. He is not waiting to condemn you. If there is anyone who would understand, who would forgive you... it's Him."

Sera's lips parted slightly as though she wanted to argue, but no words came. Instead, she just... sat there. Staring.

Processing.

Uriel squeezed her hand. "You must tell Him, Sera. This weight you carry—it will only crush you if you keep holding it alone."

For a long moment, Sera was silent.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

She took a deep breath, shaky but determined, and wiped her tears away. Then she stood, stretching out her wings.

Uriel watched as Sera turned toward the Celestial Chambers of Light, her resolve settling back into place.

"...Thank you," Sera murmured, her voice still fragile but steadier than before.

Uriel only nodded, watching as she took flight.

She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temple.

Then, suddenly, her expression shifted.

Something that Sera had said stuck in her mind, nagging at her.

The virtues called Sera 'pathetic'?

She frowned slightly. That didn't sound quite right.

Sera had always been one to be harsh on herself, to internalize blame, so it was entirely possible that she was just paraphrasing, twisting their words into something more self-deprecating.

And yet...

Uriel couldn't shake the uneasy feeling creeping into her mind.

She brushed it off—for now.

Still, she made a note to observe the virtues more closely. Something about all of this didn't sit right with her.

The Celestial Chambers of Light were vast, endless in their radiance. Streams of golden light cascaded through the towering windows, filling the grand space with an ethereal glow. The air was thick with divinity, humming with an unseen presence. Sera stepped forward hesitantly, her breath catching in her throat.

She had spent countless moments in this sacred space, but never before had she felt so small, so unworthy of the light that enveloped her.

Then, from the infinite brilliance, a figure emerged.

God stood before her, his form a paradox of simplicity and grandeur. His suit was pristine white, embroidered with the faint glimmers of constellations, his tall top hat resting at a slight, almost playful tilt. His eyes—vast pools of warmth and endless understanding—gazed upon her with gentle expectation.

Sera lowered her head, unable to meet his gaze.

"...Sera," he spoke softly, his voice echoing through the chambers like a soothing melody. "My child. What troubles you?"

Her hands trembled at her sides, fists clenching and unclenching. For a moment, she hesitated. Then, all at once, the dam inside her broke.

"I failed you."

The words came out strangled, raw with pain. She gasped for breath, as if speaking them aloud had stolen the air from her lungs.

"I failed you," she repeated, her voice cracking. "I failed Lilith, I failed Adam, I failed the seraphim—I failed everything you entrusted me with."

God said nothing. He simply listened.

Sera's chest heaved as she continued, her voice rising in distress.

"I was blind! I was stubborn! I ignored Samael, I dismissed the virtues—I refused to see what was right in front of me until it was too late!" Her wings trembled violently, her golden halo flickering with instability. "Lilith is dead, and it's my fault!"

She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes wild with anguish. "I killed her, Father. Not with my hands, but with my ignorance, my refusal to listen. I pushed her, pressured her, tried to control her—until she broke! Until she left! And then I—I did nothing!"

She took a step closer, eyes brimming with desperate grief. "I deserve punishment," she whispered. "I deserve wrath for what I've done."

Her body tensed, as if bracing for an unseen strike. She was prepared—prepared for fury, for chastisement, for the scalding words she knew she deserved.

But instead, something warm encased her.

Sera stiffened as God stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms.

The world became silent.

The air around them softened, the weight on her shoulders suddenly... lighter.

She stood there, frozen, as divine warmth surrounded her—the warmth of a father's embrace. It was endless, boundless, stretching through her very soul, through every crack, through every wound she had inflicted upon herself.

Sera's breath hitched.

Her composure shattered.

The first sob tore from her throat, and she collapsed into his arms.

God held her tightly, letting her cry, letting her break in the safety of his presence. She clutched at his coat, trembling, her tears soaking into the pure white fabric.

"Why?" she choked out between sobs. "Why... why would you forgive me?"

She looked up at him, eyes filled with torment. "Why would anyone forgive me after what I did?"

God exhaled softly, his eyes filled with immeasurable kindness.

"Oh, my dear child," he whispered, brushing his gloved hand gently against her hair. "Do you truly believe that I could ever hate you?"

Sera squeezed her eyes shut, another choked sob escaping her lips. "I—I don't know—"

"You made mistakes," God continued, his voice steady yet soothing. "You let pride cloud your judgment, and in doing so, you hurt those who relied on you." He gently lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze. "But my dear Sera... you are not irredeemable."

Sera swallowed thickly, still struggling to breathe through her tears.

God's expression was patient, understanding. "To recognize your faults, to admit them, to cast aside your pride and seek to do better—that is strength, my child. And it is the very reason I do not, and will not, cast you aside."

Her lip trembled, and she lowered her head again, unable to comprehend the sheer depth of his kindness.

God continued, his voice filled with fatherly wisdom. "Do not let this grief consume you. Do not let it drown you in regret. You have lost, you have faltered, but that does not mean you must now walk alone."

His hands gently rested on her shoulders. "I know this moment is heavy for you, as it is for the seraphim. Lilith's absence is felt deeply."

Sera winced at his words, the ache in her chest throbbing at the mere mention of Lilith's name. God continued.

"I suggest a memorial for Lilith," he said gently. "A time for you, the seraphim, and others to say their peace—to mourn, to grieve, to heal."

Sera's breath caught.

"I know you feel you must carry this burden alone," God murmured. "But you do not. Your sorrow is not something you must bear in isolation. Share it, my dear one. Let yourself be comforted as you would comfort others."

Sera squeezed her eyes shut again, fresh tears sliding down her cheeks. She nodded, unable to find her voice.

God smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead before pulling her close once more.

"I will always have faith in you," he whispered.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sera felt... light.

She still ached, still grieved, still felt the weight of her mistakes.

But in this moment, in her Father's arms... she was not alone.

And maybe, just maybe... she could begin to heal.

Chapter Text

The sky above Eden was overcast, a soft, pale gray—an unusual sight for a place meant to be paradise. The air was heavy, thick with sorrow, as if the very earth grieved alongside its inhabitants.

Sera descended into the garden, her wings carrying her past the towering trees and lush fields that once felt so vibrant. Now, they seemed muted, their beauty overshadowed by the weight of recent events.

She spotted the seraphim gathered in the clearing, their expressions solemn and weary. Zadkiel was at the forefront, his light blue eyes filled with exhaustion. He had taken on much of the responsibility in her absence, and it showed in the stiffness of his posture.

As she landed, the seraphim turned to her, their eyes flickering with mixed emotions—relief, uncertainty, and the lingering remnants of grief.

Sera took a steady breath and addressed them.

"I owe you all an apology," she said, her voice softer than usual. "I should not have left you so suddenly. I let my emotions cloud my judgment, and that was unfair to all of you."

The seraphim remained silent, though a few nodded slightly.

"I'm here now," Sera continued. "Give me an update. What has happened in my absence?"

Zadkiel stepped forward, his wings twitching as he prepared to speak. "We have done everything we could, Sera. The site has been cleaned, and no trace of what happened remains." He hesitated before continuing, his voice quieter. "But Adam... he is not well."

Sera's eyes darkened with concern.

"He has not moved from the tree," Zadkiel explained, gesturing toward a distant grove. "The same tree where he and Lilith would sit after tending to the garden. He refuses to eat, refuses to sleep. He just... stays there. He grieves, but he does not speak to us. And when he does, it is only to blame us for what happened."

Sera felt a pang of guilt twist in her chest.

She nodded. "I will speak with him."

Zadkiel bowed his head and stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

As Sera approached the tree, she spotted Adam sitting beneath it, his back pressed against the rough bark. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his arms resting limply over them. His usually bright green eyes were dull, red-rimmed from endless tears. His face, normally filled with boyish pride and confidence, was now hollow, expressionless.

Sera hesitated for a moment before stepping closer.

"Adam," she called softly.

No response.

She moved closer still, standing just a few feet away from him.

"Adam," she said again, her tone gentle. "I know you are grieving. I know you are in pain. I came to—"

"You," Adam interrupted, his voice hoarse and bitter.

Sera's wings stiffened slightly at the venom in his tone.

"You and the seraphim... You did this," he said, his fingers curling into fists. "You pushed her away. You pressured us. You forced her into a role she didn't want, and when she resisted, you kept pushing. And now she's gone."

Sera lowered her head. "I know."

Adam scoffed, his laugh hollow and humorless. "Oh, now you know? How convenient for you to know now that it's too late."

Sera closed her eyes for a brief moment, steadying herself. "I am not here to make excuses, Adam. You are right to be angry."

"Damn right I am," he muttered.

"But," she continued, "I am not the only one at fault."

Adam's body tensed.

"You hit her."

Silence.

Adam's breath caught in his throat, his fingers digging into his arms as if bracing himself.

"I made many mistakes, and I regret them deeply," Sera admitted. "But you, too, made a choice that night. You let your fear control you. You let your frustration cloud your judgment. And when Lilith stood her ground, you did not stand with her. You turned against her."

Adam squeezed his eyes shut, his whole body trembling.

Sera's voice softened. "We both failed her."

Adam exhaled shakily, his anger giving way to something more fragile—something raw.

"...I know," he finally whispered.

His shoulders slumped, and he turned his gaze downward, staring blankly at the grass beneath him. "I know," he repeated, voice cracking. "I—I wanted her to stay. I—I loved her. But I was scared. I didn't know what else to do. And now..."

His breath hitched, and suddenly, the dam inside him broke.

Adam buried his face in his arms and sobbed.

Sera remained still, watching him for a long moment before kneeling beside him.

"...I am sorry, Adam," she said softly.

Adam sniffled, his voice muffled. "I don't deserve an apology. Lilith does."

Sera placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "That does not mean you are unworthy of grief."

Adam's sobs quieted slightly, but he did not lift his head.

After a moment, Sera continued.

"God wishes to hold a memorial for Lilith," she explained. "A time for us all to grieve, to honor her life, and to say our peace."

Adam stirred slightly.

Sera hesitated before adding, "That includes you."

Adam's breath came out in a shaky exhale. "A... memorial?"

Sera nodded. "A ceremony of remembrance. A way to let go, to mourn together, rather than alone."

Adam frowned, his brows furrowing deeply. "I don't know if I can..."

"There is no requirement, no expectation," Sera reassured him. "But it may help. It may allow you to process everything. And it would allow you to honor Lilith's memory."

Adam swallowed thickly, still unsure.

Sera let the silence settle between them before quietly asking, "Would you like to be there?"

Adam opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again.

He wiped at his swollen eyes with the back of his hand, exhaling shakily.

"...I'll go," he finally muttered. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it was enough. "I'll be there."

Sera gave him a solemn nod. "Thank you."

Adam shifted slightly, resting his head against the tree trunk, his exhaustion visible in every movement.

Sera rose to her feet.

"Lilith didn't deserve this," Adam murmured suddenly, his voice quiet but firm.

Sera's chest ached.

"...No," she agreed. "She didn't."

And with that, she turned and left Adam to his grief, his broken heart left to mend at its own fragile pace.

The Grand Hall of Heaven was alight with golden hues, its towering marble pillars stretching high into the endless celestial sky. A great assembly of angels—archangels, virtues, cherubs, and lesser angels alike—had gathered, their radiant forms filling the space with an ethereal glow. The air was thick with quiet anticipation, but there was an underlying tension as they waited for the announcement that had summoned them all.

God stood at the center, his presence a beacon of unwavering calm, yet there was an unmistakable weight in his expression. At his side stood Sera and the seraphim, their usual proud demeanor dampened by sorrow. Zadkiel, the half-seraphim who had been among the first to witness the tragic scene, looked down in silent grief.

Finally, Sera stepped forward. Her wings, normally pristine and poised, drooped slightly, and the exhaustion in her voice was evident.

"My brothers and sisters," she began, her tone solemn, "I bring you grave news."

A hush fell over the assembly.

Sera took a steady breath before continuing. "Lilith, the first woman, is dead."

Gasps rippled through the hall, whispers breaking out in pockets of disbelief.

"She was attacked outside of Eden, beyond the garden's borders." Sera's voice wavered, but she pressed on. "We... we found what remained of her."

For a long moment, silence reigned.

Then—

"A funeral will be held," Sera announced, "so that we may honor her, mourn her, and say our peace. This loss is a heavy one, but we must come together in our grief. We must—"

"What do you mean she was attacked?"

Michael's deep voice cut through the hall like a blade. He stepped forward, golden eyes narrowed. "Who did this? Was it a creature? Some force we have yet to know?"

Sera clenched her jaw before responding. "We do not know."

Michael exhaled sharply through his nose, arms crossed, clearly displeased. "And you're sure she's dead?"

Samael, who stood off to the side with the virtues, tensed slightly. He said nothing, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

"Yes," Sera replied, her voice firm. "There is no doubt."

More murmurs filled the room, some angels whispering amongst themselves in confusion, others outright mourning.

The virtues were visibly shaken.

Levia's eyes brimmed with tears before they spilled over, her hands flying to her mouth. "No... oh no... she didn't deserve that..." Plutus, seeing Levia break down, instinctively wrapped his arms around her, his own tears welling up. "I—I thought things would get better—I thought—" He hiccupped, shaking his head as he tried to compose himself.

Belfagel stood completely still, her normally restless energy frozen. Her hands trembled as she stared into the distance, her face pale with disbelief.

Asmodel and Triel exchanged a look, their expressions grim.

"We should've helped," Asmodel murmured under his breath.

Triel's heart clenched. She had been so adamant about shutting Sera out when she begged for their aid. Maybe if she had set aside her bitterness, they could have found Lilith in time.

But while some virtues were overcome with grief, others were filled with something far more volatile.

Rage.

"Are you KIDDING me?"

Veritas's voice rang out, loud and venomous. All heads turned toward her.

She stepped forward, her yellow eyes ablaze with fury. "You dare stand before us and announce this as if it's some unfortunate accident? As if this wasn't entirely the seraphim's fault?"

Gasps rippled through the crowd, a shocked murmur spreading through the angels. Some looked away, hesitant to witness what was about to unfold. Others—Azazil, Plutus, even Belfagel—stood rigid, waiting.

Sera's body went still, but her eyes burned with quiet warning. "Veritas."

But Veritas was beyond caution. She stepped forward, her golden eyes blazing. "No. You don't get to say my name like that. Not after everything."

Azazil joined her, his usually calm and compassionate demeanor dark with barely restrained wrath. "She's right," he growled. "You ignored us. You dismissed Samael. You refused to listen when we tried to warn you. And now you come here, acting all solemn as if you didn't push her into this?"

The hall was filled with an uneasy tension. Some angels averted their gazes, while others stiffened in shock at the blatant accusation.

"You're mad at us?" Zadkiel, who had up until now remained silent, finally spoke. His voice was pained, conflicted. "I understand your anger, but do you think we aren't suffering? Do you think we don't feel guilt? We never wanted this!"

"Oh, you NEVER wanted this?" Veritas snapped, taking a step forward. "Funny, because I recall your kind taking every opportunity to trample over anyone who questioned you! Dismissing Samael, mocking the virtues, treating humanity like some experiment rather than living beings! You think your guilt means something? You think that changes ANYTHING?"

"Enough," Sera interjected, her patience thinning.

"No, I don't think I will 'enough,'" Veritas shot back. "You did this, Sera. You. And you know it."

Sera clenched her fists, but Veritas wasn't done.

"You played God with these humans, treating them like tools for your perfect little world. You failed them. And now you come here acting like you're mourning? Pathetic."

The room fell deathly silent. Even those who had silently agreed with Veritas were shocked at how cruelly she spat the words.

Some angels turned away, visibly uncomfortable.

Sera's entire body went rigid, her wings twitching in barely contained rage. She exhaled sharply through her nose, forcing down the fire rising in her chest. "I am aware of my mistakes—"

"Are you?" Veritas sneered. "Because the Sera I know—the one who spat on Samael, ignored the virtues, and ruled with an iron grip—would NEVER admit to being wrong. Tell me, Sera, was it God's forgiveness that changed you?" She laughed cruelly. "Or was it the cold realization that you're a failure?"

The crowd collectively inhaled, some cherubs covering their mouths in shock. Even the other virtues seemed stunned by Veritas's unrelenting venom.

Sera's wings flared, her grip tightening so hard she thought her nails might pierce her palms.

"I may have failed," she said slowly, her voice measured, "but at least I was THERE. Where were you, Veritas? I don't recall seeing you in the Celestial Hall. I don't recall you doing ANYTHING."

Veritas scoffed. "I was there for Samael. More than you ever were."

At that, Sera turned to Samael.

He stood in the back, his expression unreadable.

But he didn't look at her.

The avoidance stung more than she wanted to admit.

Veritas's eyes narrowed. "Oh, and don't you worry, I was plenty busy. More than you, at least."

Sera took a step forward. "Really? Because I don't remember you coming down to observe the project with Samael."

"I didn't need to." Veritas scoffed, crossing her arms. "I already knew it was a disaster. And I was right, wasn't I?"

Sera's gaze sharpened. "You speak so confidently for someone who has done absolutely nothing. You, the Virtue of Truth, of all people, sitting on your pedestal of self-righteousness while refusing to even see the world for yourself."

Veritas's lip curled. "And you speak so confidently for someone who let a woman DIE because of your incompetence."

Sera's eyes burned.

"Lilith is dead because of YOU." Veritas enunciated every word with precision, her voice dripping with venom. "Because of your arrogance. Your control. Your inability to see anyone as anything more than a tool."

Sera took a breath—once, twice, willing herself to remain composed.

"You're right."

Veritas blinked. "What?"

Sera looked her dead in the eyes, voice even and sharp. "I did fail Lilith. I pushed her too hard. I did not listen when I should have. I will carry the burden of that until the end of time." She stepped closer, her towering presence darkening. "But do NOT act as if you have the right to stand above me when you did NOTHING."

Veritas snarled. "Nothing? NOTHING? You think I needed to be there, in the Celestial Hall, to know what was happening? I already knew what you and the seraphim were doing. And I was RIGHT."

"Then why didn't you stop it?" Sera's voice was low, quiet.

Veritas froze for a brief moment.

"You knew," Sera continued, "and yet you sat back and watched. If I'm guilty of negligence, then you are guilty of apathy."

Veritas's fists trembled at her sides, but before she could lash out, Sera delivered the final blow.

"At least I tried."

The entire hall fell into complete silence.

Veritas was seething. Her whole body shook with barely contained rage. She opened her mouth—ready to rip Sera apart again—

But then—

"Enough."

The voice was calm. Gentle. But it held weight.

God.

Veritas immediately snapped her mouth shut, her fury momentarily overridden by sheer divine presence.

"Tonight is not about blame." His voice was gentle, but firm. "I understand your grief, your anger. But this is a night to honor Lilith. Not to fight amongst ourselves."

Veritas, though still visibly seething, clamped her mouth shut.

The room finally settled.

Sera exhaled, her shoulders sagging. "A memorial will be held tomorrow. We will mourn her together. That is all that matters now."

And with that, the meeting was dismissed.

The angels began to disperse, though the room was still thick with tension. Veritas shot one last glare at Sera before turning on her heel and leaving. Azazil followed soon after.

Samael remained for a moment longer, standing in quiet thought before silently walking away.

Sera watched them go, exhaustion finally catching up with her.

She had expected mourning.

But she had not expected this.

The Hall of Virtues was anything but peaceful.

Veritas was fuming.

Her hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she paced back and forth, her golden eyes burning with rage. The other virtues sat or stood around her, some exhausted from the announcement, others lost in thought. But Veritas? She was seething.

"I can't believe her!" she spat, her voice sharp and venomous. "Standing there like she's some tragic figure, like she didn't cause this entire mess! Like she's some noble, grieving leader rather than the incompetent fool that she is!"

Triel sighed, rubbing her temples. "Enough, Veritas. It's over. You already said your piece, and frankly, you went too far."

Veritas stopped mid-step and turned sharply. "Too far? Too far?!" She scoffed. "Triel, I held back. I could've said so much more!"

"And you shouldn't have," Triel snapped, standing up. "This isn't about you and your hatred for Sera. Lilith is gone, and we should be focusing on honoring her. Instead, you're ranting about Sera like this is some personal vendetta."

Veritas huffed and crossed her arms, but she didn't argue further.

