The crack in the sky wasn't a tear. It was an opening.
A light poured through, not the gentle glow of the realm, but a hard, military-grade radiance. From it descended figures, landing with impacts that shook the very foundations of the hall.
Michael stood at the forefront, his wings not feathery plumes but vast, articulated structures of blazing light and sharpened force. A sword of pure, crackling white fire burned in his hand. His face was set in lines of ancient, unforgiving authority. To his right, Gabriel, holding a spiraling horn that seemed to twist the air around it. To his left, Raphael, whose presence made the wounded space around them ache with a sudden, painful urge to heal that couldn't be fulfilled. Uriel stood beside him, a fiery wheel of judgment spinning silently at his back.
