CHAPTER 63: HE STILL SLEEPS?

The Father stepped down from the dais, each movement a psalm undone, his robes trailing like liquid starlight, his bare feet silent on the marble.

The room dimmed, the hymnstone’s glow fading as if in submission.

"He has survived the upper scars. The surface wounds. The gentle echoes," the Father said, his voice cold as ash. "Let him taste their affection. Let him build his illusions."

The Gates of Aetherion groaned open with the sound of bending starlight, a song of splintered divinity unraveling into dread, their radiant arches pulsing with celestial hymns that fractured in the air like glass.

Through the cascading veil of sacred light stumbled a lone figure, his wings half-tattered and dripping with holy blood, their pearlescent feathers scorched and frayed from the fringe storms that tore at the edge of the known realms.

The angel Nevi’el—young by celestial reckoning, but high-ranked enough to stand before the Thrones—pushed past the sentinels of radiance who flinched at his disorder, their silver spears trembling as he staggered forward.

The High Atrium lay before him: an ocean of glass-like marble, ringed by pillars of solid hymnstone, each one pulsing with locked canticles that hummed with divine power.

Here, nothing moved.

Nothing dared to move—until now.

Seraphim turned from their stillness, their silver eyes narrowing like blades at the sacrilege, their armor shimmering with righteous light.

Some shifted, fingers curling over spear-shafts etched with glowing sigils, the air shivering with judgment, a weight that pressed on the soul like a verdict.

"Brother Nevi’el," came the voice of Seraph Isareth, her tone like frost over silver bells, cutting through the atrium’s silence. "You enter unsummoned. Explain yourself, or be unmade."

Nevi’el dropped to one knee, panting, clutching his chest where scorch marks still glowed faintly beneath his cracked armor, feathers falling from his broken wings like dying stars, scattering across the marble in soft, mournful arcs.

"It’s Azareel," he gasped, his voice raw, trembling with urgency. "He... still lives."

A silence, sharp and immediate, swept through the hall like the snap of a broken psalm, the hymnstone pillars dimming for a heartbeat.

The gathered angels—statuesque in their divine grace—froze, their silver eyes flickering with disbelief.

At the far end of the Atrium, seated upon the Throne of Mirrored Flame, the Father of Light stirred, his presence a radiant void that commanded the room.

His face was like flawless ivory, his eyes endless wells of pale fire that burned without heat, his robes shimmering like woven starlight.

The throne pulsed once beneath him, casting long shadows up the prayer-scored walls, the flames within it flickering as if unsettled.

The angels turned their gaze toward him, their movements synchronized, their silence absolute.

"Speak clearly," the Father said, each word hanging in the air like suspended daggers, sharp, the air trembling with their weight.

Nevi’el’s voice trembled, his wings drooping further, holy blood dripping onto the marble.

"I saw him with my own eyes. He is not broken. Not being tortured. Not screaming. Not lost. He... was lying in a garden."

Murmurs rippled through the atrium, soft but sharp, like shattered crystal scattering across the floor.

A garden, in the Abyss?

The seraphim’s eyes narrowed, their spears tightening in their grips.

"Yes," Nevi’el continued, his voice steadying despite his pain. "A blooming one. Lush. Full of vines and flowers. The air was breathable. And he was... at peace."

The Father did not blink, but the throne behind him dimmed slightly, its flames flickering as if stirred by an unseen wind.

"He has companions," Nevi’el added, standing shakily, his armor creaking. "Not angels. Not remnants. Not fallen. But... monstrous things. Horrors from the Depths. And they... they curl around him. They protect him. Like beasts guarding a sacred flame."

Gasps echoed like shattering glass, the seraphim recoiling, some in revulsion, others in a nameless, deeper fear, their silver eyes flickering with unease.

"He tamed them?" Isareth whispered, her voice a sharp note of disbelief, her spear lowering slightly.

"No," Nevi’el said, his fists clenching, his wings trembling.

"He didn’t tame them. He... befriended them. They are drawn to him—not as prey to predator, but like wounded things to warmth. I saw them—one is a twelve-foot nekomorph warlord cloaked in blood and shadow. One is a dryad, whose vines drink corrupted souls and bloom from rot. One is a serpent-wraith—a priestess whose body coils like scripture. Her touch makes reality weep, and she cradled him."

Nevi’el’s voice grew quieter, haunted. "They obliterated an entire Abyssal city when it rose against him. They didn’t fight for land. Or power. Just for him. They tore walls of screaming bone like parchment. They bled rivers red and silent. And when it was done... they returned to him. One laid her head on his lap. Another coiled around his legs. And the third... kissed his cheek."

The gathered angels shuddered, some recoiling further, their silver eyes wide with horror, others frozen in a deeper fear, as if the Abyss itself had whispered something forbidden.

The hymnstone pillars pulsed faintly, their locked canticles trembling.

A single drop of light fell from the high ceiling like a frozen tear.

"And you are certain," the Father said, his voice a glacier grinding across stone, "that these monsters are not deceiving him, waiting for the perfect moment to consume him?"

The angel hesitated.

"I—no, my Lord. I watched. They’re possessive. Territorial. Like beasts guarding a treasure. They even have names they use to call him. Angel, Still one, Heartwood, and more. One of them nearly sensed me even from afar. I... I don’t think they see him as prey."

"Then what?" asked another angel from the gallery.

"...as theirs," the messenger whispered.

The floor cracked beneath the Father’s bare feet.

Crystalline dust rose into the air like powdered judgment.

"...fascinating," the Father said at last, eyes closed in thought.

The Father finally stood, his presence darkening the atrium like an eclipse, his shadow falling across a dozen angels at once, the air growing heavy with divine judgment.

None dared to meet his gaze, their heads bowing instinctively.