Levia, who had been quiet for most of the evening, finally spoke up. "I feel... awful." Her soft voice barely carried over the tense room. "We should have helped. If we had gone with Sera when she asked, maybe we could have found Lilith before it was too late."

Asmodel nodded solemnly. "I thought we were doing the right thing. Standing our ground, holding Sera accountable... but in the end, what did it even accomplish?"

Azazil scoffed. "Oh, don't start this again." He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "Sera and the seraphim made their bed. Lilith ran because they pushed her, not us. We had every reason to refuse to help. Sera didn't listen to us before, so why would she have listened then?"

The room fell silent at that. None of them could deny that Sera had caused most of her own suffering.

Plutus, usually the one to bring warmth into the group, sighed and forced a small smile. "Well, at least the humanity project is officially a bust now, huh?"

No one laughed.

Plutus let his smile drop and groaned. "Okay, yeah. Not my best attempt."

Levia, still sniffling slightly, gently leaned against him, wrapping her arms around his in a quiet show of comfort. Plutus immediately stiffened, his face burning dark green, but he didn't pull away.

Then, Veritas lit up. A slow, almost eerie smile spread across her face as a new idea took root in her mind.

"Wait. No. This isn't the end. It's a beginning."

Belfagel frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Veritas's eyes gleamed with something sharp and calculating. "Think about it. Sera and the seraphim screwed up massively. You really think God is just going to let them continue leading this project after everything?"

She stepped closer, lowering her voice like she was letting them in on some great secret. "This is our chance. Our opportunity to prove ourselves. If we convince God to hand the project over to us, we can actually fix this mess. We could—"

"Veritas," Triel interrupted, her voice dangerously low. "Are you seriously trying to use Lilith's death to gain power?"

Veritas waved a hand dismissively. "It's not about power. It's about setting things right. We're the Virtues, for Heaven's sake! We represent the highest ideals of this realm! We could make this project so much better than Sera ever could."

Asmodel frowned. "You just want to rub it in Sera's face."

Veritas scoffed. "That's just an added bonus." She smirked, but Triel caught the shift in her voice, the way the bitterness seeped through.

Belfagel, who had been quietly contemplating, finally spoke. "What would even be the point? The project is already ruined. Without Lilith, it's pretty much over."

Veritas's smirk widened. "No, Belfagel. Lilith's death is the key. It proves that the seraphim are incompetent. It's what gives us our chance."

Azazil chuckled darkly. "So, what you're saying is... Lilith's death is actually a good thing?"

The room went dead silent.

Belfagel stiffened, Levia's face paled, and even Plutus looked disturbed.

Triel's jaw clenched. "Do you even hear yourself right now?"

Veritas hesitated for the briefest moment, but then her confidence doubled down. "I'm just saying we should take advantage of the situation. We can't change the fact that she's dead, but we can make something out of it."

Levia was the first to react, stepping back with a horrified look. "I—I can't believe you'd say that. Lilith... she didn't deserve to die. And now you're talking about her like she's some—some political tool?"

Asmodel, usually the most level-headed, actually looked angry. "We should have helped her, Veritas. We should have done something. But now you're standing here talking like this is some kind of victory?"

Veritas's eyes flashed with irritation. "Oh, please. Don't act like you cared that much. We all made our choices, and Lilith made hers. Now we have to move forward."

Plutus scoffed, stepping away from her. "Yeah, move forward by spitting on her grave? Great plan, Veritas."

The argument continued, voices rising as the virtues turned against each other. Bickering, snapping, all tangled in their own anger, grief, and guilt.

But then—

"Lilith isn't dead."

The room froze.

All eyes snapped toward Samael, who stood in the center of the room, looking... exhausted.

No one spoke. No one even breathed.

Veritas stared at him, her expression unreadable. "What did you just say?"

Samael swallowed, his wings trembling slightly. "Lilith… isn't dead."

In that moment, the Hall of Virtues was completely silent.

Chapter Text

Silence held the Hall of Virtues in an iron grip. All eyes remained locked onto Samael, who stood in the center, unwavering despite the weight of his own revelation.

Triel was the first to break the silence, stepping forward cautiously. "Samael... what do you mean?" Her voice was calm, measured, but there was urgency behind it.

Samael exhaled slowly, steeling himself. "Exactly what I said. Lilith isn't dead."

Plutus furrowed his brows, letting out a nervous chuckle. "Okay, I don't know if this is you trying to lighten the mood or something, but this really isn't the time for jokes."

Levia blinked at him, crossing her arms. "Oh? And what about your joke earlier, Plutus?" She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes.

Plutus groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. "That was different! I was just trying to, you know, lift everyone's spirits."

Samael clapped his hands together loudly, drawing attention back to himself. "Can we focus here?" His voice was firm, more commanding than usual, but also pleading for them to listen. "I mean it. Lilith is alive."

The weight of his words settled over them, confusion and disbelief swirling in the air.

"How?" Belfagel asked bluntly, arms crossed.

Samael took a deep breath and explained everything.

He told them about how he couldn't sit by while Sera begged for help, how he had decided to sneak onto Earth himself to find Lilith, to make sure she survived. He described their conversations—the pain in Lilith's voice, the reasons she left Eden, her refusal to be controlled, and her determination to forge her own path.

He recounted how she was struggling outside of Eden, how he saw firsthand what she was going through, how alone she was. How they had both come up with the idea to stage her death, not just to escape the seraphim's control but to make sure no one would ever come looking for her again.

Samael stood firm. "Lilith didn't deserve to die because of their mistakes. And if I had to lie to everyone to make sure she could live freely, then so be it."

Reactions among the virtues were... mixed.

Levia stepped forward first, placing a hand over her heart. "Oh, Samael..." Her eyes softened, shimmering with unshed tears, but this time they were not out of grief but admiration. "I—I can't even imagine how scared she must've been, how lost. I'm so glad you were there for her."

Plutus grinned, placing a hand on Samael's shoulder. "Wow, mate. You really pulled this off, huh?" He chuckled, but there was genuine warmth in his voice. "I'm proud of you, for real."

Samael gave a small, grateful smile.

But not everyone was happy.

Belfagel's fists clenched at her sides. "You lied to us, Samael."

Asmodel let out a sharp breath. "You lied to everyone. To us, to Sera, to God himself."

Triel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Do you realize the kind of heartache that caused? The way Sera broke down, the way everyone—"

Samael lowered his head slightly. "I know."

There was a beat of silence before he added, "I know I hurt you all, and I hurt Sera. And I won't pretend I don't feel guilty about that." He lifted his gaze again, stronger. "But I don't regret what I did. Because in the end, this was the best choice for Lilith."

There was another long pause.

Then, with a deep sigh, Triel closed the distance between them and pulled Samael into a tight embrace.

"You have a good heart," she murmured. "You were the only one who stepped up. None of us did. We all just talked about it, argued about it—but you actually did something."

Samael blinked in surprise but eventually melted into the hug.

Asmodel sighed, rubbing his temples. "It doesn't make it right, but..." He exhaled sharply. "I get why you did it. And honestly? I'm relieved she's alive."

Belfagel crossed her arms but nodded in reluctant agreement. "I hate that you lied, but I also hate that you had to lie."

For the first time in what felt like forever, the room felt a little lighter.

That is... until Veritas spoke.

"Hah."

The sound was quiet at first. But then it grew into a small, amused chuckle.

Then a laugh.

Then a full-bodied cackle.

Everyone turned to stare at her, confused.

Samael looked at her warily. "What's so funny?"

Veritas wiped a tear from her eye, grinning ear to ear. "Oh, nothing—just that you of all people managed to pull off a deception so perfect that you fooled Sera, the seraphim, and God himself."

Samael blinked. "...Okay?"

But Veritas wasn't finished. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. "And now that I think about it... this could work in my, I mean, our favor."

That made everyone tense.

Triel's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Veritas folded her hands together, her golden eyes glinting as she carefully chose her words. Her usual sharp demeanor softened, her voice smooth like honey.

"I think we're all missing something very important here."

The room remained silent, all eyes on her. Veritas took a slow step forward, looking directly at Samael with an almost sympathetic expression.

"Samael, you have proven beyond a doubt that you have the ability to influence Heaven itself. You fooled the seraphim, Sera, even God himself. You did what none of us thought possible—and you did it to protect someone who was cast aside. You fought for what was right."

Samael stiffened at her words, feeling a strange mix of pride and unease.

Veritas smiled, placing a hand over her chest as she continued.

"Now, imagine if we took that same strength, that same willpower, and applied it to Eden itself."

Triel's eyes narrowed. "What are you getting at?"

Veritas barely glanced at her, keeping her attention on Samael.

"Think about it. The humanity project is failing. It has been since the beginning. The seraphim have run it into the ground with their arrogance, and Sera—" she scoffed, "—she refused to change until it was too late. And even then, she still failed to protect Lilith."

A cold silence fell over the room.

Samael frowned. "I already know that, but—"

"But," Veritas interjected smoothly, "if we took control of the project instead, we could fix it. We could make it into what it was meant to be."

She stepped closer to Samael, her voice lowering, coaxing.

"Imagine it, Samael. If you had more say, if we had more say, we could ensure humanity is nurtured properly. We could take Eden back and create something better than what the seraphim ever could."

Samael hesitated. "But God already gave the project to Sera."

Veritas's smile widened slightly. "And God also put faith in her, believing she would make the right choices. That didn't happen. But now that she's failed, now that she's weak, perhaps we could gently suggest to God that we would be a better choice to oversee humanity."

Plutus scratched his chin. "And, uh, how exactly do we convince God of that?"

Veritas's eyes gleamed. "Oh, that's the easiest part. Lilith."

Samael's breath hitched. "What about her?"

Veritas leaned in just slightly, her words slipping out with careful precision.

"Lilith is alive, but no one else knows that. If we were to reveal her return at the right time, imagine how much we'd be praised. We could make it seem as though we—not Sera, not the seraphim—were the ones who brought her back. We'd be seen as Heaven's saviors, the ones who truly understood how to handle humanity."

Samael's stomach twisted.

"We wouldn't lie exactly," Veritas added, her tone deceptively light. "We'd simply... reframe the narrative."

There was a long pause.

Then Azazil let out an impressed hum. "That's... actually a really good idea."

Triel whipped around to face him. "Are you serious?"

Azazil shrugged. "I mean, think about it. The humanity project needs better leadership, we would be that leadership. And if we bring the archangels in too, we'd have even more backing. We could make sure this entire thing is done right for once."

Asmodel stepped forward, his expression dark with anger. "Don't be stupid, Azazil."

Azazil raised a brow. "Oh, so you want Sera and the seraphim to keep running things?"

"That's not the point!" Asmodel snapped. He turned back to Samael, his tone urgent. "Don't listen to her, Samael. She's twisting this into something it's not."

Samael's head was spinning.

Veritas's words made sense. It was true that the seraphim were failing. It was true that if he and the virtues were in charge, things could be better. And yet, something about the way she spoke made his skin crawl.

Triel had had enough. She stormed forward and grabbed Veritas by the wrist, dragging her off to the side.

"We're going to have a little talk."

Veritas smirked but didn't resist. "Oh, darling, I love our little chats."

Triel shot her a glare and pulled her further away from the group.

Asmodel, meanwhile, turned back to Samael, his voice still laced with frustration. "I mean it, Samael. Don't listen to her. I don't know what's gotten into Veritas, but whatever this is—it's wrong."

Samael swallowed thickly. He wanted to believe that what Veritas was saying wasn't entirely selfish. He wanted to believe that this wasn't about power, but about doing what was right.

But Asmodel's words rang in his ears.

Was it really about fixing things?

Or was it about winning?

His thoughts were interrupted as Azazil scoffed. "Why are you so against this, Asmodel? This is a real chance to make a difference."

Asmodel turned on him sharply. "Because this isn't about fixing the humanity project for her! She doesn't care about making things right—she just wants to get back at Sera!"

Azazil crossed his arms. "And? What if that's a bonus? You of all people should want to put Sera in her place."

Asmodel bristled, his wings twitching with restrained anger. "This is bigger than our personal issues with Sera, and you know it."

The tension between them spiked, the air thick with the promise of a fight.

Plutus, noticing where things were headed, quickly stepped in between them. "Alright, alright, that's enough. Fighting about this isn't gonna help."

Levia followed suit, placing a gentle hand on Asmodel's arm. "Please," she murmured. "Let's not do this."

The heat between Asmodel and Azazil slowly simmered down, but the hostility didn't fade entirely.

Samael clenched his fists, overwhelmed by everything happening around him.

He had done what he thought was right.

But now, he wasn't sure if he had just opened a door that should've stayed shut.

Triel led Veritas away from the group, her grip on the other virtue's wrist firm but not harsh. She didn't stop until they were far enough that their conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Alright, Veritas," Triel said sharply, crossing her arms. "What the hell is going on with you?"

Veritas smirked, tilting her head. "Oh? And what exactly do you mean by that, dear?"

Triel narrowed her eyes. "Don't play dumb with me. You're acting like a completely different person. Manipulating Samael, twisting things to get the other virtues on your side, spreading your bitterness like it's some grand revelation. You're supposed to be the Virtue of Truth, but all you do now is distort it."

Veritas's smirk faltered for a brief moment before her expression cooled into something more calculating. "Distort it? No, Triel, I'm finally telling it."

Triel's wings bristled as she took a step forward. "No, you're twisting it to fit whatever agenda you have now. And for what? Some petty grudge against Sera? Against God? Against everyone who didn't cater to your sense of superiority?"

Veritas scoffed, folding her arms. "Superiority? Oh, Triel, don't reduce this to something so childish. You know as well as I do that this isn't about ego."

"Then what is it about, Veritas? Because it sure as hell isn't about what's right."

Veritas finally sighed, her frustration visible as she ran a hand through her silver hair. "It's about justice. It's about what's fair."

Triel frowned, watching as Veritas's composed mask finally cracked, her words spilling out like she had been holding them in for far too long.

"Do you know what it's like to carry the weight of Truth, Triel? To never be allowed to falter, to never change, because the moment you do, you've suddenly lost your virtue?" Veritas's golden eyes burned with something raw. "Do you know what it's like to be bound by a standard that no one else is held to? The seraphim don't follow Heaven's values, but they get to sit on their thrones, dictating everything. Sera? She was gifted the humanity project, despite her inability to lead, despite her refusal to change."

Her lip curled. "And God? He sat there, knowing what was happening, knowing how flawed the seraphim were, and he still chose to let it happen. I told him what would happen, but what did he do? Nothing."

Triel hesitated. She didn't disagree. She knew the seraphim had been awful, knew Sera had failed, knew that God had been too passive. But something about Veritas's intensity unsettled her.

"We've all suffered under a system that refuses to change," Veritas continued, her voice lowering. "Not just me. All of us. The virtues have been mocked, dismissed, and cast aside for far too long. Especially Samael."

That struck a nerve in Triel. Samael had been treated unfairly. He had tried so hard, only to be ignored, dismissed, and humiliated.

Veritas noticed the shift in Triel's face and pressed on. "And I'm supposed to sit back and accept it? We're supposed to accept it? No. I refuse. Because unlike the others, I see it for what it is. The truth is ugly, but it's still the truth. The seraphim are undeserving. Sera is incompetent. And God was wrong for trusting them."

She met Triel's gaze, her expression dark with conviction. "And I wasn't wrong. Not a single time."

Triel exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. "Okay, maybe not. But that doesn't mean we should go this far. Manipulating Samael, trying to use Lilith as some kind of bargaining chip—it's wrong, Veritas. You know it is."

Veritas let out a small, bitter laugh. "Do I? Because the way I see it, we're finally in a position to change things for the better. We can take control of Eden, nurture humanity properly, and earn the respect we've always deserved. And if it means playing a little dirty, then so be it."

Triel took a step back, eyes wide. "You're actually serious."

Veritas tilted her head, watching her carefully. "Triel, tell me honestly—don't you want things to be better? Don't you want us to be respected, for once?"

Triel hesitated, feeling the weight of the question.

Of course she did.

She wanted Heaven to be fair. She wanted Samael to be valued. She wanted the virtues to be treated as equals.

But not like this.

Veritas took her silence as consideration and leaned in. "We have an opportunity here. We can finally do something. All I need to know is if you're with me, or against me."

Triel clenched her jaw. "I want things to change, Veritas. But I won't let you turn this into some personal vendetta."

Veritas gave a small smile, though there was no warmth behind it. "Then I suppose that's where we differ."

She turned away, her silver hair catching the light as she walked past Triel, her posture poised and unwavering.

"You'll come around," Veritas said over her shoulder. "You always do."

Triel stood still, watching as Veritas disappeared back toward the others, her mind a storm of unease.

She had no doubt now—Veritas was walking a dangerous path. And worse, she was pulling the others with her.

Veritas strode back into the room with effortless poise, her golden eyes sweeping over the gathered virtues like a queen addressing her court. The flickering lanterns in the hall cast elongated shadows against the walls, adding a strange weight to her presence.

"I understand some of you have your doubts," she began smoothly, her voice carrying an air of patient confidence. "And that's fine. I wouldn't expect anything less. But in time, you'll see that I'm right. What I'm offering isn't some selfish ambition—it's a way for all of us to finally be heard. To finally matter."

She took a few slow steps forward, pausing as her gaze flickered between each of them. "Think about it. We all know Sera has failed. The seraphim have failed. Even God—"our" God—sat back and let it all unfold."

Her words carried a dangerous allure, striking at the core of their grievances. "If we do this, we can ensure no more mistakes. No more losses. No more being treated like afterthoughts in Heaven's grand design. This is our opportunity to take charge and make Eden flourish the way it was meant to."

Silence followed her proclamation, the virtues exchanging unreadable glances. Some looked uneasy, others contemplative. Even Azazil, who had initially backed her, remained quiet, his expression difficult to read.

Veritas offered them one last confident smile. "You don't have to decide now. Just... think about it."

With that, she turned on her heel and left the hall, her silver hair catching the dim glow of the lanterns as she disappeared into the corridors leading to her quarters.

The door had barely shut behind Veritas before Triel entered the room again, rubbing her temples as if trying to physically push away a headache. She let out a long sigh, shaking her head in exhaustion.

"Well?" Asmodel asked, his arms crossed. "What did she say?"

Triel exhaled sharply, running a hand through her vibrant hair before looking up. "She's fully convinced that she's in the right. And she's pulling all of us into her madness."

Azazil leaned against the wall, arms still folded. "Madness or not, she's not entirely wrong."

"Oh, give me a break," Asmodel snapped. "She's barely even hiding the fact that she wants to rub this in Sera's face. You know that's part of what's driving her."

Plutus, ever the peacemaker, raised a hesitant hand. "Okay, okay. Maybe Veritas is a bit... intense, but she's got a point about some things."

Levia frowned but nodded slightly. "She does want change. And I can't lie... I want things to be different too."

Belfagel, who had been silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke. "But at what cost?"

The question hung heavy in the air.

None of them had an answer.

Samael sat apart from the others, perched on the edge of a marble bench, his wings slightly slouched behind him. He hadn't spoken much since the conversation began, his mind lost in a tangled mess of thoughts.

Lilith.

He couldn't stop thinking about her—how she had spoken to him, how she had trusted him. How she had confided in him, seeing him not as some lesser seraphim, but as a person, as someone worth listening to.

Then there was Veritas.

Her words felt both enticing and unsettling. He wanted to believe that she truly cared about making things better. That she truly believed in him, in all of them. But there was a hunger in her eyes, a sharpness to her words that reminded him too much of the seraphim—the ones who saw themselves as untouchable, undeniable, above reproach.

Samael clenched his fists.

He wanted to trust Veritas. But something inside him warned him to tread carefully.

Then, a voice.

Soft. Gentle. Familiar.

"Samael."

He flinched, straightening instantly. The voice had echoed not in the room, but directly in his mind—like a whisper carried on the wind, curling around his thoughts with delicate insistence.

"Samael, I need you."

Lilith.

His eyes widened, heart leaping into his throat.

He shot to his feet, wings shifting instinctively.

"Lilith needs me."

The virtues turned to him, their discussions momentarily forgotten.

"What?" Triel asked, concern flashing in her eyes.

"I don't know," Samael admitted. "But she's calling me."

