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Prologue.
Remiel.
The air inside the Celestial Tribunal is a physical weight—thick with the dust of unmade souls and the chilling silence of absolute judgment. I stand among the watchers, a statue carved from duty, but inside, I am a storm. My hands are clenched so tightly that my knuckles ache.
Before the dais, the charges against Cassia hang in the air, sharp and poisonous. My mind screams that they are wrong, but I don’t know why I feel it with such soul-deep certainty.
She is more than my duty. This feeling… It’s an infection, and it’s about to witness her condemnation.
Archangel Malakar’s vote is a foregone conclusion—a sharp, satisfied yay that cuts the silence.
Only five of the judges are here today. Where is the grand keeper?
On the dais, the newly appointed infernal sire, a creature of scorched bones and shadows, follows with a guttural grunt of agreement.
That’s two for damnation.
My breath catches in my throat.
Michael, her father, speaks. The word nay is torn from him, not with sorrow but with a terrifying, possessive force that shakes the dais. It is a betrayal of the cold order he champions, a crack in his porcelain mask.
And for a heartbeat, a fragile, impossible hope sparks in my chest.
Calithra, the shrouded queen of Limbo, stirs within her veils of mist. Her voice is like the sigh of a forgotten grave. “There has been no investigation. Nay.”
Two for. Two against.
The universe holds its breath, and every eye—celestial and damned—turns to the last arbiter: Lucifer.
He reclines on his throne, a picture of bored royalty. His fiery eyes hold ancient, calculating amusement. He hasn’t looked at Michael. He hasn’t acknowledged Malakar’s arguments. The fate of the realms seems to be of less interest to him than a speck of dust on his immaculate robes.
I find myself praying, blasphemy on my tongue, for the king of Hell to have the mercy that Heaven refuses to grant. I want to scream. But I don’t.
The silence stretches—an eternity within a single moment.
A pressure grips my skin, a sickness in my light. It churns beneath my ribs, no longer white but flickering with a sickly, restless gray. My posture shifts, my jaw locked so tight it aches. I am a drawn bowstring, seconds from snapping.
Lucifer’s gaze finally lifts, sweeping past the dais and over the assembly. It locks directly onto me.
I know he sees it all. The frantic hammering of my heart. The tremor in my clenched fists. The way my entire being is screaming her name in silence. And beneath that, he must see what I do not yet have a name for: my torment, my confusion, and my inexplicable, damning devotion.
He isn’t weighing her fate. He is measuring me.
A slow, infinitesimal smile touches the corner of his mouth, and it is the most terrifying thing I have ever seen. He must have found something in me. A lever. A weakness. A piece in a game I don’t even know is being played.
After a pause so long that it feels like a physical violation, he finally speaks, his eyes still holding me captive. “Yay.”
The word is quiet. Casual.
The verdict is passed. The gavel, one no one can see, has fallen.
And it shatters everything.
I exhale, frustrated and in a state of loss, as the surrounding chamber erupts with voices of protest and condemnation.
Michael is on his feet, his wings flaring with glowing, furious light. His voice is a thunderclap of rage. “YOU CANNOT! She is the balance! Leave her out!”
But he doesn’t even grant his brother a glance, his fiery gaze still fixed on me. He watches my world crumble, my hope turns to ash, and a flicker of something dark and triumphant passes through his eyes.
