Adam had already turned to leave. The fight was gone from him, replaced by a hollow understanding. But his words hung in the void.
"You are not fit to be God."
The voice that echoed it wasn't his. It was Michael's, strained with pain and blazing with outrage. The archangel struggled to his feet, one wing hanging broken. "How dare you?" he spat, the words sizzling with holy fury. "You, a speck of defiance, judge the Creator?"
"He's right."
Everyone turned. Annabeth stepped forward, out from the protective bubble she'd held around Fatimah. Her young face was hard, her eyes old.
"My uncle is right," she said, her voice clear and cutting through the void. "If you can't fix a simple mistake in your own design, then what good are you? We don't need you to hold our hands every second. But in your 'flawed' world, the people who believe in you… we suffer more."