Levia frowned, stepping forward. "Are you sure? You just—"

"I'm sure." Samael's voice was firm. He had felt it, as clearly as if she had been standing beside him.

No more hesitation.

He turned, heading toward the entrance.

"Samael—" Asmodel started, but Samael didn't stop.

Whatever it was, whatever had prompted Lilith to call for him, he had to go.

And he wasn't going to let her down.

Chapter Text

The night air was cold. Unforgiving.

Lilith lay curled beneath the twisted arms of an ancient tree, her body trembling as the wind ghosted over her bare skin. Her tattered dress did little to keep her warm, the once soft fabric now worn thin from her time outside Eden's walls. The earth beneath her was hard, uneven—sharp twigs digging into her back, damp leaves clinging to her skin.

She had never had to sleep like this before.

Back in Eden, she had known warmth, comfort. A bed of soft grass under the shade of the great tree where she and Adam would rest after their long days. Even when she had been miserable there, at least she had never been cold.

Now?

Now, she was alone.

Lilith shifted, trying to find a position that didn't make her muscles ache, but every movement just made her more aware of how exposed she was. She pulled her legs closer, hugging herself as she looked up at the night sky.

The stars twinkled above, scattered like tiny lanterns across a sea of endless darkness. In Eden, she had loved to gaze at them, their light a comfort, a reminder that there was something greater beyond the garden's boundaries. But here, beyond the safety of the paradise she had left behind, they seemed distant. Uncaring.

Everything felt different now.

She should have been celebrating. She had won. The seraphim thought she was dead. No more threats. No more pressure. No more being treated as lesser. She was free.

So why did she feel so... small?

The chill nipped at her skin, and she swallowed down the creeping dread clawing at her throat. Her stomach growled, the ache of hunger setting in. She had no food. No shelter. No plan.

Freedom, as sweet as it had seemed, was terrifying.

Her breath hitched as she bit down on her lip, trying to keep her thoughts from spiraling. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't break. She had left Eden for a reason. She had made her choice. She wasn't going to regret it now.

But...

She was tired.

And cold.

And alone.

Then, she remembered.

Samael.

"I need to go back. But... if you ever need me, I'll find you. I promise."

His words echoed in her mind, soft yet certain.

A promise.

Lilith hesitated. She had never prayed before. Not to God. Not to anyone. It felt strange—like she was reaching out into the void, hoping something would answer back.

But she had nothing else left.

So, she took a slow breath, pressing her hands together, her fingers trembling slightly. She closed her eyes, focusing on the one name that had come to mean hope to her.

"Samael," she whispered into the quiet of the night.

The wind stirred slightly, rustling the leaves around her.

"I don't know if you can hear me," she continued, her voice barely above a breath. "But I need you."

A lump formed in her throat, but she pushed through it.

"I don't know what to do now. I thought I had everything figured out, but... I don't. I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I have nowhere to go. I didn't think it would be this hard."

She inhaled shakily, staring at her hands, clasped together tightly in the dim glow of the moon.

"You said you'd find me if I needed you. So... here I am. Needing you."

Her voice wavered, but her resolve held firm.

"Please, Samael... come find me."

She opened her eyes, her breath fogging in the cold night air.

Now... all she had to do was wait.

Samael flew swiftly through the quiet expanse of Heaven, his mind fixed solely on his destination. The gentle glow of celestial light illuminated his path, casting soft golden hues along the grand marble structures of the Celestial Hall. He kept his focus ahead, his wings beating steadily, determination guiding his every movement.

Lilith needed him.

Yet, just as he neared the entrance, a familiar voice caught his attention.

"Ah, Samael," Uriel greeted, turning from her conversation partner. Her warm amber gaze settled on him, her tone light and friendly.

Samael instinctively slowed, hovering just slightly before settling onto the cloud-like flooring. "Uriel," he greeted politely, nodding to her before realizing who she had been speaking with.

Sera.

His body tensed.

Sera stood beside Uriel, her expression unreadable yet tinged with something cautious, almost hesitant. She regarded him for a moment before offering a quiet, "Hello, Samael."

He hesitated.

A part of him told him to ignore her—to just move past her and leave before anything could be said. But his ingrained politeness won over.

"...Hey."

His voice lacked warmth. He kept his eyes trained on Uriel rather than Sera, not wanting to meet the gaze of someone who had already let him down too many times.

Uriel, seemingly unaware of the underlying tension, smiled softly. "It's good to see you out and about. How have you been? And where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Samael forced an easygoing smile, scratching the back of his head as he thought quickly. "Oh, you know—just running some errands for Triel." He waved his hand dismissively, adding, "She's been on me about finishing something, and I really just want to get it done as soon as possible."

Uriel chuckled. "That does sound like Triel. You two have always been close." She tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "She's like an older sister to you... maybe even a mother figure."

Samael felt his stomach twist.

He stiffened slightly, his forced smile faltering as he risked a glance at Sera.

She, too, had tensed, her fingers subtly curling into her palm. Her face remained still, but he could see the way her shoulders squared, how her breath hitched ever so slightly.

A mother figure.

The words hung in the air, awkward and unspoken between them.

Once upon a time, that was what she had been to him. Someone to look up to, someone he admired. Someone who should have protected him.

But she hadn't.

Samael shifted, eager to escape the sudden heaviness that lingered between them. "Anyway," he said quickly, "I should probably get going. Don't want to keep her waiting."

Before he could lift off, Sera finally spoke.

"Samael."

He stopped mid-motion, not turning fully toward her but still pausing long enough for her to continue.

"Will you be at the memorial tomorrow?"

Her voice was composed, careful, as if bracing for his response.

Samael's wings twitched slightly. "...Yeah. I will."

He swallowed, his expression darkening slightly as he added, "I cared for Lilith, too."

His voice was quieter now, almost a mutter. But as he turned away and prepared to leave, a final thought escaped his lips, unfiltered.

"...More than you ever did."

And then he was gone, lifting off into the sky, vanishing into the distance before Sera could even think of responding.

The words cut deeper than she expected.

Sera remained frozen, staring at the spot where Samael had been just moments ago.

She had been called out before. By Veritas. By Azazil. By the other virtues. But for some reason, this—coming from him—stung the worst.

Uriel frowned slightly, watching Sera's reaction with concern. "...Why haven't you and Samael ever talked things through?"

Sera inhaled sharply through her nose, exhaling through parted lips as she slowly turned her gaze away. "It's too late," she murmured. "Whatever's left of us... it's already broken."

Uriel shook her head. "I don't believe that. Relationships heal with time, Sera. You just need to—"

"No."

Sera's voice was firm this time.

"He won't ever trust me again."

The words felt final.

Uriel wanted to argue—to reassure her that it wasn't over, that Samael could forgive her. But she saw it in Sera's face.

Sera didn't believe it.

And, maybe... she was right.

Samael descended onto the earth, the cold night air brushing against his skin as he landed outside the dense forest. His celestial glow softened under the moonlight, his gaze scanning the area for any signs of Lilith.

It didn't take long to spot her.

She was sitting under a tree, arms wrapped around herself, shivering slightly. The exhaustion was written all over her face—her movements sluggish, her eyes half-lidded. She was clearly fighting off sleep.

Samael frowned. "You look exhausted."

Lilith glanced up at him, her lips pulling into a tired, weak smirk. "You're late."

Samael snorted, walking closer before settling beside her. "I came as soon as I could. What's going on? What do you need?"

Lilith sighed, shifting uncomfortably where she sat. "I haven't been able to get any sleep. It's too cold, the ground is hard and rough, and no matter where I try to rest, I can't get comfortable." She rubbed her arms, frustration creeping into her tone. "I don't know how I'm supposed to live like this."

Samael hummed in thought. "Have you tried making a bed with leaves?"

Lilith gave him an unimpressed look. "I tried. They got damp, were itchy, and just... made everything worse." She frowned. "And what's a 'bed'?"

Samael blinked. "Wait—you don't know what a bed is?"

Lilith shook her head. "Never heard of it."

His frown deepened. "Did Sera or the seraphim give you and Adam anything to sleep on? Like a mattress or even blankets?"

Lilith scoffed. "No. We usually just slept under a tree together."

Samael's brows furrowed in disbelief. "So, they didn't even provide you with proper sleeping arrangements?"

Lilith shrugged. "We didn't really know we were missing anything, I guess. Eden had everything we needed... at least, that's what I used to think." Her expression darkened slightly. "There was no bed. No house. No real place to call home. Just the garden."

Samael stared at her for a moment, a deep irritation settling in his chest. The first humans—God's supposed greatest creation—weren't even given basic necessities? He always thought Eden was supposed to be a paradise, but hearing this made it sound more like a glorified campsite.

"That's not fair," Samael muttered, shaking his head. "You should've been given a home."

Lilith sighed. "Well, it's too late for that now."

Samael stood abruptly. "No, it's not. I'll make one for you."

Lilith blinked up at him. "What?"

"You need a bed, right?" Samael grinned. "Why stop there? I'll build you an entire home. Somewhere safe, somewhere comfortable—where you can actually rest without worrying about the cold or the rough ground."

Lilith hesitated. "...That sounds nice, but what if the seraphim find it?"

Samael waved off her concerns. "I'll put up a magic barrier. No one will be able to see it unless you want them to."

Lilith still looked uncertain, but a part of her was already warming up to the idea. A home. The word itself sounded... strange, yet inviting.

Samael suddenly reached out, plucking a twig from her hair. "But before I get started, you should go clean up and relax. I can handle the rest."

Lilith glanced at the twig, then at herself, realizing just how dirty she was. "...Alright, fair point."

"There's a lake not too far from here," Samael said. "Go wash up. By the time you're back, I'll have something set up."

Lilith gave him a skeptical look. "You really think you can build a home in that short amount of time?"

Samael smirked. "You forget—I have magic."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. As she turned to head toward the lake, Samael watched her go, then glanced around at the forest.

No.

A simple shelter wasn't enough.

She deserved more than just a bed and four walls. She needed a real home—a place that was warm, safe, and comfortable. Somewhere she wouldn't just survive but actually live.

His gaze flickered to a nearby rock formation, an idea forming. A cave. Spacious, hidden, and naturally insulated—it would be perfect.

With a flick of his wrist, he cleared out the debris, smoothing the stone walls and raising a natural archway at the entrance. He manipulated the earth, forming separate spaces within—one for sleeping, one for bathing, and even a small area for storage.

Then, he conjured soft, warm furs to cover the ground for bedding, a proper fire pit, and even a small pool of fresh water within the cave for bathing. Next, he ensured a steady food supply by growing edible plants nearby. He even created small wooden furniture—a table, a chair, a shelf—details that made it feel lived in.

Lilith wouldn't just have a shelter.

She'd have a home.

Chapter Text

The cool night air sent shivers down Lilith's spine as she waded out of the lake, wringing out the excess water from her long, damp hair. She had scrubbed herself as best as she could, ridding her skin of the dirt and grime that had clung to her for days. It wasn't the same as bathing in Eden's pristine rivers, but it was refreshing nonetheless.

She held up her dress, now rinsed clean but still tattered from the past days of survival. The fabric was still damp, and the torn edges only served as a reminder of everything she had been through.

With a resigned sigh, she slipped it back on.

It clung to her uncomfortably, the cool wetness sending another round of chills through her body, but it was all she had. She wasn't about to walk around naked.

As she stepped out of the clearing and made her way back toward Samael, she spotted him hovering nearby, his blue eyes lighting up the moment he saw her.

"You're back!" he said eagerly, floating over to meet her. "How was your bath?"

Lilith rolled her shoulders. "It was fine. Could've been warmer, but I can't exactly be picky out here."

Samael nodded, then his gaze drifted downward, noticing the way her dress clung to her. "Uh... you're still soaked."

Lilith let out an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, I know. It's my only dress, and I don't really have another option." She crossed her arms. "Unless you'd prefer me to just walk around naked."

Samael immediately turned a shade pink, waving his hands frantically. "Nope! Nope! That won't be necessary! I can help with that!"

Lilith raised a brow. "Help?"

Samael grinned and snapped his fingers. A soft, golden light surrounded her, warm and soothing like the sun on a spring morning. In an instant, the wet fabric dried completely, the lingering chill leaving her body. She glanced down in surprise—not only was the dress dry, but the rips and tears had been seamlessly mended.

It looked brand new.

Lilith blinked, then looked at Samael. "How did you—"

"Magic," he said proudly, crossing his arms. "A simple trick, really."

Lilith ran her fingers over the smooth, now-intact fabric, unable to deny the relief that flooded through her. She hadn't felt this clean or comfortable since she left Eden. "Huh," she muttered. "I was expecting something more flashy."

Samael smirked. "I can make it flashy if you want."

Lilith rolled her eyes but smiled slightly. "No thanks." She exhaled. "Still, I appreciate it. This feels... nice."

"Don't thank me yet." Samael's grin widened mischievously. "I have a surprise for you."

Lilith narrowed her eyes. "A surprise?"

"You'll see!" Samael hovered a little ahead, motioning for her to follow. "Come on, I promise it's worth it."

Lilith hesitated for a moment before sighing and walking after him. She had no idea what Samael was up to, but she had to admit—his enthusiasm was at least slightly contagious.

Whatever it was, he looked very excited to show her.

And for the first time in a while, she found herself curious.

Lilith followed closely behind Samael as they entered the cave, her footsteps light on the cool stone floor. She hadn't expected much—perhaps a simple shelter, something to keep the wind and cold at bay. But as she stepped inside, her breath hitched.

The cave had been transformed into a home.

Soft golden light from floating orbs illuminated the space, casting a warm glow on the carefully arranged furnishings. A fireplace sat in the center of the main chamber, crackling with a steady, comforting flame. A plush, comfortable-looking bed rested against the far wall, layered with thick, warm blankets and soft pillows. A pool of fresh, crystal-clear water shimmered in a side alcove, perfect for bathing.

As she moved deeper inside, she took in the intricate details of her new home—things that she had never even considered but now couldn't imagine living without. There were wooden cabinets and a pantry, fully stocked with food that wouldn't run out. A fridge, cold to the touch, with fresh fruit, vegetables, and other ingredients neatly stored inside. Shelves lined with books, some old and worn, others pristine and new, waiting to be read. A corner of the room was filled with painting supplies—blank canvases, jars of vibrant paints, brushes of all sizes, and even a small wooden easel.

Lilith reached out, touching the wooden furniture, running her fingers over the smooth surface. She turned to the closet, pulling open its doors to reveal dresses of all colors and fabrics, each one tailored perfectly to her size. She traced her fingers along the intricate embroidery on one of the garments, stunned into silence.

She spun back around, eyes wide as she stared at Samael, who was fidgeting with his gloves, waiting for her reaction.

"This... this is all mine?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Samael nodded eagerly. "Of course! It's all for you. Your space, your things. Everything you could ever need." He grinned. "I, uh... wasn't really sure what you liked, so I kinda just went overboard with everything."

Lilith turned in slow circles, taking it all in again. "You did all of this... for me?"

Samael shrugged. "Well, yeah. You deserve a home, Lilith. A real home. Not just a garden to sleep in."

Lilith's hands trembled slightly as she looked around once more. No one had ever done anything like this for her before. No one had ever cared this much. She had been created to serve a purpose, to fulfill a duty, to be someone else's. But here... this was hers. Truly hers.

Without thinking, she turned and threw her arms around Samael, burying her face into his shoulder.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Samael stiffened at first, surprised by the sudden hug, but quickly melted into it, wrapping his arms around her as well. He smiled against her hair, relief washing over him. "You don't have to thank me so much. I just wanted you to be comfortable."

Lilith pulled back slightly, looking up at him. "No, you don't understand. No one has ever done something like this for me. No one has ever cared this much."

Samael's smile softened. "Well... I do."

Lilith inhaled deeply, steadying herself. She had to blink rapidly to keep herself from tearing up, overwhelmed by everything.

Samael cleared his throat awkwardly and took a step back, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, now that you're all set up, I should probably get going and let you settle in—"

Lilith suddenly reached out, grabbing his sleeve before he could take another step. Samael blinked at her in surprise.

"Wait." She hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Stay. Just for a little while. I can... I can make something for you."

Samael tilted his head. "Make something?"

Lilith nodded. "Bread. I learned how to make it back in Eden with grains from the garden. It's... the one thing I know how to cook properly."

Samael's smile returned. "You want to make me bread?"

Lilith looked away, slightly embarrassed. "I just... I just don't want to be alone right now."

Samael's heart squeezed at her words.

"Then I'll stay," he said without hesitation. "I'd love to try your bread."

Lilith gave him a small, grateful smile before moving toward the pantry to gather ingredients. Samael watched her for a moment, then sat himself down across from her on a stool at the countertop, settling in as warmth filled both the room and his chest.

Neither of them voiced it, but they both knew.

Neither of them really wanted to be alone tonight.

Lilith's hands worked skillfully, kneading the dough on the smooth stone countertop. Her movements were practiced, but there was an ease to them now—something almost enjoyable about the simple act of baking. Samael watched her with a curious glint in his eyes.

"So," he said suddenly, resting his chin in his hands, "what's your favorite color?"

Lilith paused mid-knead, blinking at him. "What?"

Samael grinned. "Your favorite color. What is it?"

Lilith frowned slightly. "I... I don't know."

Samael sat up straighter. "Really?"

Lilith gave a small shrug. "I've never really thought about it before. No one's ever asked me."

Samael tapped his chin, thinking. "Well, if you had to pick one, right now, what would it be?"

Lilith looked around her home, her eyes scanning over the fabrics of the dresses in her wardrobe, the glow of the fireplace, the soft flickering of candlelight against the stone walls. She finally looked down at the flour-dusted countertop and exhaled thoughtfully.

"...Maybe a warm color. Like a deep red, or gold."

Samael beamed. "Good choice. I think they'd suit you."

Lilith gave him a side glance, slightly amused. "What about you?"

"Blue," Samael said without hesitation. "It reminds me of the sky when it's clear, endless, and free."

Lilith smiled softly at that but said nothing. She turned back to the dough, folding it over itself again.

Samael rested his elbows on the counter, watching her curiously. "What else do you like?"

Lilith raised a brow. "You're asking a lot of questions."

Samael chuckled. "I want to know more about you."

Lilith paused, pressing her hands into the dough. "...I don't really know."

"What do you mean?"

Lilith exhaled slowly. "I was created with a purpose. Everything I've ever done was because I had to. Baking, gardening, all of it... Those were just skills I was taught or pushed to learn by the seraphim. But what do I like?" She frowned, staring at the dough. "I have no idea."

Samael tilted his head, considering her words. Then, he smiled brightly. "Then we'll figure it out together."

Lilith looked up at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

"We can find out what you like," Samael continued. "There's no rush. We'll try new things, explore, and you can decide for yourself what brings you joy."

Lilith stared at him, something warm blooming in her chest. "...I'd like that."

Samael leaned forward, resting his cheek against his palm. "And do you have any questions about me?"

Lilith tapped the dough thoughtfully. "I do have some things I've been wondering about you."

Samael grinned. "Oh? Do tell."

Lilith turned to him with a curious expression. "What exactly do you do in Heaven?"

Samael straightened a little, tapping his fingers on the countertop. "I teach young angels and cherubs. Mostly about humility, kindness, and how to care for one another."

Lilith's brows raised slightly. "That suits you."

Samael chuckled. "You think so?"

Lilith nodded. "You're a good teacher. I mean, you're teaching me all sorts of things right now."

Samael beamed at the compliment. "I also play music," he added. "I love playing my violin."

Lilith perked up at that. "A violin?"

Samael nodded, his excitement growing. "Yeah. It's my favorite instrument. I've been playing for as long as I can remember."

Lilith was intrigued. "What does it sound like?"

Samael's eyes twinkled. "I'll show you one day. I promise."

Lilith found herself smiling. "I'd like that."

As their conversation carried on, Lilith finished shaping the dough and placed it into the brick oven. The warmth of the fire flickered across her face, and she let out a soft sigh, relieved that it was finally baking.

Samael clapped his hands together. "Alright, now for the least fun part—cleaning up."

Lilith smirked. "You don't have to help."

Samael placed a hand over his chest dramatically. "What kind of guest would I be if I just sat around while you did all the work?"

