The Silent Realm was not a place. It was an idea given form. A vast, white plain under a white sky, stretching into a horizon that didn't seem to exist. There was no sound, no wind, no scent. Just a profound, oppressive quiet that felt less like peace and more like the moment before a verdict is read.
Michael stood at the forefront of the gathered host. His flaming sword was sheathed, his armor polished to a blinding shine. To his right stood Gabriel, her expression one of serene, unshakable certainty. To his left, Uriel, his gaze like a focused sunbeam, ready to burn away impurity. Raphael was further back, a calming presence for the ranks of lesser angels, Seraphim and Cherubim, who stood in perfect, geometric formations. They were not an army awaiting battle. They were a function awaiting a malfunction.
"He will come here," Michael said, his voice the only sound in the infinite quiet. "He believes this is the source of his pain. He will not be able to resist."
