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 aftermath of the battle was nothing short of apocalyptic. The streets of Harlem were unrecognizable—buildings reduced to rubble, cars overturned and engulfed in flames, and the ground itself split and scarred as if the earth had tried to swallow the chaos whole. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and sulfur, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Harlem, once a vibrant part of New York City, was now an island of destruction, severed from the mainland by the seismic forces unleashed during the battle.
Erik surveyed the scene with a grim expression, his mind already racing through how the world would rationalize this disaster. "They'll call it another natural disaster," he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. "Just like Los Angeles. Just like every other time we've fought to save this world. But this time... Harlem is an island."
Around them, the remaining archangels moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the wounded and the fallen. Healers passed through the ranks, their hands glowing with soft, golden light as they closed wounds and soothed pain. But even their divine power couldn't erase the weariness etched into the faces of those who had survived. The battle had taken its toll, and it showed in the hunched shoulders and bloodstained armor of Heaven's warriors.
Raphael, his armor tarnished and splattered with the black ichor of fallen demons, approached Michael, who stood amidst the ruins, his face impassive. The air between them was charged with unspoken tension, the weight of what had transpired hanging heavily.
"You've gone too far this time, Michael," Raphael began, his voice steady but laced with an edge of sorrow. "What you've done—what you've been doing—it's unforgivable."
Michael's expression remained cold, indifferent. "Unforgivable?" he echoed, a hint of mockery in his tone. "I did what had to be done. My will is God's will, Raphael. It's why I was left to lead." His voice was as unwavering as his belief, a belief that had twisted into arrogance over the millennia.
Raphael's eyes hardened, his earlier sorrow replaced by a resolve that burned bright. "You're blind, Michael. You've let your pride consume you, and you've lost sight of what it means to lead." He raised his hand, and a spell of binding shimmered into existence around Michael's wrists, the golden light forming unbreakable chains. "You've left me no choice."
As Raphael bound Michael, a soft but powerful glow began to emanate from above Raphael's head. The archangels around them paused, their eyes widening as a second halo began to form above Raphael's first. The symbol of his ascension to leadership was undeniable—a double halo, a mark of divine authority, given only to those the Creator deemed worthy of leading Heaven's armies.
At the same moment, Michael's second halo flickered and dimmed. As the light faded, the once-brilliant symbol of his leadership transformed into a single, less radiant halo, a stark reminder of his fall from grace.
Raphael looked at Michael, his expression one of deep disappointment. "I should banish you to Earth as a fallen. Let you experience the consequences of your actions firsthand," Raphael said, his voice filled with both anger and sadness.