Lilith rolled her eyes but smiled as they began tidying up. Side by side, they worked together, dusting off flour, washing the bowls, wiping down the counter. The rhythmic motion of it was almost soothing, and Lilith found herself at ease for the first time in a long while.

As she worked, her mind drifted. She thought about Samael's kindness, his warmth, how effortlessly he treated her as an equal. How he asked what she wanted, how he wanted to help her figure out who she was, what she loved. It was something she had never experienced before—not with the seraphim, not even with Adam.

And as she stood next to him, cleaning up their mess, she realized something else.

Samael was nothing like Adam.

Adam had always been compliant, willing to accept whatever was given to him. But Samael? He fought for what was right, even if it made things harder.

Adam had never tried to understand her. He had simply followed the seraphim's guidance, believing she should fall in line with their wishes. But Samael? He listened to her. He valued her voice.

Adam had never made her feel truly safe.

Samael had.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he hummed softly to himself, drying off a bowl with a cloth.

This man—this angel—who had been nothing but kind to her, who had helped her in every way imaginable without expecting anything in return.

She didn't know what it was, this warmth spreading in her chest. But it was real.

And it was much, much stronger than anything she had ever felt for the man she was supposedly meant to spend eternity with.

The aroma of freshly baked bread filled the cozy cave, wrapping the space in warmth and comfort. Lilith carefully pulled the loaf from the brick oven, its golden crust crisp beneath her fingertips. She placed it on the wooden table, tearing it in half with her hands, steam rising between them.

"Here," she said, handing one piece to Samael.

Samael accepted the bread with a beaming smile. "You didn't have to share. But I am glad you did."

Lilith chuckled softly. "I did make this for you, after all."

They each took a bite. The texture was perfect—soft inside, with a slight crunch on the crust. A subtle sweetness lingered, reminding Samael of something familiar.

"This tastes amazing," he said between bites, his voice full of delight. "It reminds me of Triel's cooking."

Lilith raised a brow. "Triel?"

Samael nodded, swallowing another bite before he continued. "One of the virtues. She's the Virtue of Temperance, and she makes sure we all take care of ourselves properly. She's like a big sister to everyone, always making sure we don't overwork or neglect ourselves."

Lilith smirked slightly. "Sounds like you really care about her."

"I do," Samael said fondly. "I care about all the virtues. They're my family." His expression softened as he continued, "They were always there for me, even when the seraphim weren't. They listen, they support me, and they actually respect me. I'd do anything for them."

Lilith stared at him, a mixture of admiration and something deeper swirling in her chest. Samael was nothing if not selfless. Despite how he had been treated, despite being cast aside by those who should have supported him, he still remained so kind, so giving. It was a stark contrast to what she had been used to.

"You're really something else, Samael," Lilith murmured.

Samael tilted his head, surprised by the comment. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Lilith simply shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Never mind."

They sat together in comfortable silence for a moment, finishing their meal. Lilith felt an unfamiliar warmth inside her—not just from the food but from the company. She had never expected to feel this comfortable, this safe with someone.

But as the night wore on, Samael eventually stretched and sighed.

"I should probably go," he said reluctantly. "I don't want the virtues worrying about me... or worse, anyone else getting suspicious."

Lilith's smile faded. She didn't want him to leave. Not yet.

She hesitated before speaking. "...Do you really have to?"

Samael's expression softened. "I don't want to, but I have to be careful. If they suspect anything, they might start looking for you again."

Lilith lowered her gaze, gripping the edge of the table. "Right."

Samael stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. "But listen—if you ever need me, just call for me. I promise I'll always be there."

Lilith looked up at him, searching his face for any hint of dishonesty. But, as always, his words were sincere.

She exhaled softly. "Okay. I'll hold you to that promise."

Samael grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

With one final glance around, making sure everything was in place, he turned toward the cave's entrance.

"Goodnight, Lilith," he said, giving her a small wave before stepping into the darkness.

Lilith watched as his figure disappeared into the night, her heart feeling unexpectedly... heavy.

Once he was gone, she sighed, making her way to the bed Samael had provided. She laid down, sinking into the soft blankets, feeling warmth wrap around her for the first time in what felt like forever.

It was comfortable. Far more comfortable than sleeping on the cold, unforgiving ground.

And yet, even with the comfort, even with the warmth, she still felt restless. She turned onto her side, staring at the flickering firelight against the stone walls.

She wasn't cold anymore.

But she was still alone.

Meanwhile, Samael carefully made his way back toward the Celestial Hall, ensuring he avoided any detection. His heart was still racing—not from fear, but from the excitement of what he had accomplished. Lilith was safe. She was free.

But as he approached the hall, he remembered that he needed to keep up appearances.

With a snap of his fingers, he conjured a few carefully chosen items—gifts for Triel. Some fresh fruits, a book he knew she had been wanting, and a few other small things.

He sighed, knowing that he'd need to make his return seem as mundane as possible. If anyone asked, he had simply been running errands for Triel.

As long as he played it right, no one would ever suspect a thing.

Chapter Text

The Celestial Chambers of Light were draped in silver veils and glimmering starlight. Gentle luminescence radiated from the marble floor, and floating lilies, summoned by the angels of beauty and nature, drifted in the air. Every angel in Heaven had gathered for the memorial of Lilith—the first woman, the one who was said to be lost too soon.

Archangels, seraphim, virtues, cherubs, and even minor angels filled the vast, sacred space. Rows of glowing benches, shaped like clouds, hovered above the ground, supporting the mourners as soft, ethereal music played from harps high in the rafters. Despite the beauty of the hall, the air was heavy with solemnity.

At the head of the chamber, standing upon a raised platform, was God. Cloaked in flowing, radiant white, his presence was gentle yet vast, like a flame hidden behind glass. As the music dimmed, he lifted a hand and all grew still.

"Thank you all for coming," God said, his voice a harmonious echo that filled the hall. "Today, we gather not only to mourn, but to honor the soul of Lilith, the first woman—curious, bold, and unlike any other."

The angels bowed their heads, many of them teary-eyed. Even Michael, stoic as ever, looked quietly reflective. Gabriel's hands were folded over his heart. Uriel's eyes were sad but firm.

"And I know," God continued softly, "that tensions have been high as of late. That there has been loss. That there has been blame. But today is not a day for conflict. Today, we remember. We grieve together, as one Heaven. No fights. No personal disputes. Let this space remain sacred."

Many looked uncomfortable at that—especially the virtues. Triel glanced at Veritas with a warning glance. Veritas, on the surface, looked placid, but deep down she was burning. "A dig at me," she thought bitterly. "Of course." But she said nothing, keeping her arms folded.

"Before we begin," God said, "there is someone very important who will speak first—someone who knew Lilith best."

And with that, he turned to the entrance of the chamber and opened a hand. The doors parted like parting clouds, and out stepped Adam.

Gasps rippled across the room.

"The first man," murmured a young cherub.

"I didn't think he could leave Eden," whispered another.

"What is he doing here?" Levia whispered to Plutus.

"I... didn't think he'd come," Triel murmured, genuinely stunned.

Even the seraphim shifted uneasily. Sera, seated near the front, folded her hands tightly together. Samael simply watched, quiet and unreadable.

Adam looked out of place in the chamber. He wore simple robes, white but dusted with the earthy brown of Eden. His golden brown eyes were dulled by exhaustion, pain, and tears. His hair, once neat, was tousled. But he stood tall, stepping up onto the platform where God had once stood.

God placed a reassuring hand on Adam's shoulder before stepping aside, letting the man have the floor.

Adam took a deep breath, gazing out over the sea of divine beings. For a moment, his mouth didn't open. He looked like he might break down again. Then, with trembling hands, he spoke.

"Lilith..." he began, his voice raw and fragile, "...was everything to me. She was the first person I ever met. The first voice I ever heard that wasn't God's or the seraphim. She was strong. She was brave. She was so, so full of life."

A silence overtook the crowd as Adam's voice cracked.

"I didn't... I didn't treat her right." He clenched his fists. "I was scared. I was weak. And I let fear control me. I listened to others instead of listening to her. I let people— beings —tell me she wasn't enough. That she needed to be different. That she needed to change."

Tears welled in his eyes, and his words were barely a whisper now.

"I hit her. And I can never take that back."

Even the coldest of angels couldn't ignore the heartbreak in his voice. Whispers spread like waves. Many stared down at the floor, ashamed. Others watched Adam with awe, not expecting such honesty.

"I didn't deserve her," he said. "I wanted her to be something she wasn't. But Lilith... Lilith was real. She was fire, and freedom, and courage. And I loved her. I didn't know it until it was too late, but I did. I loved her with everything I had. And now she's gone."

He paused, breathing shakily. "I would give anything to go back. To fix it. But I can't. So all I can do is say this: I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Adam looked up at the gathered host. "I hope you all remember her—not for the tragedy, but for the woman she was. Unafraid. Uncompromising. Unapologetic. And I hope... if there's another life after this, or another garden, or another chance... that she'll be free in it. That she'll get to be who she wants to be."

He stepped down, his head bowed, and returned to his seat. The room was still silent, but not cold. Warm with grief. With reflection.

Samael's heart thudded in his chest. Not even he expected that . Not from Adam. Not from the man he thought had only been the seraphim's puppet. For the first time, he saw Adam as someone hurting. Broken.

The silence was held just a little longer, out of respect.

Then God rose once more. "You may now come forward, one at a time, if you wish to speak."

As the memorial continued, the line of angels stepping forward grew longer. Not all had known Lilith personally, but her story had reached every corner of Heaven. And her memory—her legend—was already beginning to take root in their hearts.

Gabriel was the first to walk forward after Adam, his expression calm, but his hands nervously clutching each other. His voice was soft as he spoke, "I never met Lilith, not truly. But I read her story in the whispers of Samael, in the tears of Sera, and in the silence of Adam. She must have been remarkable, because her absence is so deeply felt by those around her. That kind of presence... it's rare. And it's beautiful."

Michael came next, his arms folded tightly as if bracing himself. "I didn't know her either. I was busy... training, fighting, preparing. But if what Adam says is true, and what we've heard these past days is real, then I missed something important. Something sacred. And I regret that."

Uriel stood, her voice steady but sorrowful. "I often teach cherubs about light, wisdom, and understanding. But I never taught them about freedom. Not really. I should have paid more attention. And to Lilith, wherever her spirit rests—I hope you know you changed us."

Triel stepped up next, her eyes glistening. "I could have helped," she admitted, "but I didn't. I let my resentment and pride get in the way. I'm sorry. I hope one day, you'll find peace. Real peace."

Then Levia, with tear-streaked cheeks, quietly approached the front, Plutus supporting her arm gently. "Lilith... you were kind in a world that tried to mold you. You were bold in a world that wanted you silent. And that... that makes you stronger than any angel I've ever known."

Plutus, wiping his own tears, added softly, "If kindness is a garden, then you were its most stubborn bloom. You grew where you weren't wanted, and now... now Heaven finally sees how beautiful you were."

More followed—Zadkiel, who quietly apologized in front of everyone for not speaking up sooner, for not doing more when it mattered. A few of the seraphim—awkward, uncertain, but genuine—offered their regrets and sorrow. Even angels who never met her approached, moved by the stories.

Then the room quieted again. A soft hush fell as Sera slowly stood and walked to the center. Her wings dragged behind her as if weighed down by guilt.

She didn't speak right away.

When she finally did, her voice was hoarse. "I won't stand here and try to excuse anything. I've already apologized to Adam. I've cried alone on a cloud, wondering where I went wrong. And the truth is, I went wrong the moment I decided I didn't need anyone else."

Her eyes were distant, tired. "I thought I could manage this project on my own. I thought the seraphim could lead perfectly, because we were created to lead. I believed that duty meant dismissing emotion. And in doing that, I failed Lilith. I failed everyone. And for that, I'll always carry this grief."

She turned to Adam. "I'm sorry. For what I took from you. From her."

Then to the crowd. "Let this be a lesson... not to obey blindly. Not to rule carelessly. But to listen . And to love, even when it's difficult."

Sera bowed her head and began to walk away. And just as she stepped down from the platform—

Veritas stood.

Gasps rippled through the room. The click of her heels echoed with each graceful step. Her elegant face unreadable, she passed Sera without a word, but the tension was palpable. Even God subtly tensed.

Triel watched carefully, shoulders stiff. Everyone held their breath.

Veritas stood in the center, hands folded before her, gaze sweeping the room. Her expression was not cruel. Not smug. Just... thoughtful.

"I didn't know Lilith," she said. "But I know what it feels like to be ignored. To be dismissed. To be expected to play a part so perfectly that any deviation makes you seem broken."

Silence.

"I am the Virtue of Truth. But in Heaven... truth is often inconvenient. Unwelcome. When I spoke it before, I was called cruel. Harsh. Emotional." Her gaze flicked, just barely, toward Sera. "But truth, no matter how sharp it is, is still truth."

She paced slowly. "Lilith's death was a tragedy. But it wasn't just the loss of a life. It was the loss of potential . The chance to do something better —to build something beautiful... was wasted. And it was wasted because no one listened to her. Because those in power refused to listen."

A murmur rolled through the crowd.

Veritas continued, voice lowering. "Lilith stood for something. Choice. Voice. Will. And those who dismissed her tried to tell her she wasn't enough. That she should change. Submit. She didn't. And now, she's gone. That should never have happened."

She paused... then looked toward the side of the chamber.

"Samael," she said, tone soft but firm, "You cared about Lilith more than anyone in this room. You tried harder than anyone. I think... you should speak next."

Every eye turned to Samael. A lump formed in his throat.

He hadn't planned on saying anything. But now—after hearing everything, after Veritas's words, after seeing the grief in Adam's eyes and the sorrow in Sera's voice—he couldn't stay silent anymore.

Samael slowly rose to his feet.

And began to walk forward, all the way up to the platform.

He stood in the center of the chamber, every eye fixed on him. His usual brightness, the playfulness he carried in his wings and voice, was quiet now—his glow was softer, more subdued. He looked around, searching for the right words.

"I didn't know what I was going to say when I came up here," he began, voice low and trembling. "But... now that I'm here, I think I just need to speak from the heart."

He looked toward the floor, then raised his head again—eyes shimmering faintly.

"I knew Lilith," he said, breath catching slightly. "Not just as an observer, not just as someone who watched from afar... but as someone who understood her. Or tried to. She... she was the first human I ever met who made me feel something more than duty. More than curiosity. There was something about her—this... fire."

He clenched a hand to his chest.

"She didn't want to obey, not because she was stubborn, but because she knew that her voice mattered. Because she believed she was more than just someone else's idea of what a woman should be. And she was right. She was more. She was brave, and bold, and yes... angry. But she had every right to be. She had the whole world pushing her into a shape that didn't fit, and still—still she stood tall."

The silence in the chamber was thick, charged.

"I saw myself in her. That struggle... it felt familiar. All of us who've ever been told to stay in line, to keep quiet, to obey—we should've stood with her. We should've listened to her. I should've done more."

His voice cracked. "But I didn't. I let her run off alone. And I'll never stop thinking about what more I could've done—what we could've done—if we had just tried to understand her."

Samael closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself before speaking again, softer now.

"I know she would've appreciated all of you being here. Saying these things. Maybe... maybe somewhere, she can hear them. Maybe these words reach her. I hope they do. Because she deserves to know that she mattered. That she changed us. That she changed me."

He looked toward the gathered angels, then up—toward the towering golden ceiling of the Celestial Chambers of Light.

"She wasn't perfect. But none of us are. What she was... was real . And in a place like this, that makes her unforgettable."

He stepped down slowly, wings folded close, and returned to his seat in silence.

The chamber stayed still.

Then, after a long silence, God stepped forward once more. His presence was both comforting and commanding, a beacon of unwavering light amidst the sea of contemplative faces.

"Beloved children," His voice resonated, carrying the warmth of infinite compassion, "I appreciate you all for coming to honor Lilith, to share our memories, our regrets, and our hopes. Your words have been sincere, your hearts laid bare."

He paused, allowing His gaze to sweep across the assembly, meeting the eyes of each angel, instilling in them a sense of individual recognition and love.

"In our journey," He continued, "we are often presented with paths untraveled, choices unexplored, and voices unheard. It is in these moments of omission that we must seek understanding, for the shadows of neglect can lead even the brightest stars astray."

The angels listened intently, the depth of His words stirring something profound within them.

"Let this gathering serve not only as a remembrance," God intoned, "but as a lesson etched into the core of our beings. To listen is to love; to understand is to embrace the essence of another's soul. When we dismiss the cries of one, we risk the harmony of all."

A subtle shift seemed to ripple through the chamber, as if the very fabric of Heaven was absorbing the gravity of His message.

"Be vigilant," He cautioned, "for the seeds of discord are sown in the soil of misunderstanding. Nurture empathy, cultivate patience, and above all, cherish the diverse melodies that each soul contributes to the symphony of creation."

He concluded, His voice a gentle whisper that nonetheless carried to every corner of the chamber, "May this remembrance guide us, may it illuminate our paths, and may we forever strive to be guardians not only of light but of understanding."

With that, God stepped back, His form shimmering softly before blending into the ambient radiance of the chamber. The angels remained seated, absorbing the profound wisdom imparted, the unspoken foreshadowing of challenges yet to come lingering in their hearts.

Lilith—though not truly dead—was mourned as if she had been a queen among them. And even if it was built on a lie, the love in that room was real. And Samael could only hope, as his eyes flicked toward the glowing chamber ceiling, that somehow, wherever she was, Lilith could feel it.

Far from the golden spires of Heaven, deep within the hidden sanctuary carved just for her, Lilith stood before her easel.

She had been painting in silence, the gentle rustle of leaves outside the cave and the faint bubbling of the nearby spring offering the only soundtrack to her solitude. The cave smelled of herbs and warm stone, and the flickering firelight cast soft shadows across the walls. In this moment, she should have felt peace.

The painting before her was nearly complete—a single apple, luminous and red, glistening against the soft background of Eden's remembered sky. A symbol. A thought. She didn't know why she'd chosen it.

But as she raised her brush to add the final highlight along its curve, her hand faltered.

Suddenly, without warning, a tidal wave of emotion slammed into her chest. Her heart twisted. Her breath hitched. And then—tears.

Hot, silent, unstoppable tears poured down her face. She clutched the brush like an anchor, but it slipped from her trembling fingers and clattered to the stone floor.

"I... what is this?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

It wasn't pain in her body—it was in her soul. A wrenching sadness, deep and vast, like a thousand whispered apologies echoing in a space she couldn't name. Her knees gave out, and she sank to the floor, pressing her forehead to her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

She didn't know that, at that very moment, Heaven had gathered.

She didn't know that every angel she had ever seen from afar, or never met at all, was speaking her name. Mourning her. Remembering her. Loving her.

But she felt it.

She felt their sorrow, their remorse, their prayers, and their guilt like a thread sewn straight through her heart. She felt Samael's voice in her soul—warm, aching, trembling with love and grief. She didn't hear the words, but their meaning wrapped around her like a second skin.

For the very first time in her life, Lilith knew that they cared.

And somehow, that made her cry even harder.

When the sobs finally slowed to a shaky silence, she looked up at her painting—smudged now, where her tears had fallen across the canvas. And that final stroke she had meant to place—meant to be a gentle light on the apple's skin—had slipped in her anguish.

It had sliced through the fruit.

A long, deep crack ran down its center, splitting it unevenly. The perfect apple was now broken. Bleeding.

Lilith stared at it for a long, breathless moment.

A simple mistake, born from grief. But the image... it unsettled her.

She didn't know why.

She turned away and wiped her face.

The fire crackled softly behind her. The apple remained on the canvas—broken, bleeding—left to dry.

And outside, the stars blinked quietly overhead, as if they too knew that this sorrow would ripple far beyond a single memorial... far into the pages of history yet to be written.

Chapter Text

Lilith sat curled in her armchair made of smooth, woven vines and soft linen, idly dragging her fingers along the carved armrest. Her once-bright eyes now gazed blankly at the walls of her cozy cavern home. Though the space Samael built for her was nothing short of miraculous—filled with warmth, color, and life—it couldn't quite drown out the gnawing emptiness she'd begun to feel.

Books lined the stone shelves, half-open notebooks filled with doodles and half-thoughts scattered on a nearby desk, and the scent of dried herbs lingered in the air from her earlier kitchen experiments. She should've felt fulfilled, or at the very least comfortable. But as the silence stretched longer and longer, it pressed down on her like a weight.

