"Many decades have passed since Lucifer rebelled against his father. And yet, as if it were just yesterday, his story remains unforgotten in our minds. His banishment did not only serve as a lesson to those who try to rebel against their superior, it left a void in the very heart of this very realm.
Here, we call God Adonai, and heaven Aravoth—the realm of intense light and peace, where Adonai flows through all of us in silver energy. A realm, where unity suddenly becomes the law.
Aravoth is what mortals— in their simple way, call paradise. The resting place of Adonai—the uncreated Creator, the God of the moon and stars, whose perfection is beyond question.
But after the uprising that his son started, Adonai couldn't trust his own creation anymore. Malak are now likened to diamond stones broken into shards.
Now, before Malak receives a title and is given their first task, they must perform a ritual. The ritual has only but two simple stages; during the first stage, Malak must travel through all the realms of Aravoth to find the missing pieces of themselves. After that, they move on to the next and final stage; the binding ritual. This ritual unbreaks the broken, it fixes the broken shards and makes it whole again.
After a successful binding ritual, Malak would then share one code, one spirit, and one fear. Every celestial being abides by this new law, including those in the higher ranks; Cherubim, Hayyoth, and me—Seraphim, otherwise known as 'The Burning One'.
Each of us were created uniquely, with a distinct purpose, yet we must rely on one another to fulfill our roles.
Unfortunately, during my search, I couldn't find my other half. I couldn't find that part of me that was missing rather, they found me; my brothers, Fox and Rice. And when the time came for us to unite, I failed them. Now, we must wait a decade before we can try again.
Am I an angel? Yes. But, do I have a purpose? No, not yet."
†
A single sound fills my room: the wet smack of flesh on flesh. My right cheek screams with fire, but my hand remains relentless with its strikes.
Each slap is an attempt to scrub away the ruin I wrought at the ceremonial palace. A supposed bandage for the shame I've stitched onto my brothers' backs. A brutal punishment designed to squeeze an apology from my soul.
But the face staring back at me in the mirror is far from remorseful.
This same mirror once showed me a masterpiece, a face I would almost thank Adonai for sculpting. Today, it shows me a failure, a divine fraud and a worthless brother. Looking at it now, I want to wrap my hands around that perfect throat and squeeze until the shame inside me stops breathing.
Death by my own hand would be far kinder than living with this disgrace.
"What in Aravoth's name has come over you, Fury?" I spit at my reflection, the words punctuated by another slap. "Cry! I command you! Aren't you sorry for Rice And Fox? Can't you at least look like you are?"
The next blow lands harder, and my cheeks glow hot, then go numb, but I keep smacking, because stopping would mean forgiving myself. And I don't deserve that.
I grip the edges of the mirror so hard it's a miracle the glass doesn't splinter beneath my fingers. My reflection looks back at me, infuriatingly serene, as if it doesn't share the storm roaring in my chest.
"Doesn't it hurt?" I hiss through my teeth. "Or is this what you enjoy? The turning heads, the sudden silences when you enter a room—to have their eyes burn through you? Because trust me, they're starting to see you!"
With a roar, I wrench the mirror from its stand and hurl it down. It explodes against the glass floor, scattering into a thousand glittering fragments that catch the light like shards of frozen stars.
But before I can blink, before the last shard can even settle, the fragments quiver—then lift. One by one, they fuse together, knitting into place. When it stills, the mirror is once again unbroken, perched exactly where it was, as if time itself has reversed.
"You're an abomination," I whisper, raising my hands to my face. "A walking mistake with a temper that burns hotter than the sun and a face cursed to be beautiful." My hands press against my cheeks, nails biting into skin. "Where has your honor gone though? How long do you think you'll survive here, now that they've seen your flaws? Yes, divine law forbids us from striking one another—but look at me! I am divine, and right now, I'd rather set myself ablaze than live feeling so different and separated that it hurts to breathe among my own kind. Better to burn than to keep failing to prove I'm worthy."
I lift my gaze and catch a flicker of something—hurt—passing through my eyes. Perplexed, I lean closer to the mirror, to confirm if it's anything close to what I'll call remorse. It isn't the full weight of remorse, but just enough to make Fox pity me, enough to keep him from turning me to ash in my sleep.
"Good, Fury." I ease back. "Hold on to that pain."
I move toward the door, hand reaching for the golden knob, but it suddenly turns on its own and swings open with a slow, soundless grace that is more menacing than any sudden crash.
A jolt runs through me as my eyes meet the bald child standing on the threshold, a constellation of gold eyes blazing on his face. I shouldn't be this terrified—and my mirror should've been enough to cloak him in something mundane. But Rice's nature—in all his terrifying glory, refuses to be tamed or hidden.
"Rice?" What's he doing here? "I was planning to come to you after Fox."
"You shouldn't leave your chamber, brother."
Huh?
The usual timbre in his voice is gone, in its place is a strange, sweetened calm that feels more unsettling than his typical severity.
Ignore it.
I look up. "Fox. Where is he?"
"In his chambers, resting. And so should you."
I scoff. His stillness is almost like the wall itself— and why is he being so authoritative? As if anyone else is listening. "Fox didn't even wait to confirm the next auspicious date for the binding ritual. I need to go tell him—"
"That the next auspicious date is in the next decade? Fox is aware."
