Thor's Lightning presence in sight, Gabriel knelt.
Not because he was defeated.
Not because his wings were torn or his ribs cracked or his lungs burned like he'd swallowed smoke.
He knelt because the ashes beneath him demanded a witness.
Gabriel pressed his palm to the soil, feeling the faint residual tremor of mortal fear still trapped in the earth. Ash rose around his hand in soft spirals, like souls unsure whether to rise or cling to their home a moment longer.
He whispered.
Not to Heaven.
Not to God.
To Atlas.
The prophet-king whose shadow stretched across angels and mortals alike. The one whose voice carried weight in celestial halls that had once mocked the idea of any prophet touching destiny. The only man Gabriel had ever believed in without needing permission from Heaven to do so.