Her eyes wandered toward the stool by the wall. The apple painting sat there. Its red skin was vibrant, lifelike, but the visible crack down its center—accidental or not—stood out starkly. She hadn't painted it that way on purpose, but once the brush slipped and created the fracture, she'd chosen to leave it. There was something... right about it. Something honest. Something broken.

Despite herself, Lilith chuckled bitterly. "Even when I'm trying to paint fruit, it ends up dramatic."

Still, her gaze lingered. The apple was fine, technically. Beautiful, even. But the crack made it feel more real. It wasn't perfect—just like her.

She looked away. There was a twinge of restlessness in her chest, the same kind she used to feel when dusk settled over Eden and all there was left to do was wait for morning. She remembered those quiet evenings, sitting beside Adam beneath the stars after a long day tending the garden. The silence between them was more tolerable then. Familiar, if not always comforting.

Her face darkened.

But he hit me.

No. She wasn't going to forget that. Or forgive it.

Still, as her fingers absentmindedly folded over each other, she whispered, "At least I wasn't alone."

The ache inside her stirred deeper. Loneliness could dull the edges of memory, sand down its cruelty until only the warmth remained. But she fought that. She had to.

Her mind drifted to Samael.

She hadn't called him again. Not since he helped her build this home, gave her space and safety and... kindness. He told her she could reach out anytime. And she wanted to. So badly. But she couldn't bring herself to summon him without a reason.

She didn't want to seem needy.

Or worse—like she missed him.

Which she did.

He was strange. But good. He looked at her like she wasn't a problem to fix or a vessel to fill. He asked questions—not to interrogate her, but to understand. To know her.

She glanced around the cozy cavern again and sighed.

Then her eyes brightened.

"I'll cook."

If she made something for him—something simple, something warm—then it wouldn't just be about her missing him. It would be about sharing something. That wasn't selfish. That was kindness. That was... maybe a reason to see him again.

"I'll make that soup," she said aloud, already springing from her chair and tying up her hair. "The one with the vegetables from the garden. And bread. He really liked the bread."

The spark in her chest returned as she walked toward the garden's edge, a basket on her arm. She knelt into the soft soil, her hands brushing over leaves and stalks.

Lilith smiled softly to herself, her fingertips brushing over a sprouting carrot top.

"He'll come. And maybe... he'll stay a little longer this time."

And in the fading gold of the setting sun, the first woman picked her vegetables with care—hopeful that she wouldn't be alone much longer.

Back in the Hall of Virtues, the golden glow of the crystal sky filtered through the domed windows, casting slow-moving beams across the marble floor. Samael sat alone on the edge of a garden fountain within the Virtues' private wing, lazily drawing shapes in the water with his fingertip. His mind drifted—not quite focused, not quite still—until a familiar voice brushed the edges of his senses.

"Samael...?"

It was soft, unsure, but unmistakably her.

His head shot up.

"Lilith—" he gasped, already on his feet.

In a blink, his wings unfurled and burst into motion. He sped through the corridors, wind trailing behind him in a blur of blue and gold. On the way out of the Hall, he nearly collided with Levia and Plutus.

"Ah! Sorry!" Samael called as he swerved around them. "Lilith needs me—I'll be back soon!"

Plutus blinked as his robes flapped in the breeze left in Samael's wake. Then he chuckled. "Well, at least someone's getting some quality time."

Levia gave him a small smile, then her expression sobered as she turned back toward the open sky beyond the window. "The memorial was... heavier than I expected."

Plutus nodded, his arms folding over his chest. "Yeah. I didn't think it would hit me that hard. And Samael's speech... I mean, whew."

There was a moment of quiet before Levia spoke again, this time more hesitantly. "Plutus... What Veritas said—about how things could be different—I've been thinking about it."

Plutus looked at her in disbelief. "You? You of all people? Starting to agree with Veritas?"

"I didn't say I agree with everything," she replied gently, "but... she's not entirely wrong either."

He tilted his head. "Explain."

Levia turned to face him fully, her voice low. "God cared enough to arrange a beautiful memorial... but not enough to help Lilith when she was crying out for it. Not enough to step in when the seraphim broke her. And they—they were so caught up in protocol and obedience that they didn't even see her pain."

Plutus's face grew more serious as he considered her words.

"She didn't deserve to suffer alone," Levia continued. "And I can't help but think... if we had been in charge of the Humanity Project—if we had been there instead of the seraphim—maybe things wouldn't have gone so wrong."

Plutus nodded slowly. "I don't love Veritas's tone, or how she's trying to steer Samael... but yeah. If this is about giving Lilith the care she should've gotten—maybe we do need to step up."

"I just want her safe," Levia whispered. "Happy. Alive."

A voice cut in. "So do I."

They turned to see Belfagel, her arms crossed as she stepped into the open. "I couldn't help overhearing."

"Eavesdropping, you mean?" Plutus muttered.

She gave a sheepish shrug. "It's hard not to, when you're this tall."

They chuckled lightly, but Belfagel's tone turned serious. "Look, I still don't trust Veritas's methods. But if this is about Lilith, and making it right... then I'm with you. She shouldn't have had to run. We should've protected her."

There was a heavy silence between them before Belfagel added, "If taking over the Humanity Project is how we make that happen... then maybe that's the path we have to take."

The three stood together in mutual resolve—no scheming, no rebellion, just a shared desire to do right by someone who had been wronged.

And just beyond the garden's outer columns, hidden behind one of the grand alabaster pillars, Veritas listened.

Her arms folded, eyes narrowed in contemplation. And though her expression remained unreadable, the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

Not a smirk.

Not a grin.

Just a small, quiet yes wrapped in silence.

The first seeds had been planted.

Samael landed softly just outside the Celestial Hall, wings folded tightly as he crept along the smooth archways cloaked in golden mist. He had snuck out of Heaven many times before—but never with stakes this high. He needed to get to Earth. To Lilith.

But the moment he stepped into the edge of the hall's main corridor, he froze.

Voices.

Still here.

He ducked behind a towering pillar adorned with carvings of Eden's earliest creatures, peeking around the edge just enough to see them: Sera, standing at the head of the seraphim, her posture still composed, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Zadkiel and a few others stood in tight formation, the tension lingering like incense in the air.

"...so what do we do now?" a seraphim asked. "The Humanity Project was always meant to begin with two. One man. One woman. They were to be the foundation. But now—with Lilith gone..."

Zadkiel's wings twitched. "Do we... cancel it? Wait for God to start over? Create a new pair?"

"Destroy Earth?" another seraphim murmured. "If the plan has failed already..."

Samael's heart clenched. His breath caught in his throat.

No.

They couldn't... they wouldn't—would they?

Sera raised a hand to quiet them, her voice calm but uncertain. "God has not given any orders to cancel the project. And until He says otherwise... we do nothing. We observe. We wait."

"But the timeline—" someone began.

Sera cut them off with a look. "I said we wait."

A moment passed. Then Zadkiel asked gently, "And... Adam? Have you checked on him?"

Sera looked down. For a flicker of a moment, her façade faltered. "I've tried," she said softly. "But I don't know how to reach him. Not anymore."

She stared ahead, as if seeing the memory play out. "It's only been four days since the memorial, but... he hasn't spoken much. Not to me. He just keeps working. Tilling the soil. Harvesting. Pulling weeds. From dawn until his body gives out. Then... he sleeps. And does it again."

Zadkiel's brow furrowed. "That doesn't sound like peace. It sounds like guilt."

"I know," Sera whispered.

"I wish we could do more for him," Zadkiel said.

Sera nodded. "So do I."

Just then, the hall's doors opened with a soft echo. Gabriel entered, wings trailing starlight and scroll in hand. "Sera," he called, voice as gentle as ever. "God wishes to speak with you. Privately. At length."

Sera's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. "Understood."

She turned to the others. "You are dismissed from observation duty. Take this time to rest."

The seraphim exchanged brief glances before taking to the skies in pairs, murmurs fading into wind. Gabriel followed behind Sera as they walked side by side toward the stairs of radiance that would carry them upward to God's sanctuary.

And just like that—the hall was empty.

Samael waited until the last glow of wings vanished through the skylight.

Then he exhaled.

No more voices.

No more threats.

No more time to waste.

He bolted from his hiding spot, wings stretching out behind him as he sprinted to the glowing globe in the center of the room, humming faintly with the rhythm of Earth.

He reached out.

His body lit up.

And with a flash of light—he was sucked inside.

Off to Earth.

Off to her.

The moment Samael arrived at Lilith's home, he could already smell it—the faint, earthy scent of roasted vegetables and herbs wafting through the air like a promise.

Then came the sound of soft footsteps skittering excitedly across the stone floor.

"Samael!" Lilith's voice called out, warm and full of relief.

He turned, smiling softly as she emerged from the curved hallway of her cavern home, apron lightly dusted with flour, her cheeks flushed from cooking.

"You came!" she said, unable to hide the eagerness in her eyes as she grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. "Hurry! It's still hot."

He chuckled, allowing himself to be led toward the table carved from smooth, white stone. Two bowls of steaming soup sat waiting beside a loaf of freshly sliced bread on a woven tray. Candles flickered gently around the room, casting soft shadows that danced across the cave walls and shelves stocked with little touches of life—her life.

"You didn't have to go through all this trouble," Samael said as he sat down.

Lilith shook her head quickly. "No, I wanted to. It gave me something to do. Besides, you deserve a thank-you meal."

He smiled at that, heart warming. "Well... thank you."

They ate for a moment in silence. The soup was rich, hearty, and simple—earthy carrots, sweet root vegetables, wild herbs, and just a little bit of magic in the way it felt like comfort in a bowl.

Eventually, Lilith tilted her head. "So... what have you been up to?"

Samael paused for a moment. "Actually... there was something important. A memorial. For you."

Lilith blinked. "For... me?"

He nodded solemnly. "God held it in the Celestial Chambers. Everyone was there. Archangels. Virtues. Cherubs. Even the seraphim. They spoke about you. Honored you. Grieved you."

Lilith's face froze in stunned silence. "They... really did that?"

"They did," he said, setting his spoon down. "Adam was the first to speak. Sera too. Even Gabriel. You should've heard them... they were all sincere. They spoke about how wrong things had been. How sorry they were."

Lilith looked down at her bowl. Her lips tightened.

"...So now I matter," she said quietly. "Now that I'm gone. Not when I was alive. Not when I was suffering. Just—now. Because they think they lost me."

Samael frowned, his heart aching at the bitterness in her voice.

"You've always mattered," he said gently. "But yes... sometimes it takes a loss—or the idea of one—to make people see." He reached across the table and touched her hand. "You were never the problem, Lilith. They were just blind."

She glanced up, the firelight reflected in her eyes. Slowly, she smiled. "Thank you... Samael."

He smiled back, gently squeezing her hand.

"So," he asked, shifting the mood, "what have you been doing while I've been away?"

Lilith turned, motioning toward the wall. "Painting, mostly. That one's my latest."

Samael looked toward the canvas propped against a rock ledge. It was the same one she'd been working on when the grief overtook her days earlier. A large, vivid apple, glowing in deep reds and soft golds—but cracked. A single, thin fracture ran across it like a scar. Somehow, it made the painting more alive. More true.

Samael tilted his head. "Why the crack?"

Lilith hesitated, then gave a soft shrug. "It was a mistake... I slipped while painting. But I don't know. I... kind of like it. Even with the flaw."

Samael stared at it for a moment. Then his gaze drifted back to her.

"Only you," he said softly, "could make imperfections look beautiful."

Lilith blinked.

"I think I like you that way," he continued, a little quieter. "You're not perfect. But you're real. That's... rare."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled in the hearth. The candles flickered softly.

Lilith's cheeks warmed, but not from the soup.

"...You're kind," she murmured.

Samael smiled. "I try to be. For you."

They went back to eating in silence—but the air between them was different now. Warmer. Softer. Shared. And even though outside, the stars glittered cold above a dark, indifferent world, in here... there was something brighter.

Something safe.

Something like love.

Samael set his spoon down with a satisfied sigh, leaning back slightly as he smiled across the table.

"This food really is lovely, by the way," he said, his voice warm and sincere.

"Really?" Lilith asked, her expression brightening a little as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"It is!" Samael said, his grin widening. "It's as good as Triel's, and she knows how to cook. I think you'd like her, Lilith. She's passionate... like you are."

Lilith's smile softened, a faint wistfulness in her eyes. "I wish I could meet her."

Samael paused, his own expression dimming slightly as he looked down at the table. "Yeah... me too."

For a moment, silence hung between them, comfortable but heavy in its own way. The fire cracked softly in the hearth, filling the cave with warmth and flickering shadows.

Then Samael tilted his head, studying her with curious eyes. "What's your secret?"

Lilith blinked. "My... secret?"

"Your secret ingredient," Samael clarified with a playful smirk. "For this food! How does it taste so delicious?"

Lilith felt her cheeks warm and looked away slightly. "I... I don't really have a secret," she murmured. Then, after a small pause, she added, "I did put a lot of passion into it, though."

"Passion, huh?" Samael leaned in a little, teasing. "Is that your secret ingredient?"

Lilith chuckled softly, the sound light and genuine. "I guess so."

When the last of their bowls had been emptied and the bread reduced to crumbs, Samael stood to help her clean up. Together they worked in quiet harmony, wiping the stone counters, rinsing the bowls, and setting things neatly back into place.

As Lilith placed the last spoon back in the drawer, Samael brushed his hands off and turned to her with a gentle expression.

"Thank you for the meal, Lilith. Now... is there a reason you called me besides to eat and chat?"

Lilith hesitated, her fingers resting lightly on the counter. She turned her head slightly, her eyes soft but vulnerable. "Well, I... I just really wanted to see you again," she admitted, her voice quiet but steady. "It gets really lonely here. And I like being with you. Talking with you. Laughing with you."

Samael felt his heart squeeze. He reached out, gently brushing his fingertips along her hand resting on the counter. "Lilith..." he said softly.

She met his eyes, searching them for something—maybe reassurance, maybe understanding.

"I'll always be here whenever you call me," Samael continued, his voice tender and sincere. "You don't need a reason. If you need me, I'll come."

Lilith's lips curved in the faintest smile, her fingers brushing against his. "You mean that?"

"Every word."

But then Samael drew in a small, careful breath, his expression turning just slightly serious. "Still... we have to be careful. If the seraphim or Sera even suspected I was helping you... if anyone found out..." He shook his head. "I can't stay away from Heaven too long, Lilith. I don't want to risk them discovering you. Not after everything we've done to keep you safe."

Lilith nodded slowly, her expression tinged with sadness. "I understand." She looked down at their hands, still lightly touching. "But... I can't help it. When you're not here, the cave feels... empty. I miss you."

Samael's hand tightened around hers ever so slightly. "And I miss you too," he admitted. "More than I should, maybe. But I promise... I'll always come back to you."

Lilith looked up at him again, her chest aching and warm all at once. "Then... stay a little longer. Just this once."

Samael hesitated, then gave a small, defeated smile. "Just a little longer."

Chapter Text

The Celestial Chambers of Light glowed with soft radiance as Sera floated in, her expression weary but composed. She had been summoned by God Himself, and though her heart was still heavy from the memorial, she prepared herself for whatever revelation awaited her. What she hadn't expected, however, was the sound of laughter echoing through the holy halls.

As she drew closer, she saw Him—God—hovering calmly, hands clasped behind His back, casually conversing with a young human woman. Sera blinked, stunned for a moment. The woman had soft, flowing chestnut hair and a warm glow about her, exuding cheerfulness and charm. Her wide brown eyes sparkled with excitement as she chattered.

"I just can't wait to meet him," the woman was saying eagerly, hands clasped together like a child waiting for a gift. "My husband-to-be! You did say his name was Adam, right?"

God chuckled lightly. "Yes, Adam. In due time, Eve. Patience is a virtue."

Eve beamed. "Then I'll wait as long as it takes. I'll be the perfect companion when he's ready."

Sera's wings stiffened. She descended gently onto the radiant floor, still processing what she was seeing. "My Lord," she began slowly, "what... what is this?"

God finally turned to her with a calm, unreadable smile. "Ah, Sera. This is Eve—Adam's new partner. She was made from him, quite literally. A gift of comfort and companionship."

Eve gave a cheerful little wave. "Hello! I'm Eve! Made from one of Adam's ribs—so I guess you could say I'm a part of him!" she giggled. "But don't worry, I'm my own person too!"

Sera's lips parted in disbelief. Her gaze flicked from God to Eve, and back again. "Wait—wait a moment. You created another human already? This soon? Adam is still mourning Lilith. This feels... too fast. It's not right."

God remained tranquil. "Adam is in pain, yes. But he is also adrift. He has lost trust in the seraphim, perhaps in Heaven itself. But not all is lost. Another human—gentle, kind, and patient—may be what he needs to remember he is not alone."

Sera's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you took his rib? Without his knowing?"

God raised a hand. "He was resting. He had pushed himself to exhaustion again. But I returned what I took. He is whole."

"That doesn't make it better," Sera said flatly. "You made a companion for someone still grieving another. This could make things worse. It's manipulative."

Eve's smile faltered for just a moment. Her tone softened, more serious now. "I know how this looks. But I'm not here to replace her. I'm here to understand him. To be someone he can talk to. Or sit in silence with. However long it takes."

Sera studied her. For a moment, the girl's eagerness melted into something sincere—deep care, maybe even... sorrow? It was subtle, but it was there.

"Is this really what's best for him right now?" Sera finally asked, her voice lower.

"You'll see in time," God said gently.

Sera frowned, turning her eyes downward. "You always say that..."

God's smile didn't waver. "And I always mean it."

With a long exhale, Sera gave Eve one last glance—curious, conflicted, cautious—and nodded. "Come with me. I'll show you to the Celestial Hall."

Eve nodded cheerfully, her dress swaying as she walked beside Sera, eyes wide with wonder. But Sera's heart remained uneasy.

The towering Celestial Hall hummed as they stepped inside, the polished floor reflecting the faint shimmer of stars swirling overhead. Sera led Eve inside with cautious steps, her mind still a storm of conflict.

Eve gasped softly as her gaze landed on the centerpiece of the chamber: a glowing orb of Earth suspended in the air, rotating slowly within a prism of divine light. Its surface gleamed with oceans, forests, and golden plains—yet it was Eden that caught her eye.

"That's... that's it, isn't it?" Eve whispered in awe, stepping closer. "That's where he is..."

"Yes," Sera replied, her voice distant. She gestured toward the garden. "There. That's Adam."

They watched in silence as Adam bent over a patch of soil, shirtless and sun-worn, hands caked in dirt, sweat clinging to his skin. His movements were methodical, almost mechanical—harvesting, planting, watering, repeating without pause.

Eve leaned closer, eyes softening. "He's so strong... but he looks... thin. Has he eaten?"

Sera's jaw tensed slightly. "I haven't seen him eat. Only work."

Eve's brows furrowed in worry. "That's not right..."

With a flick of her hand, Sera transported them down to Earth. The sunlight and birdsong of Eden spilled through, the scent of warm leaves drifting up. She turned to Eve. "I'll go first. Stay behind the hill. Let me speak to him first. Gently."

Eve nodded obediently, her earlier cheer subdued into quiet focus.

Sera descended alone and approached Adam cautiously. He didn't look up. Just kept digging, planting, patting down soil. His hair hung in tangled curls over his face. His back was to her.

"Adam," she called softly.

A grunt. No eye contact.

"I brought someone to see you."

No response.

She sighed and took a few steps closer. "I think she can help you. With the garden. With... everything. Eve—come here."

From over the hill, Eve stepped into view, her smile warm and inviting. "Hi there!" she greeted. "I'm Eve. I'll be staying with you now, and helping take care of Eden."

Adam finally turned.

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

His eyes scanned her from head to toe, lingering on her face—her bright smile, her soft eyes, her innocent excitement. And then, slowly, they turned to Sera with sharpness.

"What's going on," he demanded, voice cracking from disuse and anger alike.

Sera hesitated. "God created her. She's... she was made from one of your ribs. She's your new—"

"My what?" he growled, stepping forward.

Eve, still smiling nervously, tried to interject. "Your new wife, technically! I mean, I was made from you, so it's like we were meant—"

"NO." The word cracked like thunder.

