Lsshalo is not a crown It is a promise. And promises can shatter."
The Codex of Fire, Article I
The Court of Heaven was a storm of light and whispers. Angels gathered in tiers that spiralled to infinity, their halos dim and flickering, like lanterns struggling against a tempest. The Thrones loomed in silence above the Tribunal, their vast shapes carved from thought and memory, waiting for the reckoning that would soon erupt.
Lucien Vale stood at the centre of the chamber, the Codex of Fire clutched under one arm. Its surface pulsed faintly, as though the book itself was alive, its heartbeat echoing with every strike of the Court's bell.
Seraphiel stood beside him, her wings folded tight. Cassiel hovered just behind, ever the silent sentinel. They were an island surrounded by judgmental waves archangels, seraphs, even lesser scribes leaning forward with wide, uncertain eyes.
At the far end, Metatron descended.
No archangel had ever looked more regal or more furious. His halo blazed like a white sun, cracks of black fire spidering across it, proof of th e growing divide within him. Raphael and Uriel followed close behind, their expressions unreadable, their robes trailing like falling starlight.
"Lucien Vale," Metatron's voice thundered, reverberating like a thousand church bells. "You stand accused of heresy, sedition, and the corruption of divine law. You have no right to write. No right to challenge the eternal code."
Lucien's lips curved into a wolfish grin. "Eternal? You mean the laws you conveniently edit when they suit you? Don't pretend you're above ink stains, Metatron. I've seen the revisions."
Lucien placed the Codex of Fire on the tribunal's podium. The book opened on its own, its pages rippling as if caught in an invisible wind. Words of glowing ink floated up, forming sentences in midair for all to see:
"No law is holy if it fears scrutiny."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
Metatron's eyes burned. "Blasphemy."
"Truth," Lucien countered, his voice calm but deadly sharp. "Read it. Every word I've written is forged in the Arkfire. It survived the flame. Can your laws claim the same?"
Seraphiel stepped forward. "The Codex doesn't seek to overthrow Heaven it seeks to heal it. Every soul deserves more than the rigid decrees you've enforced without question."
Uriel, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. His tone was cautious, but there was curiosity in his voice. "If what you claim is true… then why do the words of this Codex resonate with me? Why do they not burn?"
Metatron whirled on him. "Do not let his poison infect you."
Lucien chuckled darkly. "Poison? Or antidote?"
Suddenly, a sharp cracking sound filled the chamber.
One of the lesser seraphs in the gallery cried out and fell to his knees. His halo had split down the middle, glowing shards falling like tears of light around him.
Another seraph followed. Then another.
Panic spread like wildfire through the assembly. Halos, the symbols of perfect judgment, were shattering all around them, fracturing into fragments of gold and fire.
"What is happening?" Raphael demanded, her voice trembling.
Lucien raised his hand. "This is what happens when truth enters a room full of false crowns. Your halos aren't breaking because of me they're breaking because they've carried lies too long."
Metatron's voice roared, shaking the very pillars of Heaven. "ENOUGH!"
"Present your case, Advocate," Metatron spat. "Defend this madness."
Lucien stepped forward, every eye fixed on him. He looked not at the Tribunal, but at the countless angels above. "For too long, you've been told that judgment flows downward like rain, from the Thrones to you. But what happens when that rain is poisoned?"
He opened the Codex of Fire and began to read:
"A law that silences the innocent is no law. A law that serves power and not truth is no law. A law that cannot be questioned is not divine it is tyranny wearing a halo."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly like thunder over an open plain.
Seraphiel stepped to Luci,en's side. "We have seen what happens when mercy is buried beneath tradition. I was accused not because I sinned, but because I spoke. How many others have fallen for daring to question?"
Cassiel added, his voice cold as steel: "And how many of you have watched, silent, while justice turned into spectacle?"
Metatron sneered. "And you think your ink scratches can undo the will of the Thrones?"