His voice remains unnervingly gentle, yet it cuts off my advance more effectively than a raised hand.
Still, I manage a cheerful tone. "Are you certain? I need to make sure he knows." I shift my weight, ready to brush past him, but the weight in voice stops me mid-step.
"It is written..." he begins, eyes distant as if he's reading from a scroll only he can see. "You will fail the first, second, and third trial. But nowhere is it written that you'll keep failing, brother."
And it is also written that El Shaddai makes no mistake, yet here I stand— a walking catastrophe. Forgive me, Father.
My shoulder slumps. "So when does it end, Rice?" My voice cracks on the edges of anger and exhaustion. "When do I stop being the miserable one?"
He bows his head in that familiar, thoughtful manner. He is a boy who weighs every syllable before releasing it. "Miserable one?" he murmurs, the words tasted and considered. Then his head snaps up, eyes, once distant, are now fixed on me, the focus so intense it almost feels physical. "We are all miserable, brother."
"And whose fault is it?!" I didn't mean to shout, but the sheer panic in my chest had to find a way out. "Do you think I want any of you to suffer because of me? I'm just as confused as to why the sigil won't work after I touch it. It's not like I'm unreliable; Fox needs your wheels. You need my strength—we're compatible, so why won't it work?"
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, brother," his voice flows steadily, even in the face of my breakdown. "Failure is good. It's a good sign."
Shaking my head, "No no no, it's not, Rice. Failure is bad—especially when it keeps happening. And please, don't try to make it sound noble because It's clear as daylight that I'm the wrong equation."
"So?" He shrugs casually. "You have to keep trying. Besides that, there's nothing you can do about it."
"No. But there's something you can do," I surge forward, planting my hands hard on his shoulders until my fingers are digging into the muscle beneath his tunic. I force him to look into my eyes. "Go on. Look into my mind. See if I'm going to fail the next trial. See if we'll ever get the chance to bond."
He lowers his gaze. Rice only ever does this when he's thinking, or when he's asked to carry a weight far heavier than his calm demeanor could manage.
"I won't."
Or worse—he chooses not to. My tongue clicks sharply against my teeth. "Why not? You did it before."
"And I regret it. Deeply."
"What are you even regretting, It's not like you told me what you saw!" I shove him away with all my might.
He staggers back two full steps, his hands coming up instinctively to balance himself, but he doesn't strike back. He only straightens himself, fixing his eyes on mine for one silent moment, then, without another word, he crosses the threshold, disappearing into the comfort of my room.
My shoulders sag as a weary sigh slips past my lips. Why do I have to be the one with the temper? Half the day is already a casualty, ruined by my own hands. I can't keep turning everything sour for everyone, especially him.
I should apologise—
"Fury?"
The sound of my name is soft, yet it snags me like a sharp hook. I glance over my shoulder.
He stands with his back to me, broad and still, facing the wide, glass window. And then he does the thing: on the pale, vulnerable skin of his neck, just below the hairline, a single, colorless eye snaps open.
The sight is a familiar violation. It is unblinking, the iris is a milky white that seems to drink the light, fixing me with a silent and unnerving stare.
Cold fingers of dread trace my spine, and a shudder slips through me before I can stop it.
Hayyoths are magnificent, coolly powerful creatures, but they are also overwhelming to look upon. I pray the completion of the ritual does not twist me into something so utterly terrifying.
"Rice," I manage, the word tight. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed you like that."
He doesn't turn, he doesn't need to. The eye on his neck remains wide open, but his voice is aimed out the window, calm and collected. "You should look in the mirror before you apologize, brother."
My hand moves up slowly toward my own face. How long has it been since remorse left me? It had taken minutes—a long, agonizing minute to even locate that contrite expression. And now it's gone again in just a second.
"Rice—"
"You don't have to prove yourself to me, brother." he throws a glance at me. "I don't know why Fox chose you, but I knew you were my other half the moment I saw you. I knew I needed you, even before I knew you were a Seraphim."
"But—"
"I see you, brother. My eyes work just fine. And I see you," Something in the way he says it stills the air. His gaze locks onto mine, unblinking, like he's peeling back every layer I've wrapped myself in. Then his lips curve faintly. "Triple S."
I instinctively tilt my head. "SSS? What's that supposed to stand for?"
"Scared," he starts softly, and the way the word falls from his lips makes my chest tighten. "Scared to live among your own kind after they've seen you fail to prove your essence. Suffocated, because you can't even stand your own reflection anymore. Because every time you look in the mirror, you see Fox's face—the disappointment etched into it when the ritual gets postponed again. And Sad…" His voice dips lower, almost a whisper. "Because you've always been different: The first angel who's afraid of his own kind. So you wrap illusions around everyone, make them look less threatening, more mundane—because seeing us as we are terrifies you. No one knew how deep that difference ran. Now that they do, you're desperate. You want to fix everything. Force it back into place. Or die trying."
I can only stare. My wide eyes track his until I finally have to break the connection. "I wish Fox could see me the way you do, Rice. But unfortunately... he doesn't."
He exhales through his nose. "So... it is about Fox," he mutters, not as a question but a quiet conclusion.
The mattress sighs under his weight as he sits at the edge of the large, richly draped bed. And then runs a hand over the smooth silk of the sheets. "Fox is furious—for now. Best not to disturb him."