Eve flinched. Sera tensed.

Adam's fists clenched. "No one can replace Lilith. No one. You're not her. You're a fake." He turned to Sera, betrayal in his eyes. "This is what you bring me? A puppet?! You think you can just give me someone else and I'll forget everything?!"

"Adam, I—"

"I'm done talking."

With that, he turned and stormed off toward the edge of the garden, collapsing beneath the shade of the ancient tree—the one where he and Lilith used to sit in the evenings, laughing, dreaming, holding hands.

Eve remained frozen in place, stunned and hurt. Her hands clutched her dress tightly, her lower lip trembling.

Sera let out a long, bitter sigh and rubbed her temples. "This was a mistake... What was He thinking?"

Then she paused.

The words echoed in her own head.

What was He thinking?

Her wings stiffened.

She rarely questioned God—never aloud, and almost never even internally. But this... this was too much. Too fast. Too cruel.

The realization unsettled her more than she expected. She swallowed, casting one more glance toward Adam in the distance—curled beneath the tree in grief—and Eve, now standing awkwardly in the garden, unsure of what to do with herself.

Sera closed her eyes and whispered under her breath, "Please let this not break him more than he already is..."

Back in the Hall of Virtues, the warm light of the chamber poured through the tall crystalline windows, casting long beams of gold across the polished floors. Samael stepped inside with the faint scent of earth and bread still clinging to his robes. His wings folded with a practiced motion as he walked into the quiet corridor—only to be intercepted.

"Samael," a calm, silken voice called.

Samael turned to see Asmodel standing with his arms folded, having just concluded his day's teachings with a cluster of junior angels.

"You're late," Asmodel said with a teasing edge, though his gaze was sharp. "Where have you been?"

Samael exhaled and offered a soft smile. "Just checking in on Lilith. Making sure she's alright."

Asmodel's brow arched. "You've been gone quite a while for a simple check-in."

There was no accusation in his tone, just observation. But still, Samael looked to the side and rubbed the back of his neck, feathers fluffing ever so slightly.

"She's been lonely," he admitted. "I didn't want her to feel abandoned. She made me soup. With bread again."

Asmodel's gaze softened just a little. "Ah. So she's feeding you now."

Samael rolled his eyes. "It's not like that."

"No?"

"She just... enjoys cooking. And I don't mind being there."

Asmodel studied him for a moment more, then said, "She might like you."

Samael blinked. "She's my friend."

"I didn't say she wasn't. But you might like her too."

Samael gave a little laugh. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

He paused.

"I mean... maybe if I were in love—which I'm not, obviously," he muttered quickly, "then maybe this would be really good advice."

Asmodel just gave him that knowing look—the kind that made Samael feel both seen and deeply called out. He placed a hand on Samael's shoulder.

"You don't need to say anything now," Asmodel said. "Just... when you're ready, let yourself feel it. That's all."

Before Samael could find a response, a familiar, cheery voice called out behind them.

"Samael!"

Triel, wings fluttering with delight, approached with a couple of the other Virtues who had just finished their own teaching rounds—Levia, Plutus, and even a slightly out-of-breath Belfagel trailing behind. They all wore warm smiles, unaware of the conversation just moments ago.

"Back from wherever you ran off to?" Triel grinned.

Before Samael could respond, Asmodel cleared his throat and said all too casually, "He was with Lilith. Again. She made him dinner."

Samael whipped around. "Asmodel—!"

"He likes her," Asmodel added with an impish smile as he walked off, utterly unbothered.

Levia gasped playfully. "You do?!"

Plutus blinked, wings twitching excitedly. "Oh my stars, really?!"

Triel leaned in. "Aww, is that why you've been disappearing lately?"

Belfagel just smirked and crossed her arms. "About time someone caught feelings around here."

Samael raised his hands in surrender as they gently bombarded him with teasing questions and bright laughter.

"Okay, okay! Calm down! We're friends, alright?" he said, flustered.

Triel gave him a sly smile. "Mmmhmm. Friends who get homemade soup."

Samael sighed, glaring playfully in the direction Asmodel had gone. "One day, one day, I'm going to get him back for this."

And yet, even as the Virtues teased and laughed, Samael couldn't help but smile. Maybe having people who saw the truth in his heart wasn't such a terrible thing.

The sun filtered lazily through the canopy of Eden's trees, casting a warm golden light over Adam's hunched form. He sat under the familiar tree—their tree—arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the dirt. His face was streaked with dried sweat and grime, his expression unreadable, carved from stone. He hadn't spoken since storming off.

From a distance, Eve watched with cautious intent. Her delicate hands clutched the hem of her dress as she hesitated. Then, slowly, she approached, barefoot steps light on the grass.

"Hi again," she said softly, careful not to intrude too harshly. "I just wanted to check in."

Adam didn't respond, didn't even glance at her. But he didn't tell her to go away—not yet—so she sat nearby, not too close, but close enough to speak.

"I know you probably don't want to talk," she said. "But... if you do, I'm here. I'm a really good listener. I'd love to hear about Lilith. What she was like."

There was a long pause, and for a second it seemed like he wouldn't answer. But then, Adam's voice cracked out, hoarse and low.

"She was stubborn," he said. "So stubborn. And so... alive. She didn't care what anyone thought. She was proud. Too proud, maybe."

He paused again, his jaw clenching. "She deserved better."

Eve nodded solemnly. "She sounds amazing. And if there's anything I can do to—"

"You can leave me alone," Adam snapped.

The warmth in Eve's face faltered for a moment, but she kept her tone gentle. "Okay. I will. But... Adam, you can't shut everyone out forever. If you do, you'll always feel alone."

Adam's head lifted just slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Don't talk like you know me."

"I don't. But I'd like to," Eve said quietly.

"You want to help me?" Adam scoffed. "Tell the truth. You don't want to help. You just want to be my replacement wife, right? That's what He told you to be. Some perfect little partner, made from my rib, like a piece of me I never asked to give away."

He stood up slowly, towering over her now, his voice rising in intensity. "Tell me why I should open my heart to someone He made without my consent? Why I should be surrounded by creatures who let Lilith be driven out, who let her die, and now expect me to move on with a fake?!"

His words hit like stone, and Eve flinched—but not from fear. She simply didn't know what to say. Her mouth opened, but no answer came out.

Adam's chest heaved as he spat out, "Answer me."

"I..." Eve tried, but her voice broke.

"Just go," Adam barked, turning his back to her. "I don't want to see you."

After a long silence, Eve rose. Her steps were slow and quiet as she walked away, head bowed. She didn't cry, but something in her shimmered with quiet sorrow.

Meanwhile, back in the Celestial Hall, the orb showing Earth dimmed faintly as the angels finished watching the scene unfold. The air was thick with tension.

"...not to doubt God," one of the seraphim murmured hesitantly, "but... are we sure this is going to work?"

The question hung in the air like a forbidden prayer.

Zadkiel shifted uncomfortably, but said nothing.

Sera stared at the glowing image of Adam alone beneath the tree, Eve retreating quietly back toward the garden's edge. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying to steady her breath.

"I don't know anymore," she admitted at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

And back in Eden, beneath the weight of his grief, Adam closed his eyes—and thought only of Lilith.

Chapter Text

Three weeks passed like a slow ripple across the surface of Eden. The days were long, silent, and hot. The air hung thick with tension, but no longer the explosive kind—it had cooled, condensed into something quieter. Adam, though still withdrawn, no longer seethed with rage every time Eve walked into view. He no longer spat venom when she spoke or turned away the moment her footsteps approached. He merely tolerated her now.

Eve noticed. She kept her distance when needed but made small, careful efforts—setting fruit nearby without speaking, tending the vines he neglected, and never once prying. Her giggles were softer around him, her cheerfulness restrained. She asked no more questions about Lilith. Instead, she helped where help was needed, and when she left at the end of the day, she left silently.

Adam was aware. A flicker of guilt curled in his chest from time to time. He didn't hate her anymore, but he didn't trust her either—not yet.

High above in the Celestial Hall, the seraphim continued their quiet observation. The glowing orb of Earth hovered in its place, Eden magnified before their eyes. Several Seraphim noted the change with cautious optimism. At the very least, they agreed, the progress was not going backward.

"...He hasn't yelled in four days," one of them muttered.

"I say that's improvement," another chimed.

But Sera didn't speak.

She stared intently at the orb, her thoughts twisted into tight knots. She was afraid to speak. Afraid even to think. Doubt crept into her mind like shadows under a door—slow, persistent, and impossible to ignore. It was happening again.

She prayed silently, not even in words. Just thoughts. Apologies. Pleas for clarity. She loved Him. She had faith in Him.

But the world was changing. And for the first time, she didn't know if He was changing with it.

Far from Eden, in the cozy hidden cave of stone and moss, Samael sat beside Lilith as they watched his newest illusion unfold like a play before them. A sparkling stage appeared on the floor, tiny sparkling performers—dancing beetles in top hats—tipped their hats and paraded across the mossy stones. Lilith laughed, a real, unguarded laugh that filled the cave like music.

"That one's from Plutus," Samael said, smirking, handing her a little wrapped bundle. "He said you needed more joy in your life. I told him you're already stuck with me, but he insisted."

Lilith opened it and revealed a tiny handmade trinket—an angelic charm shaped like a heart with wings. "It's... beautiful," she whispered.

"There's more," Samael added. "Levia made this." He handed her a handwoven blanket with soft, watery colors that shimmered like the ocean under moonlight.

Lilith pressed it to her face. "I didn't think they'd... still care."

"They do," Samael said gently. "You're not forgotten. Not by me. Not by them."

Her eyes softened. She looked at Samael with an expression he wasn't sure how to describe. There was warmth, but also fear. Something unspoken. Something almost... sacred.

Samael swallowed, quickly glancing away.

Meanwhile, the Hall of Virtues was no longer as united as it once was.

While Triel and Asmodel remained committed to God's vision, many of the others had begun to rally behind Veritas. The murmurings grew louder: perhaps it was time for the Virtues to take the reins of the Humanity Project. Not out of rebellion—but necessity.

Veritas glided through the halls with satisfaction. Not arrogance. Just assurance. Like she had seen this coming all along. She passed the Orb Room with a smile on her face, and as she left, she bumped—intentionally—into Triel.

"You seem happy," Triel said, her voice cool.

"I am," Veritas replied, not breaking stride. "It's always nice when people see the truth."

Triel narrowed her eyes and flew after her. "You put that truth in their heads."

"I simply revealed it. They chose whether or not to accept it."

"Don't act like you had no hand in this. You're manipulating them."

Veritas finally stopped and turned around, her smile still gentle, her tone still calm. "Triel, you're so afraid of change that you can't see when it's necessary. The others feel it. They see the cracks. They know the current structure is failing. Maybe it always was. Maybe this was the plan all along."

"Even if it was," Triel said, voice low and tremoring, "your intentions matter, Veritas. More than you pretend they don't."

Veritas tilted her head. "Then you already know what they are."

"I know I don't trust them," Triel spat, wings flaring as she turned and shot into the sky. "And I don't accept this."

Veritas stood alone for a moment, watching her leave. The smile never faded from her lips.

"Whether you accept it or not..." she murmured to herself, "change is coming."

The soft crackle of the fire filled the main chamber of Lilith's cave home, casting a warm, golden glow over the uneven stone walls and the woven blankets scattered across the smooth floor. Shadows flickered gently across the ceiling like lazy dancers. Lilith and Samael sat close, the silence between them no longer awkward or heavy, but comforting—an earned silence, the kind that didn't demand to be filled.

Lilith's eyes were fixed on the fire, her knees pulled up, arms resting on them. The blanket Levia made was draped around her shoulders, its watery shimmer catching the light. She'd been quiet for a while, and Samael hadn't pushed. He simply sat beside her with his legs stretched out, absentmindedly poking at a crack in the stone with his finger.

Finally, Lilith spoke.

"...I've been thinking," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "About how I left Eden."

Samael glanced toward her, but she didn't look away from the fire.

"I didn't think it through. Not really. No plan. No supplies. Just..." She shook her head, lips curling bitterly. "I was so desperate to leave that I didn't think beyond the moment I stepped out. If you hadn't found me—if you hadn't helped me—I wouldn't have survived. I was doomed from the start."

She sighed and lowered her head. "Maybe I was selfish. I thought I was taking control, but I wasn't thinking about anything else but getting away. I didn't even think about what came after."

Samael was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Lilith," he said gently, "you were reckless. But you had a reason."

Her head turned slightly, eyes meeting his in the firelight.

"The way you were treated. Controlled. Slapped. Silenced," he continued, his voice firm now, like each word had weight. "You were trying to survive in a place that only wanted to clip your wings. Of course you ran. I would've done the same thing."

"But—"

"No," he interrupted softly, shaking his head. "Don't twist your courage into guilt. You were right to want freedom. You deserve freedom. Everyone does. You were never wrong for that."

Lilith stared at him, her mouth slightly parted, something fragile in her gaze. The light from the fire made the gold in his eyes shimmer. His belief in her—his fierce, unshakable belief—made her feel like she mattered. Like her choices weren't shameful, just human. It made her chest tighten.

She couldn't look away. He looked so sincere, so bold about it.

She blushed.

Samael didn't notice right away. He was fuming now, caught up in a rising passion that flushed his cheeks and made his voice louder.

"And you shouldn't have to hide. That's what really makes me sick. You did nothing wrong—and yet here you are, underground like you're the danger. Like you're the shameful one. Meanwhile he's still up there, and they're treating him like the grieving victim."

He stood up, pacing in a tight circle near the fire. His wings bristled with pent-up frustration.

"All you wanted was to be your own person. And for that, they threw you away. Forced you out. Called it rebellion. Punished you for choosing yourself!"

Lilith's eyes followed him, concerned but touched.

Samael's voice dropped low.

"...Veritas said something to me once."

That caught Lilith's attention.

He stopped pacing, staring at the flickering flames.

"If we took control of the project instead, we could fix it. We could make it into what it was meant to be."

"Imagine it, Samael. If you had more say, if we had more say, we could ensure humanity is nurtured properly. We could take Eden back and create something better than what the seraphim ever could."

He'd brushed off her words before. Called them dramatic. Dangerous. But now, with Lilith beside him—alive but hiding, free but exiled—he couldn't shake them. The image was too vivid. A new Eden. A better one. A place she could live. A place they could protect.

For the first time... he didn't argue against the idea.

He imagined Eden not as a prison, but a haven. No strict hierarchies. No forced pairings. No silencing. Just possibility.

"I could fix it," he muttered aloud.

Lilith blinked. "Fix what?"

He looked back at her, eyes wide like a spark had lit inside him. Then he stopped himself, chuckled awkwardly, and waved a hand. "Nothing. Just... rambling."

She narrowed her eyes. "You looked like you were going to start a war for a second."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I was. But don't worry. I'll keep it internal—for now."

Lilith smirked, then settled her head back against the pillow.

"I don't want a war, Samael. Hiding's fine with me. Peace and quiet, good food, you showing up now and then..." She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "I'm content. As long as I get to keep seeing you. You don't have to carry the weight of the world on my behalf."

Samael sat down beside her again. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

He smiled. But even as she laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped one wing gently around her...

...the words of Veritas did not leave his mind.

The sun hung low over Eden, golden rays filtering through the thick branches of the Tree at its center. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves, brushing against the colorful flowers that bloomed in newly arranged beds around the garden. Among them, Eve moved gracefully, her hands cradling a small watering jar as she made her rounds. She hummed softly, a tune of no origin, something light and cheerful that floated like dandelion fluff.

Nearby, Adam toiled in silence.

He was hunched over again, his hands blistered and red from hours of digging, planting, trimming—anything to keep busy. Dirt smudged his chest, streaked his face, and clung to the creases in his knuckles. He wasn't even tending to anything in particular anymore. The work had become a kind of penance, an endless cycle of action to avoid the stillness that reminded him of her absence.

Eve frowned as she watched him from a distance, her watering slowing to a stop. For days now, he had worked himself into exhaustion, skipping meals, hardly sleeping, barely speaking. She'd tolerated it at first. But three weeks in, and her patience began to fray.

She set her jar down and walked toward him.

"Adam," she called, soft but firm.

He didn't answer, just kept gripping the hoe, jamming it into the soil.

"Adam," she repeated, approaching. "You need to rest."

Adam didn't even look at her. "I'm fine," he muttered, voice low and tight.

"No, you're not," she said, stepping closer. "You're hurting yourself."

"I said I'm fine," he snapped, gripping the hoe tighter. "Just leave me alone."

She exhaled through her nose, patience thinning. Without another word, she reached out, gripping the wooden handle of the hoe. Adam tensed, yanking it back, but his arms trembled. He didn't have the strength anymore.

"Let go," she said calmly.

He tried to argue, to shout, but only a croaky rasp came out.

"Nuisance... you're a... you're a..."

His legs nearly buckled. Eve caught his arm and steadied him.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a nuisance. Come on," she said, more gently now, wrapping his arm over her shoulder. "I want to show you something."

He staggered beside her, not putting up much of a fight. He was too tired. And something in her tone, so warm and quiet, silenced his complaints.

Eve led him around the Tree of Eden, past the usual route he took for gardening. There, nestled in the clearing behind the thick roots, was a small shrine.

A smooth stone slab rested at the base of the tree, carefully shaped and carved by hand. Beside it bloomed a bed of white lilies and freesia, their petals gently swaying. The air was sweet, peaceful. A little garden in a garden. A place of memory.

Adam's steps faltered.

He stared.

The gravestone was simple but elegant. No words, no flourish. Just a single carving of a blooming flower, etched into the stone's surface. The wind carried the scent of the lilies, and the late sun gave the space a golden hue.

"I made it for her," Eve said softly. "Been working on it for a while now."

Adam didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the flowers. The longer he looked, the more his breath hitched.

He didn't speak for a long moment. Then he slowly sat down against the tree's base, staring at the gravestone, his expression unreadable.

"I'll make you some tea," Eve said softly. "Stay here."

Adam said nothing. His hands rested limply on his knees. As Eve walked back toward the hut, the wind stirred gently, rustling the flowers. Adam reached out and touched one of the lilies. His eyes welled up with tears.

He tried to hold them back.

He couldn't.

A single tear slid down his cheek, then another, and another, until he had to wipe his face with the back of his hand. He sniffed, swallowing the lump in his throat. The shrine blurred before his eyes.

When he heard Eve returning, he quickly scrubbed his face dry.

She returned with a steaming clay cup and handed it to him without a word. Adam accepted it silently, taking a small sip. Chamomile and mint. Warm. Calming.

"...Why did you do this?" he finally asked, his voice quiet.

Eve tilted her head. "Because even if I didn't know her... I know she meant something to you. And that matters. You matter. And I thought she deserved a place here, too. Something beautiful."

Adam swallowed, lowering the cup slightly.

"...Thank you," he mumbled, barely audible.

Eve smiled softly and reached to gently brush the dirt from his cheek.

High above, in the Celestial Hall, the seraphim watched the scene unfold through the misted veil of Heaven's sight. A few wiped away tears, the tenderness catching them off guard.

"Compose yourself," one snapped, nudging a sniffling companion. "This isn't the time to get emotional."

Another scoffed. "You can't even cry in peace here..."

But Sera said nothing. She stood before the viewing pool, her hands clasped gently, a look of calm slowly overtaking her face.

For once, she allowed herself to smile—just a little.

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"...I'm sorry I ever doubted You."

The Hall of Virtues was quieter than usual, most of the others having gone to their quarters after another long day of lessons and arguments. The echo of their voices still lingered faintly in the grand marble chamber, but now only two remained. Triel leaned against the edge of a tall window frame, her wings folded loosely, while Asmodel sat on one of the benches, his posture slouched and his brow furrowed.

"She's convinced them," Triel said, her voice low but edged with frustration. "Plutus, Levia, even Belfagel... they've begun to echo Veritas's words as if they were their own. And I—" She stopped, shaking her head. "I can't tell if I should be angry with them for listening or angry with myself for doubting."

Asmodel let out a long sigh, his glowing eyes dimmer than usual. "I've been asking myself the same thing. Veritas... she's not wrong about everything. The hypocrisy of the seraphim, God's silence, the way we're treated like ornaments to uphold some perfect image while others tear it down without consequence. I've seen it too. Felt it. But—" He rubbed his temple. "She isn't telling the whole truth either. She twists it. Uses it."