Lucien's smile was razor-sharp. "Not undo. Reveal."
The Thrones began to pulse, each one glowing with its unique hue. The Throne of Memory spoke first:
"We have seen what is written. We remember when laws were tools, not chains."
The Throne of Silence followed, its voice soft and chilling:
"The Advocate's words ring with… resonance. Truth, imperfect but alive."
Metatron stiffened. "You would listen to this traitor?"
Lucien's gaze locked on him. "You're afraid. Not of me. Not of this Codex. You're afraid the angels will realise their halos were never crowns, but collars."
The chamber fell into stunned silence.
Raphael stepped forward, her face torn between loyalty and conviction. She looked directly at Metatron. "We cannot ignore this. If the Codex survived the Arkfire, it means something."
"Raphael" Metatron warned, his voice sharp.
"No," she said firmly. "I will not be your echo anymore."
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
Uriel lowered his staff. "Perhaps the Advocate's trial is not about whether he is wrong, but whether we have been."
Metatron's halo flickered violently. Cracks split its surface, glowing with an inner fire.
Lucien tilted his head. "Careful, Metatron. Looks like your crown's starting to agree with me."
Before Metatron could respond, the Thrones spoke as one, their voices shaking the foundations of Heaven:
"THE TRIBUNAL IS DIVIDED. FINAL VERDICT DELAYED. THE CODEX SHALL BE EXAMINED."
The chamber erupted with shouts, wings unfurling in chaos. Some angels cheered; others screamed heresy. Halos continued to fracture, the golden shards raining like meteors.
Metatron turned to Lucien, his eyes a burning storm. "This isn't over."
Lucien leaned forward, voice low and cutting. "Oh, it's only just begun."
---
The Ash-Wing Conspiracy
"The first lie Heaven ever told was that it could not fall."
Fragment from the Lost Tablets of Enoach
The chamber of the Tribunal was still vibrating with echoes from the last vote when Lucien and Seraphiel were escorted out. Though the Codex of Fire remained under divine seal in the center of the courtroom, its words burned like wildfire in every angel's mind.
Whispers followed them through the marble corridors, like threads of smoke. Some angels bowed their heads as they passed, eyes shining with newfound hope. Others glared with silent venom, clutching their staffs tighter, as if Lucien himself were an infection spreading through Heaven.
Cassiel broke the silence first. "He's not going to wait. Metatron. He'll move before the Thrones decide."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Of course he will. Men like Metatron angels like him don't fight fair. They fight to erase the game entirely."
Seraphiel's gaze sharpened. "Then we need to find out what he's planning. Before it's too late."
In the highest spire of the Celestial Archive, Metatron gathered his most loyal followers. Twelve archangels, their wings veined with ash, knelt before him. These were the Ash-Wings a clandestine order formed in secrecy centuries ago to preserve "the purity of law," no matter the cost.
The room smelled of burnt parchment and iron. Every angel there bore cracks in their halos, repaired crudely with molten gold.
"This Codex of Fire must not see another dawn," Metatron said, his voice like thunder over ice. "Lucien's words are a sickness. If the Thrones read them without chains of context, they will turn against us."
An Ash-Wing, her armor blackened and pitted, leaned forward. "Shall we burn the Codex, my Lord?"
Metatron's gaze hardened. "Burn it, and Lucien will make another. He is a fire that feeds on opposition. No… we must sever his hand. And his tongue."
The angels bowed. Their oath was silent but clear: blood would spill.
Meanwhile, Lucien sat alone in a quiet cloister with the Codex's memory still alive in his mind. He could feel the weight of what they had set into motion. Heaven was trembling. Not because of violence. Not yet. But because ideas were spreading faster than fire.
He dipped his silver quill into ink and began writing in a smaller, personal ledger:
"Justice is not a throne to sit upon but a table to gather around. If the gods will not join, then we build the table without them."
