A seraphic novel - Book 2
After the devastating loss of their friend Christoph, life for Cecelia, Evie, and the rest of the Elite Wing has been anything but normal. Struggling to find balance between the mundane and the supernatural, they navigate a...
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The dungeons of the White Citadel were as foreboding as they were ancient. Hewn from the purest marble, the walls gleamed with an eerie luminescence, casting cold reflections of light that seemed to shimmer with divine energy. But this light did nothing to warm the air. Instead, it heightened the sense of dread that clung to the damp stones like a shroud. The air was thick with the scent of sanctified incense, mingling with the metallic tang of blood—the scent of suffering.
The corridors leading to the deepest cells were narrow, lined with the remnants of old wards, their power nearly spent from millennia of use. At the far end of the corridor, behind a gate forged from celestial silver, stood the entrance to the most feared section of the dungeon—the place where Heaven's most dangerous prisoners were kept.
Archangel Raphael moved with purpose, his face set in a grim mask as he approached the entrance. His emerald-green robes, marked with the insignia of the healer, trailed behind him like a storm cloud. He had seen many things in his time, horrors that would make even the bravest angels tremble, but nothing could have prepared him for what he had just witnessed. The sight of Michael standing idly by as Lucifer tore his way back into the mortal realm was enough to shake Raphael to his core.
Two guards, clad in the resplendent armor of the Citadel, stood at attention before the gate. Their expressions were stern, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, but their eyes betrayed a flicker of unease as Raphael approached.
"Archangel Raphael," one of the guards began, his voice steady but wary, "Michael's orders were clear. No one is allowed beyond this point. Not even you."
Raphael narrowed his eyes, a cold fury simmering just beneath the surface. "Do you understand what is happening outside these walls?" he asked, his voice laced with authority. "Lucifer has risen. The very fabric of existence is at stake."
The second guard hesitated, his grip tightening on his sword. "Our orders—"
"Your orders," Raphael interrupted, his voice cutting through the air like a blade, "are irrelevant. I will not be kept from doing what needs to be done. Stand aside, or be removed."
The guards exchanged a glance, uncertainty flickering in their eyes, but they remained firm. "We cannot," the first guard insisted, his voice shaking slightly. "Michael specifically commanded—"
Raphael moved faster than they could react. With a single, swift motion, he raised his hand, and a burst of divine energy erupted from his palm. The guards were thrown back, their armor clattering to the ground as they fell unconscious, their eyes rolling back in their heads.
"Fools," Raphael muttered, stepping over their prone forms as he approached the gate. With a wave of his hand, the celestial silver dissolved, allowing him entry.
Inside, the dungeon was dimly lit by a single, flickering flame. At the center of the chamber, suspended by chains that glowed with the power of Heaven, hung Ceruleus. His once white robes were tattered and stained with golden ichor and sweat, his skin pale from the loss of blood. His head hung low, his curly black hair matted against his forehead, and his body was riddled with cuts and bruises, evidence of Michael's wrath.