Triel looked down at him, conflicted. "That's what frightens me. She's supposed to embody truth, Asmodel, but she's become... cunning. Manipulative. Maybe she believes what she says, maybe she thinks it's for the best, but the way she pushes? It feels wrong. Dangerous."

Asmodel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And yet... look around us, Triel. What has caution and obedience earned us? Samael broken, Lilith cast out, the humanity project unraveling. God sits back, cryptic as always, telling us to have faith. But faith hasn't stopped the suffering."

Triel's lips pressed into a thin line. She wanted to disagree, to push back, but she couldn't. She too had felt the same gnawing questions Veritas voiced, even if she despised her delivery. "So what then?" she asked quietly. "Do we just... abandon what we stand for? Become like her?"

"Maybe that's what she wants," Asmodel murmured. "Or maybe it's what we need. I don't know anymore." His tone carried a rare heaviness, the sound of a virtue doubting his very foundation.

The chamber fell silent. Only the faint crackle of a torch along the wall filled the void between them. Triel's antennae twitched faintly as she stared out the tall window, the sky beyond a swirl of golden light fading into silver dusk.

"Tell me something, Asmodel," she said at last, her voice low but steady. "If Veritas is right... if taking control is the only way to protect Samael, to protect Lilith, to protect humanity—" she turned, her soft eyes meeting his troubled ones, "—then what does that make us if we stand in her way?"

The question lingered in the air like a blade unsheathed, sharp and dangerous, demanding an answer neither of them was ready to give.

Chapter Text

The Hall of Virtues thrummed with a tense expectancy, the way air feels before a summer storm. Triel had sent word for everyone to gather—no music in the kitchens, no open lessons in the atria, no gentle sermons in the courtyards. They came in twos and threes until the sunlit floor was flecked with wing-shadows: Asmodel tall and poised at the dais edge, Azazil standing like a quiet pillar of dawnlight, Levia with hands folded to calm her own trembling empathy, Plutus fiddling with one of the star-charms on his hat, Belfagel still dusted with chalk from her drafting room. Veritas arrived last, silver hair spilling like moonlight, her yellow eyes bright and unreadable.

Triel stood at the semicircle's center, the sun-halo behind her casting pale gold over the marble. Her voice, when she spoke, was softer than usual, but steadier too. "Alright," she said, letting her gaze travel across every face. "We've argued ourselves in circles. We've prayed. We've waited. We've hoped. It hasn't changed enough. So." She turned to Veritas. "Tell us what to do."

For the briefest breath, Veritas's composure cracked—surprise flickered, then smoothed into a small, satisfied smile. She clasped her hands at her waist, luminous and self-possessed. "I'll be frank," she said. "I didn't expect you to ask."

Triel's antennae tilted, a warning as gentle as a touch. "This is only about preserving the humanity project," she replied, tone cool and laid-back, yet sharpened at the edges. "Not about scoring points. Not about shaming Sera. If we move, it's to protect Adam, and—" a flicker of sorrow crossed her face, "—to honor Lilith's name by preventing more harm. That's it."

"Understood," Veritas said, and though a glint of pride lingered, her voice softened. "Then we proceed lawfully: we hold a trial."

A ripple of murmurs moved through the hall. Asmodel's brows rose. "A tribunal?" he asked, smooth and measured. "On what authority?"

"On Heaven's," Veritas answered. "If God chooses to take no part, we appeal to the next order. We summon a convocation open to angels and cherubs. The seraphim must answer for their governance of Eden. The archangels preside as adjudicators. We present the record—every incident, every omission, every abuse of discretion—and the archangels render a vote."

Azazil's quiet patience grew taut, like a bowstring drawn. "You would put Sera on formal trial?"

"I would put their actions on trial," Veritas said gently, and for a heartbeat her aura seemed almost warm. "This isn't vengeance. It is clarity. A reckoning that names what happened and asks whether those entrusted with care have fulfilled it."

Plutus shifted, the bells on his hat barely chiming. "Crikey," he breathed, then straighter, soft voice rising with sudden enthusiasm. "If it's fair dinkum and above-board, maybe folk'll finally listen. We lay it out clean, yeah? No spin, no venom. Just what happened." He swallowed, glancing at Levia. "And what didn't."

Levia nodded, emerald eyes glistening. "If it keeps others from suffering, I'll stand there and tell the truth of it," she said quietly. "But we must be gentle. Even with those who hurt us. Justice without cruelty."

"Always," Veritas promised.

Belfagel folded her arms, perfectionist mind already enumerating difficulties. "And how," she said, each word precise, "do you intend to ensure a favorable outcome? You speak as if the archangels will simply agree."

"Because some already do," Veritas replied, not smug, but certain. "They have seen what we've seen. Heard what we've heard. Uriel knows the shape of Sera's burden and its failures. Michael has admitted his own misjudgments—and he's not blind to the seraphim's. Gabriel has observed more than he says aloud." She glanced toward the archangelic wing of the city, then back. "We don't need unanimity. We need a clear verdict that the stewardship of Eden must change, or at minimum be placed under joint guardianship with us."

Triel's lips pursed. "And if they refuse?"

"Then we will have told the truth before Heaven," Veritas said, yellow gaze turning luminous. "And truth has a way of working like water in stone—slow, relentless, unignorable."

Asmodel exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing by a thread. "If we do this, it must be immaculate," he said. "No spectacle. No pettiness. We document. We corroborate. We let their words condemn their own choices where they must."

"Agreed," Triel said. "Veritas, outline it."

Veritas stepped forward, aura brightening like a lantern raised. "First, summons: a formal notice to the archangels requesting their presence and consent to arbitrate. Second, invitations to a public assembly in the Celestial Hall, open to angels, cherubs, and the seraphim themselves. Third, filings: we compile testimony—sworn statements from those who witnessed key events."

She began to count on her fingers, voice growing more deliberate. "Exhibits A through G: the record of pressuring Adam and Lilith to conceive before they'd formed a bond; the differential treatment of Lilith and Adam as garden-keepers; the failure to provide shelter, basic tools, or instruction for rest; the escalation that led to Lilith's flight; the threats made in Eden; Adam's striking of Lilith; the subsequent breakdown and the leadership vacuum Sera created. We include Zadkiel's confession—critical. We include our own attempts to intervene, and the dismissal we received."

Azazil's jaw tightened at the memories. "We will speak. But no savagery."

"No savagery," Veritas echoed. "Let the facts stand. We'll ask for a vote on remedial measures: placing Eden's pedagogy and pastoral care under joint oversight by the Virtues and the archangels for a defined period; codifying protections for human dignity—no coercion, no punishment for refusing to bear children; establishing standards of provision: shelter, food, rest, instruction in care and consent. And—" she glanced at Triel, then Asmodel, "—embedding Temperance and Chastity as standing counselors to future unions, to safeguard balance and mutual respect."

Belfagel shifted, knitting her fingers. "And what of Sera?"

Veritas paused. For once, her answer came without edge. "We ask that she be relieved from unilateral authority over Eden," she said softly, "and given time to heal, to learn, to atone. This is about stewardship, not exile."

Triel studied Veritas a long moment, seeking the hidden hook and not finding one—at least not today. "Alright," she said at last, voice warm and steady. "We try this. But I'm holding you to your word. No grandstanding. No twisting the knife."

Veritas inclined her head. "Then we begin with the letters."

They moved to the small scriptorium at the hall's north end, where parchment gleamed like pale skin under skylight and quiet quills waited in crystal jars. Veritas rolled back her sleeves; silver hair slid over one shoulder. With precise strokes she inked three notices, each addressed in a clean, firm hand.

To Uriel: a petition framed as duty—the invitation to illuminate, to weigh with wisdom. To Michael: a challenge sheathed in honor—protect the weak, confront the strong with courage. To Gabriel: an appeal to mercy—hear the songs of grief and let judgment be kind.

As she wrote, Triel dictated the boundaries one final time, each syllable smooth as a plucked string. "This is for the humans," she said. "Not our pride. Not revenge."

Levia added a postscript in each—short lines in a flowing hand: Please. Come. People are hurting. Azazil pressed his seal—a stylized dawn—beneath the signatures. Asmodel added his, a filigreed sigil that looked like interwoven rings.

Plutus hovered at Veritas's elbow, eyes wide, voice soft before it tipped enthusiastic. "Do we reckon we—ah—should keep a copy, yeah? Paper trail and all that."

"Diligent as ever," Belfagel said, and the faintest ghost of her old, radiant diligence returned as she produced duplicates and bound them with gold thread.

When the letters were dry, Veritas gathered them, weighing each sheet in her palm as if she could feel the gravity of what they set in motion. "I'll deliver them to their boxes," she said.

"No," Triel answered gently. "I will." She met Veritas's gaze with that easy, sun-warm steadiness that made angels breathe easier. "If this is to be about trust, let me carry the first part of it."

Veritas hesitated, then released the parchments. "Very well."

Triel left with Asmodel at her side, wings crossing corridors of glass and gilt, where every archangel's alcove had a messenger's coffer worked with their sigil. One by one, she slid each letter home—Uriel's behind a plate of softly glowing sunstone, Michael's beneath a brass sword-crest, Gabriel's under a canopy of chimes that rang once, like a sigh.

When she returned, evening had laid a lavender hush over the Hall of Virtues. The others remained where she'd left them: Azazil in patient stillness; Levia whispering a prayer for gentleness over the parchment copies; Belfagel aligning them square; Plutus staring at the door with hopeful, bouncing knees; Veritas unreadable, hands folded.

"That's it," Triel said, exhaling. "We've done what we can for today."

"And now?" Plutus asked, voice barely above a whisper before a grin broke through. "Now we—uh—wait, right?"

"Now we wait," Veritas said, the moonlight in her eyes steady as a vow. "And we prepare to tell the truth."

The letters arrived almost in the same breath.

Uriel broke the wax with a tired thumb in her study of sunlit vellum and cooling tea. Michael found his sealed beneath the hilt-crest outside the training yards, where the Executioners drilled in slow, disciplined arcs. Gabriel's chimed into his hands like a soft bell in the courier galleries—news, always news.

They met in Uriel's chambers. The room was calm: shelves of codices, a map of the firmament done in gold thread, cushions arranged for conversation. Uriel read first—lips silent, eyes narrowing with a familiar ache of responsibility—then passed the parchment to Gabriel, then to Michael.

"So they want us to arbitrate," Michael said, folding the letter once more with deliberate care. "A formal hearing. Evidence, testimony, a vote."

Gabriel leaned back, twisting his courier ring. "It's not as if they're wrong," he said. "I've seen enough to know the project's... wobbling." He glanced toward Uriel. "And I'm not eager to referee Sera. But if this brings clarity—"

"It brings truth," Uriel murmured, the word warm and heavy. "Or it tries to. The Virtues are asking us to carry a light where they feel unseen. We can at least consent to hear."

Michael exhaled through his nose. "We should not do this alone." He tapped the letter against his knee. "We'll need the full circle—Cassiel, Camael, Azrael, Raziel, Jophiel, Raphael, Haniel, Shubael."

Gabriel was already half rising. "I can fetch them."

Uriel touched his sleeve. "Invite them," she corrected, gentle. "No summons. Not yet."

They gathered in a private rotunda above the wind-sculpted colonnades—a place of hush and high windows where the sky looked close enough to touch. The archangels arrived in a slow constellation:

Cassiel first, eyes rimmed with the soft red of recent tears and the strength of one who never fears them. Camael next, posture like a pillar, sword buckled but covered; justice is not a blade so much as a balance. Azrael with a crooked grin, black hair raked back, hands in pockets as if meetings were trivial. Raziel seemed to arrive from within the shadows already there, robe indistinguishable from air until it decided to be cloth. Jophiel brought color with her—the scent of pigment and pressed flowers, a brain that painted as it reasoned. Raphael slipped in with a healer's glance that checked the room for wounds before seats. Haniel brought a stillness that felt like a hand smoothing the surface of water. Shubael came last, broad-shouldered and warm-eyed, the way a hearth arrives in a cold cabin.

Michael stood, not to tower but to bear the weight of opening words. "Thank you," he said simply. "You've all read the drift of recent days—Eden, Lilith's... loss." A pause, respectful and painful. "The Virtues have sent us a petition. They propose a formal tribunal to evaluate the seraphim's stewardship of the Humanity Project. They ask us to arbitrate."

Camael's brows knit. "On what grounds?" Her voice was low, tempered iron. "We do not uproot authority because of grief."

"Not grief," Gabriel said softly. "Pattern. Pressure on Adam and Lilith to conceive without consent. Neglect of provision. Coercion. Then escalation."

Cassiel's hand was already around a linen handkerchief, not to cry but to offer. "I stood with some of them after the memorial," she said. "Their sorrow is real. But sorrow alone is not a verdict." Her eyes met Michael's. "What have we seen, truly?"

Uriel answered with the quiet clarity of a lantern. "I have spoken with Sera. She is... unraveling and learning at once. God consoles and declines to commandeer. Adam labors himself into emptiness. Eve has been made—perhaps to comfort, perhaps to complete. The Virtues asked, and we did not act. Now they ask again, and at least we must listen."

Azrael raised a hand as if bidding at an invisible auction. "Hear, hear. And if we're holding a trial, I call dibs on telling people when they're being ridiculous." He tipped a smile at Camael. "Kidding. Mostly."

Camael did not smile back, but some corner of her mouth admitted the world had absurdities. "It is not ridiculous to expect accountability," she said. "But trials are knives with two edges. You carve truth, you also cut pride. The question is whether we're prepared to hold steady when blood appears."

Raziel's voice threaded from the shadow near his seat. "Truth has been coming to this hall in disguises for weeks," he said. "As grief, as anger, as prayers for intervention. The One who knows the end from the start has allowed it to unfold. That does not absolve us of discernment; it requires it."

Jophiel leaned forward, fingers already sketching ideas in the air. "If we do this, we must design it with beauty and rigor," she said, and when baffled looks touched her she added, "I mean: structure that honors dignity. A space where testimony can be brave without becoming spectacle. Where even the seraphim are not humiliated, only corrected."

Raphael nodded almost too quickly, anxious to agree and make peace. "Yes. Yes, that. We can set protocols—ground rules—so no one is harmed further. I can—ah—be available to anyone who needs support during or after."

Haniel's voice moved like a calming breeze. "And I will keep the pathways of conversation open. Misunderstanding often masquerades as malice."

"Sometimes it is malice," Azrael murmured, but not unkindly.

Shubael folded his hands. "If we do this, we must point toward repairing things," he said in his deep, reassuring timbre. "What is our desired outcome? To remove Sera? To shame the seraphim? Or to restore a right order where humans are protected and the caretakers learn to care?"

Michael looked around the circle and allowed himself a small breath of relief; they were circling the same star. "The Virtues propose remedial measures," he said, drawing from the letter. "Joint stewardship—Virtues and archangels—over Eden's pedagogy and protection, for a season. Codified protections: no coercion to procreate, provision of shelter, food, rest, education in consent. Standing counsel from Temperance and Chastity in matters of union. Sera relieved of unilateral authority and given leave to mend."

Camael nodded slowly. "This is measured," she said. "It punishes no one, corrects much. The question is not whether it is just, but whether it is timely—and whether we become instruments of justice or of faction."

Cassiel's eyes softened. "If we don't act, pain will multiply," she said. "Adam's, Eve's, Sera's—yes, even hers. The Virtues are fraying under the strain. We can at least hold a listening."

Raziel's gaze turned inward, as if reading an unseen page. "There is a hidden current," he said. "God's will and God's ways are not always the same river. If He allows us to judge, perhaps it is that judgment itself becomes a lesson—for us, for them." He tilted his head toward Uriel. "And for the ones being made."

Gabriel rubbed his temple and exhaled a laugh that wasn't amusement. "Then we agree to convene? We can keep it private at first—limited attendance, secure record. If we must open it, we do so after we've built the frame."

"Who presides?" Jophiel asked. "A single voice invites resentment. A chorus invites confusion."

"A triad," Haniel suggested. "Balance. One to keep the order, one to probe, one to tend the room."

Camael's gaze found Michael's. "You keep order," she said. "You've drilled armies to stand and storms to pass."

Michael grimaced. "I am not sure I'm the best face for 'gentle arbitration.'"

"You are a good face for steady law," Uriel countered gently.

"Gabriel probes," Cassiel added. "He asks questions that unwrap." Gabriel raised his hands as if to say he wasn't sure how he'd become the spear of inquiry, then shrugged; fair.

"And I will tend the room," Cassiel finished simply. "Tears are not a weakness here. They are a signal: someone needs care."

"Then I'll volunteer to keep the record," Jophiel said. "A beautiful transcript—the kind that is readable and humane."

"I'll manage time and transitions," Haniel offered. "No one will feel rushed. No one will feel trapped."

"I'll run a support chamber outside," Raphael said quickly. "Tea, quiet, and a place to breathe."

Azrael reclined, lacing fingers behind his head. "And I'll be moral support with panache, and say snarky things in the hallway where they can do no damage."

"You can also review the evidence for holes," Raziel said dryly. "Secrets, omissions, gaps. You excel at noticing what's not said."

Azrael smirked. "I do love negative space."

Shubael tapped the table lightly. "And I will draft a charter of restoration—what happens after the verdict, whatever it is. No one leaves with only a wound."

Michael set the letter down at last. "Very well," he said. "We will answer the Virtues: we consent to hear their petition and to convene a tribunal. We will invite the seraphim to prepare their own record and defense. We will ask Sera to attend. We will keep God informed, without demanding His intervention."

Uriel's eyes held the room, warm and grave. "And we will guard our hearts," she said. "We are not here to strip dignity, or to crown ourselves. We are here for the humans. For Adam, for Eve." Her voice lowered. "For the memory of a woman whose name still moves like a tremor through Heaven."

Silence settled. In that softness, even Azrael did not wisecrack. The decision felt like the moment before an arrow's release: motion contained in stillness, purpose bound to risk.

Gabriel broke it with the practicalities. "I'll craft the notices," he said, already assembling the language in his mind. "Private session in the lower amphitheater, three days hence. Evidence sharing tomorrow; responses the day after. We'll need stewards to manage entry."

"I'll ask the Executioners to stand outside as honor guard," Michael said, catching himself and adding, "Not as intimidation. As a signal of order."

"Then we're agreed," Camael said. "We do not come as accusers or apologists. We come as servants of right."

Raziel's smiled. "And of revelation."

Cassiel pressed the folded handkerchief into Gabriel's hand with a knowing look he pretended not to need. Raphael hugged Shubael on impulse and then apologized for hugging without asking; Shubael chuckled and hugged him back anyway. Haniel's palm brushed the table and somehow every tension thread slackened a fraction. Jophiel was already sketching a seating plan that made space feel kind.

Michael gathered the letters. Uriel opened the door.

"Three days," Gabriel said, and the chimes in his ring sang a soft, bright note. "Let's build a hearing worthy of Heaven—and of those who need it."

They dispersed into corridors of glass and light, each carrying a piece of the work. Above them, the sky looked close enough to touch. Below, somewhere tender and hidden, the first stirrings of a different order began to hum.

The letter arrived on wings of silver, Gabriel's seal stamped across the fold. Zadkiel was the one who received it first. He broke the wax carefully and read the words with furrowed brows, his expression shifting between concern and restraint. When Sera entered the chamber, he silently handed it to her.

Her eyes moved across the page slowly, as if weighing every word. A trial. Not a discussion, not another council meeting, but a full tribunal with archangels presiding and evidence to be presented. It felt heavier than parchment had any right to be.

Sera lowered the letter to her lap, fingers pressing into the folds. "So... this is what it's come to," she said quietly, though her tone carried no surprise. "The Virtues are no longer petitioning or scolding. They want a judgment."

Zadkiel crossed his arms, his expression conflicted. "It was bound to happen eventually. They've been carrying grievances for too long. You know as well as I do that many of them feel unheard. This is their way of making us listen."

"I know," Sera admitted, her voice softer than usual. She had grown used to speaking with authority, but in this moment it was thinner, edged with fatigue. "And perhaps... perhaps they are not wrong to bring it this far."