Seraphiel entered, her wings brushing softly against the carved archway. She studied his face for a moment before speaking.
"You're not sleeping."
"I'll sleep when I'm dead," Lucien muttered. "Or when the angels stop trying to make me dead."
She gave him a small, amused glance but then grew serious. "Cassiel heard whispers. There's a faction forming under Metatron. They're called the Ash-Wings. They want to silence you."
Lucien chuckled darkly. "Silence me? That would be a relief to half the Court."
"This isn't a joke," she said, her tone sharp. "They mean to kill you before the Thrones can vote again."
Lucien stopped writing. He looked up, meeting her golden eyes. "Then we make the first move."
Cassiel led them to the Eclipse Vaults, a forbidden section of Heaven's archives buried deep beneath the marble courts. According to him, the Ash-Wings had been meeting there long before Lucien's trial began.
"These tunnels are older than the Thrones themselves," Cassiel whispered, his torchlight flickering against the black stone walls. "They say this was where the first judgments were written before law had form, when it was just fire and will."
Seraphiel ran her fingers along the wall, tracing strange symbols carved into the stone. "These marks… they predate angelic script. I've only seen this language once, in the ruins of the Outer Choir."
Lucien tilted his head. "And what do they say?"
Seraphiel frowned. "Something about betrayal. And a 'fall that was not a fall.'"
They rounded a corner and stopped dead.
In the center of the vault stood twelve Ash-Wings, arranged in a circle. A black flame burned between them, a flame that consumed light itself. At its center hovered a fragment of something Lucien had never seen before: a broken halo, charred and cracked, still glowing faintly as if alive.
Metatron stood behind it, chanting in a voice that was less prayer and more command.
"By the First Silence, by the Chains of Authority, we bind judgment not to truth, but to obedience."
Lucien's voice cut through the ritual like a blade. "Well, that's one way to make friends."
The Ash-Wings turned. Their halos flared. Weapons of pure light ignited in their hands.
"Lucien Vale," Metatron snarled, his face twisted with fury. "You dare trespass here?"
Lucien stepped forward, smirking. "Trespass? No. I'm just… crashing the wrong kind of party."
The Ash-Wings lunged.
Cassiel drew his blade silver, sharp, singing with angelic resonance and blocked the first strike. Sparks of divine fire filled the vault as the battle began.
Seraphiel moved like liquid light, her golden wings deflecting attacks as she wielded her staff with a mix of grace and fury. Lucien, though unarmed, fought with words every syllable he uttered twisting into echoes that disrupted the Ash-Wings' coordination.
"Your law is nothing but fear given shape!" he shouted, his voice vibrating against the stones. "And fear always breaks when faced with truth."
One of the Ash-Wings faltered, their weapon dimming. Seraphiel struck, disarming them.
Amid the chaos, Lucien spotted the broken halo at the center of the ritual. Something about it pulsed with an energy he recognized an energy that did not belong to Heaven alone. It was older. Wilder.
He grabbed it.
The world exploded in light.
Visions slammed into his mind: a first trial, long before angels or demons, where even the Thrones were questioned by something beyond them. He saw chains of light snapping, flames of judgment being smothered, and a voice whispering
"Justice is not owned. It is borrowed."
Lucien stumbled, clutching the fragment to his chest.
Metatron roared, "Put that down!"
Lucien's grin was wicked. "Why? It's just evidence. And you hate evidence, don't you?"
The battle was turning. Cassiel and Seraphiel carved a path through the Ash-Wings, their movements synchronized like a dance of fire and wind. Lucien, clutching the fragment, followed as they cut through the last of Metatron's guards.
Metatron did not pursue. He stood there, his halo cracked wider now, watching them go with eyes that promised nothing but vengeance.
"Run, Advocate," he called, his voice low and venomous. "Run. You can't rewrite what was written in fire."
Lucien paused at the doorway, turning just enough to smirk. "Watch me."