Zadkiel studied her carefully. He had always been one of the few seraphim willing to speak plainly to her, and this time was no different. "You acknowledged what most of us never thought we would hear from you. That means something. But you should also understand—this trial isn't only about you. It's about all of us. Every mistake we've made with Adam and Lilith will be weighed. We'll all stand under the same judgment."

Sera nodded, lips pressing into a thin line. "Yes. I know." She folded the letter back into its seal and placed it on the table. "Then we have to prepare. Not to fight them, not to humiliate the Virtues, but to show that we still have some measure of integrity. The seraphim must be informed."

Gathering the seraphim was no small task. They had scattered to their duties—observation, documentation, guarding Eden's boundaries—but the summons brought them quickly to the Hall. As they assembled, Sera stood at the front, visibly weary yet composed.

She raised the letter high enough for all to see. "We have been summoned," she began. Her voice was strong at first, though it carried an unusual tremor beneath the surface. "The Archangels have agreed to oversee a tribunal. The Virtues will present evidence against us. They will argue that we are unfit to guide the Humanity Project."

Murmurs rose immediately, some indignant, others frightened. A few looked away, shame flickering across their faces.

Sera continued, raising her hand for silence. "I will not soften this. We have given the Virtues every reason to doubt us. Our treatment of Lilith. Our dismissal of Samael. Our harsh expectations of Adam. All of it will come before the Archangels. This is not just their anger—it is the consequence of our actions."

One seraph spoke up from the crowd, voice tight with frustration. "But they were defiant! Lilith especially. She refused her role. How can they place all the blame on us?"

Sera met their gaze, unflinching. "Because we made it impossible for her to want that role. We belittled her, treated her as lesser, and when she stood her ground, Adam struck her. And what did we do? We praised Adam and let Lilith walk out of Eden alone." Her words struck the room into silence.

She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I am not excusing Lilith's choices. But we made them unbearable. And I will not deny it anymore. We must face what is coming."

The seraphim looked unsettled, some visibly upset by her admission. But Zadkiel, standing off to the side, nodded slowly in agreement. He knew she was speaking the truth, even if it was bitter.

"Will God intervene?" another seraph asked.

Sera hesitated. She thought of her conversations with Him—the way He always gave her words of comfort, never command. She shook her head. "No. This is ours to face. If He wished to resolve it, He already would have. We must stand accountable."

Her wings shifted as if the weight of them pressed harder than ever. "This trial will be painful. It will expose everything. But perhaps that is what we need. If the Virtues win, then the project will be placed in their hands. If we win, we will still be scarred by what is said of us. Either way, the Humanity Project will change."

Silence stretched across the hall. For the first time, the seraphim were not looking to her as a flawless commander. They were looking at a leader who admitted her faults. And though it unsettled them, it also steadied them.

Sera folded her hands together. "Prepare yourselves. Speak honestly when you are called. Do not lash out, do not hide the truth. We may not win this trial. But we can at least walk into it with dignity."

The meeting ended with quiet nods and uncertain glances. Sera lingered after the others departed, staring down at the folded letter on the table once more. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the polished surface beneath it.

She whispered to herself, a prayer more than a statement. "God... I hope this is the right way forward. I will not run from this."

And for the first time since the Humanity Project began, Sera accepted the possibility that her role in it might end.

Chapter Text

At the Hall of Virtues, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. Samael sat with Triel as she carefully explained the trial, her voice measured, her expression calm but serious.

"The Archangels have agreed to hear the case," Triel said, her hands folded neatly in her lap. "It will be a tribunal. The Virtues will present evidence of the seraphim's failures, and the Archangels will decide if stewardship of the Humanity Project should be shifted. It's official."

Samael leaned back, arms crossed, the weight of it sinking in. "So it's happening," he murmured. "Honestly... I didn't think God would allow this. I thought He'd step in long before it got this far."

Triel's lips pressed together. She hesitated, then her voice dropped to a softer tone. "He doesn't know. We haven't told Him."

Samael straightened, blinking. "You haven't—? Wait. At all? Not even a word?"

Triel shook her head. "You know His stance. He won't interfere. Not with this. He's made it clear: free will, choices, consequences. If He refuses to involve Himself in what we do with humanity, then what good would it be to run to Him with this? He would tell us to resolve it ourselves. So we did. We turned to the Archangels instead."

Samael frowned, his brow furrowing with unease. "But what happens if He finds out? You know He sees more than He says. If He knows we deliberately kept this from Him—"

Before Triel could answer, Veritas cut across the room, her voice sharp and unwavering. She stepped closer, her eyes burning with conviction. "He isn't going to find out. Because no one here is going to tell Him."

Samael's head snapped toward her, startled by the sheer certainty in her tone. "Veritas..."

"No," she pressed, her hand slicing the air as though cutting off his doubt. "He forfeited the right to weigh in when He turned His back on the problems we've been drowning in. He had the chance to intervene when Lilith was suffering, when Samael was pleading, when the seraphim were tearing everything apart. He did nothing. Nothing. And now, when we finally have the chance to make things right, we will not go crawling back to Him, asking for permission like children begging for scraps."

Her words rang in the chamber, defiant, unshaken. "This is our project now. Ours to protect, ours to fix. God does not need to know every step we take. He gave us freedom—well, let's use it."

Samael's heart thudded in his chest. He didn't immediately respond, torn between her fierce resolve and his own unease at the thought of openly keeping secrets from the One who created them all. But the look in Veritas's eyes was unflinching, almost daring him to challenge her.

Triel reached out, her voice steady, trying to calm the storm brewing between them. "Samael, listen. Everything will go smoothly. The tribunal will be fair. The Archangels are not blind—they've seen the mistakes, the failures. They'll hear the truth. We'll present our case, and the Humanity Project will finally be in better hands."

Samael looked between them, Triel's reassurance soft but firm, Veritas's defiance sharp and absolute. He let out a slow breath, his gaze falling to the floor. "I want this to work. For Lilith. For humanity. But hiding this from Him... I hope you know what we're stepping into."

The room settled into uneasy quiet. Triel gave Samael a small, reassuring smile, while Veritas only crossed her arms, resolute. The trial was coming, and whether God knew or not, the Virtues were already committed to the path they had chosen.

Two days passed by, and word of the tribunal moved through Heaven like a bell tone that never quite faded. By afternoon, even the gardens around the Golden Gates hummed with half-whispered theories and careless guesses. That was when St. Peter finally got his stroll.

He all but bounced beside God along the colonnade that flanked the gates, hands clasped behind his back, face arranged in its most eager, neighborly smile. "Thank You for coming," he said for the fourth time in three minutes. "It gets quiet up here. Lovely, of course! Golden, resplendent—top marks! But quiet. Terribly quiet."

"I know," God answered, eyes kind. "Your letters were... numerous."

Peter tripped over a paver stone and caught himself, cheeks warming. "Oh! You received those?"

"I received them all."

They walked past the pearled arch, where light sifted down like a steady, gentle rain. Peter filled the air with words, the way he always did when nervous. "I wasn't sure. I mean, I assumed. But one never knows with the—"

"I received them," God said again, soft amusement in the shape of His mouth.

Peter grinned, slightly abashed, and then, unable to help himself, blurted, "Which one was your favorite? Personally I'm partial to the one with the sketch of the gate mechanisms. The artistry! I drew it myself."

God's gaze drifted, thoughtful, toward the gate's flawless hinges. "I remember."

He remembered more than that.

—In the quiet of His chambers, the letters had arrived in tidy stacks tied with blue thread, then in messier bundles, then singly, fruiting in odd places: atop a psalter, beneath a bowl of figs, perched like a pale bird on the sill. Your Majesty, a brief stroll? Your Majesty, a medium stroll? Your Majesty, a long stroll; I promise not to talk too much, though I might. Each one cheerful, persistent, doggedly affectionate. Each one so aggressively hopeful that even the All-Knowing felt the tug to delay, to wait until the exuberance thinned.

It never thinned. It multiplied.

He had set the latest letter down and stared through the window at the river of light that ran through Heaven, and said to no one at all, "Soon." He had meant it. He had also needed a moment of quiet before Peter's eagerness washed over Him like a tide.

Now, with Peter chattering happily at His side, God felt the tide and did not mind it.

"Truth be told," Peter went on, lowering his voice like someone risking a secret in plain sight, "I invited You because the gates are very boring today. Entirely open, as always. That brings me to a question I've been dying to ask. Why do we even have gates? Who are we keeping out?"

"Someday," God said, "you will see."

Peter squinted at Him. "That is not an answer."

"It is. Just not the one you want right now."

"Your knack for riddles is—oh!" He flinched as a breeze lifted a chime from a nearby post and made it sing. After a heartbeat, he laughed at himself. "Right. Sorry. Easily startled. Occupational hazard. Last week a dandelion floated up and I nearly screamed."

God chuckled. "I heard."

They strolled beneath a trellis of flowering light. Peter peered at Him, then at his own sandals, then at Him again. "There's something else making the rounds. Tomorrow's tribunal. The angels are buzzing. Even the cherubs have opinions, and they're not shy about them."

God's eyes warmed. "I've heard of it. My children told Me."

Peter stopped walking. "Your... children, as in the archangels. Huh. Well. That's interesting. Because I was told—very firmly—that You weren't supposed to know. Something about non-involvement, free will, not tipping a scale with a word."

God didn't answer straight away. A cloud passed, then thinned. "They are learning to govern," He said. "Learning to ask, to discern, to stand. I don't need to tip the scale to hear them talk."

Peter clicked his tongue, then resumed walking. "Right. Well. Since You have heard a whisper or two, I might as well share the rest. I saw Azazil, Belfagel, and Veritas near the vestibule yesterday. Looked like a conclave of important faces. I was friendly, naturally, welcoming as I could be—'How do you do, will there be seating, should I arrange extra water pitchers'—that sort of thing. Veritas, though..." He winced. "She was... prickly."

God said nothing, which was often an invitation.

"She said—don't look at me like that, I'm paraphrasing—she said I was nosy, that I don't have authority to judge anything because 'all you're tasked to do is guard a gate.' Which—sting! I do other things. I have a stool and a ledger and a smile. And I listen. I am very good at listening." He glanced sideways. "I'm lovable, too. Or so I've been told."

"You are."

Peter beamed, then deflated slightly. "Still. It isn't like them to sneer. They've... changed. Everyone says so. They've put the sermons on hold. Young cherubs were waiting yesterday, eager for the usual stories from Temperance and Kindness, and no one came. The little ones told me—through a great deal of sticky tears—that the Virtues spend all their time with Samael now."

He said the name with care.

"I don't blame him," Peter added quickly. "I hear he's having a hard time. Hurt. Conflict. Being young and being told you're wrong before you're heard. I've... been that sort of young. Once." He scratched his beard, then remembered he'd never been allotted one and scratched his chin instead. "But the cherubs feel forgotten. And Veritas snapping at me—well, it rattled. I don't know what this tribunal will do to any of us."

They came to the overlook where the city fell away in layers of light, and below that, the dim blue of the world where Eden breathed. God leaned on the rail as if He had all the time in every cosmos—which He did—and listened until Peter's words petered out and his hands stilled.

"I am sorry she hurt you," God said.

Peter blinked rapidly. "Oh. Thank You. It's not that I'm fragile. I just don't enjoy being told my job is only a gate."

"Your job is welcome," God said. "There is nothing 'only' about that."

Peter's eyes shone. "I do like welcoming."

"I know."

A quiet settled that felt like a folded cloak. Peter rocked on his heels, then startled again when a dove alighted on the rail and cooed. He laughed, shook his head at himself, and cleared his throat. "So. Are You going to the trial?"

God watched a far-off glimmer move across Eden's border—Sera's wings, perhaps; Gabriel's courier path; or something else entirely. "I will think about it."

Peter nodded, accepting it for what it was. "If You come, it might keep tempers from boiling over. Or it might make them worse. Hard to tell with angels. We're very dramatic."

"I've noticed."

Peter's mouth tugged up. "Will You at least walk me back to the gate?"

"Of course."

They turned. Peter resumed his genial ramble at once, circling back to small things: the best hour to polish the latch so it caught the sunset just so; the names he'd given the two cypresses by the steps ("Cyp and Ress—don't laugh"); the way the stone sometimes sang if you tapped it in the right place. God answered as if all of it mattered, because it did—to Peter, and therefore to Him.

At the arch, Peter hesitated. "If You do think about going," he said softly, "will You also think about... them? The little ones who want their stories back. And Samael. And Sera. And the way we talk when we're scared."

"I am thinking about all of them," God said.

Peter nodded, reassured. "Right. Then I'll keep watch. Loudly, if necessary. Quietly, if preferred. Startled, inevitably."

He reached for the bar and nearly jumped out of his skin when a cherub popped up from beneath it with a squeak of surprise. Both of them squeaked, then stared, then laughed until the sound ran out into the bright air.

God's smile didn't fade as He stepped away. "Thank you for the stroll, Peter."

"Anytime," Peter said, meaning it with his whole, simple heart. "And if You need another, you know where to find me."

"I always do."

He watched God go, then turned back to the gate, the same gate he had called boring not fifteen minutes earlier. He touched the hinge—polished, perfect—and felt a small, inexplicable shiver of purpose. Somewhere, tomorrow, Heaven would argue with itself for the sake of the humans below. Here, today, he would welcome whoever came, startle at whatever moved, and love his post with the stubborn persistence that made God finally, blessedly, say yes to a stroll.

The lower amphitheater of Heaven was filled to capacity. Golden light streamed from the domed ceiling, refracting through crystal beams that cast faint light over the gathered assembly. The quiet hum of countless wings filled the air, Virtues, Seraphim, Archangels, and cherubs, all present for a proceeding that had never before existed in Heaven's history: angels judging angels.

At the center dais stood the tribunal. Michael presided with the stoic authority of Heaven's commander, his voice carrying calm power. To his right, Gabriel sat poised, scrolls and quills prepared for questioning. Uriel, serene and wise, occupied the left, a steadying presence amid the tension. The supporting Archangels were arranged in a crescent along the edges. Cassiel with tissues and soft words at the ready, Camael standing firm and upright, Azrael slouched with his arms crossed and an ever-sharp glint in his eye, Raziel hidden in the half-light of his cowl, Jophiel sketching notes, Raphael stationed by the side doors with tea and water for witnesses, Haniel quietly managing transitions, and Shubael near the rear, his tablet ready for drafting what came after the verdict.

At the forefront of the floor stood the Virtues. Triel, calm but uneasy, clasped her hands in front of her. Levia's face was compassionate but pained. Belfagel stood with disciplined posture, her wool pristine. Plutus, jittery yet determined, fiddled with his charm. Azazil's expression was unreadable, eyes occasionally flicking toward the Seraphim's row. And Veritas—her silver hair catching the light like a crown—stood with her usual composed grace, ready to lead.

Across from them, the Seraphim were seated. Sera stood at the center, composed but weary. Zadkiel sat beside her, quiet and cautious. The others mirrored her solemnity, though their feathers twitched restlessly. Every eye in Heaven was upon them.

Michael's voice cut through the quiet. "The tribunal of Heaven is now in session. Let all who speak do so with truth, and all who listen do so with grace." He turned to Gabriel. "You may begin."

Gabriel nodded and gestured to the Virtues' side. "The Virtues may present their case."

Veritas inclined her head and stepped forward. Her voice was clear, smooth, and carefully measured. "We stand here defense of Heaven. The Humanity Project was created to nurture, to guide, and to teach love and balance to those below. Yet what we have witnessed in Eden, through negligence, coercion, and cruelty, betrays that purpose."

She gestured lightly, and Triel and Levia stepped forward, holding the records they had compiled.

"The first account," Veritas continued, "concerns coercion. Adam and Lilith, the first humans, were pressured by the Seraphim to procreate before they had formed a bond of trust. They were given no choice, no understanding of their purpose beyond obedience. It is control, plain and simple."

Levia's voice trembled slightly as she spoke. "Lilith was treated as lesser. Denied rest, denied comfort, denied choice. When she refused to submit, she was cast aside, and no one offered her aid. I was there. I saw it."

Gasps spread among the younger angels. Even the cherubs fluttered nervously, their small hands clutching one another.

Triel followed, her tone calm and even. "We pleaded for compassion, for time. We were dismissed. Lilith's departure was an act of survival."

Gabriel nodded solemnly, his quill scratching notes. "And your evidence?"

Azazil stepped forward. "Witness records, observational scrolls, and Zadkiel's own testimony. He confirmed that the seraphim encouraged Adam to assert dominance over Lilith when she refused to obey." His tone was careful, restrained, but heavy with disappointment.

All eyes turned to the seraphim bench. Zadkiel shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Veritas continued, "The second account concerns neglect. No shelter was built. No provision given. The humans worked until they collapsed from exhaustion. They had no concept of rest until the Virtues intervened."

Then Belfagel spoke, measured, precise. "We documented over fifty instances of overexertion, all unaddressed. Lilith tended the gardens alone for days at a time."

Plutus added softly, "And no one stopped Adam from striking her."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the ever-eloquent Gabriel hesitated. Camael leaned forward slightly, her voice stern but even. "You will mind your words. This trial is meant to be fair."

Uriel's calm tone followed, cutting through the tension. "These are their honest experiences, Camael. Who are we to deny that they speak truth? Their pain is testimony."

Camael studied her, then nodded slowly. "Agreed. Continue."

As testimony unfolded, the audience shifted uneasily. Cherubs whispered behind their wings. Angels who once held the Seraphim as flawless now looked uncertain. Veritas let each speaker's emotion fill the room. Levia's compassion, Triel's clarity, Belfagel's precision, Azazil's quiet fury, all woven together to paint a picture that was devastatingly human.

Then Samael was called. His arrival drew murmurs, whispers that rippled through the room. He stood tall, calm, but his voice trembled slightly as he began.

"I was there when Lilith fled."

Cassiel quietly offered him a handkerchief when he faltered. He accepted it wordlessly, then continued. "Lilith wasn't a rebel. She was never given the chance to be more than what was demanded of her."

He stepped back, and a deep hush fell. Even Michael seemed momentarily lost in thought.

When Gabriel finally turned to Sera, the shift in the room's atmosphere was palpable.

Sera rose slowly, her wings spreading slightly as she took the stand. Her eyes swept the assembly. "Everything you have heard," she began, "has truth in it. I will not deny our mistakes. But I will not let them be our definition."

She gestured toward the orb projection above the dais. It shimmered to life, showing Eden as it now was: lush, vibrant, alive. Adam worked the gardens, and beside him, Eve tended new life. "Adam and Eve thrive. They live in peace. We learned from our errors. We guide with gentleness now. We observe. We teach. Not command."

Murmurs stirred again, softer this time. The image was beautiful, unmistakably proof of progress.

"Lilith's pain was not forgotten," Sera continued, her voice cracking faintly. "Every sunrise in Eden reminds us of what was lost. I will bear that guilt forever. But we must move forward. Humanity cannot grow if we remain paralyzed by regret."

Her words struck many hearts... but Veritas was ready.

She stepped forward again, tone still calm, her posture immaculate. "No one denies progress, Sera," she said smoothly. "But one question remains. What is to stop history from repeating? Compassion cannot erase what was done. Trust, once broken, is not so easily restored. The Seraphim had their chance, and Lilith paid the price for their failure."

She did not raise her voice, yet her words carried a quiet sting. Every syllable was chosen, every phrase measured to plant doubt without accusation.

"Ask yourselves," she concluded softly, turning to the tribunal and then the crowd, "if you would give power again to those who harmed without realizing they harmed at all."

The crowd stirred. Angels whispered among themselves, glancing toward the Seraphim with uneasy expressions. Gabriel scribbled notes quickly, while Camael's jaw tightened. Michael said nothing, but his eyes were grave.

Finally, Camael stood. "This session will recess for one hour. All parties will reconvene afterward for closing statements."

The tension broke like a wave as angels stood and began to talk. Some rushed to the exits; others remained, debating in hushed tones.

In the Virtues' circle, Veritas's composed smile finally broke into satisfaction. "Well done," she said, clasping her hands behind her back. "Soon enough, the Humanity Project will be ours."

Triel frowned slightly but said nothing. Samael's gaze lingered on the seraphim's empty bench as they exited the chamber, a pit of unease forming in his chest.