Omale a crown of light can rust when it forgets why it shines."
Verse from the Lost Canticle of Iramiel
The sanctuary was silent when they returned. A cold silence, unbroken by choir ofavourrrrrrl, as if Heaven itself was holding its breath.
Lucien placed the broken halo fragment on the marble table before them. It pulsed faintly with a sickly gold light, cracks running across its surface like veins of burning coal.
Seraphiel circled it slowly, her gaze sharp. "This… doesn't belong here. It's older than anything in the Celestial Codex. Even the Thrones don't speak of this."
Cassiel crossed his arms, leaning on his sword. "It does feel wrong. Like it's alive and… watching us."
Lucien sat back, his silver quill twirling between his fingers. "Wrong? No. This isn't wrong. This is the truth they buried and the reason they fear me."
As if in response, the halo fragment vibrated. A low hum filled the air, resonating in their bones. Then, a voice neither male nor female, neither angelic nor demonic spoke from the cracks.
"I was Judgment before Judgment was a throne. I was the flame ,before it was ca,ged. Who calls me now?"
Lucien froze. Seraphiel's wings flared with alarm. "It's… speaking?"
Lucien leaned forward. "I call you. Lucien Vale. Advocate. Questioner."
The light of the fragment flared, washing the room in pale gold.
"Questioner," the voice said. "You hold the piece of my crown. Why do you seek me?"
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Because Heaven lies. And I'm done playing by rules written to favor the powerful."
The voice was silent for a heartbeat then it laughed. It was a sound like cracking glass.
"Then you are closer to me than you think, little advocate."
The halo fragment burned brighter, and suddenly, they were not in the sanctuary anymore.
Lucien, Seraphiel, and Cassiel stood on a barren plain of light. Rivers of molten gold flowed around them, and above, a vast, fractured crown hovered, its pieces drifting like shards of stars.
The voice continued, echoing from everywhere and nowhere:
"Once, there were no angels. No demons. No courts. Only We Who Were Light. I was the First Crown justice given form. But they feared me. They shattered me and forged their Thrones with my pieces."
Seraphiel's expression darkened. "The Thrones… stole this power?"
"They caged it," the voice corrected. "They made law a weapon, not a promise."
Lucien clenched his fist. "Then this fragment if I restore it could destroy their system of judgment?"
The voice pulsed.
"Not destroy. Correct. My crown does not burn to punish. It burns to reveal."
As the vision faded, they were back in the sanctuary. The halo fragment now glowed with a steady, warm light. But with that light came a warning.
"Beware the Ash-Wings," the voice whispered. "Their master calls the Obsidian Choir. If it awakens, neither Heaven nor Hell will stand."
Seraphiel stepped back. "The Obsidian Choir… that's not real. That's a myth."
Cassiel shook his head. "I've heard whispers. They say it's a choir of angels who burned their own names, who became… something else. Something that sings only of endings."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Then it sounds like Metatron's style. Desperate and apocalyptic."
Cassiel sheathed his blade. "We need allies. Fast. If Metatron awakens that Choir, this isn't just about Seraphiel's trial anymore. It's about the end of Heaven as we know it."
Lucien tapped the table, thinking. "Then we find the ones who still believe in truth over obedience. The archivists. The silent scribes. Maybe even some of the Thrones who voted for reform."
Seraphiel tilted her head. "You trust the Thrones now?"
Lucien's grin was sharp. "I don't trust anyone. But I know a fractured system when I see one. And cracks let the light in."
Before they could plan further, the fragment began to hum again. A vision appeared in the air above it: a black cathedral of jagged obsidian, floating in a void. Around it circled angels without wings, their halos broken, singing a song that was not music but a dirge of collapsing stars.
Seraphiel's breath caught. "That's… the Obsidian Choir."
The voice of the fragment spoke once more:
"They stir. Your time is short. Forge the truth before the silence devours all."
The vision shattered. The fragment dimmed, its power temporarily spent.
Lucien rose, his expression grim. "Then we don't have a choice. Chapter ninety-three was the vote. Ninety-nine was the warning. Chapter one hundred?" He picked up his quill. "This is war. But a war fought with truth."
Lucien began to write on a scroll of living light, each stroke of his quill sending ripples of energy across the room. "We're drafting the Proclamation of Reflection," he said. "A manifesto to every angel who doubts the law."
Seraphiel moved beside him, placing her hand over his. "And if they call this heresy?"
Lucien smirked. "Then we've already won. Because heresy means they're afraid."
Far above, in the shattered spire of the Tribunal, Metatron stood before an altar of black fire. The Ash-Wings knelt behind him, chanting low and harsh.
He raised his arms, his voice a storm.
"By the silence before creation, by the names erased from the First Song I summon you. Obsidian Choir. Hear me."
The altar cracked. A note, low and discordant, rolled across Heaven like thunder.
And somewhere deep inside the halo fragment, the voice of the First Crown whispered to Lucien:
"Run. Or fight. But do not let the song begin."
---
The Song of Ash
"When the Choir sings, even the stars close their eyes."
Fragment of the Black Hymnal, author unknown.
The sky of Heaven cracked.
It wasn't thunder or lightning no natural phenomenon. It was sound. A single, discordant note rippled through the high planes, shattering the golden calm of the Eternal Spire. Choirs stopped mid-hymn. The rivers of light that ran through the city slowed, quivering as if frightened.
Lucien felt it like a blade scraping across his mind. His quill slipped from his hand, clattering to the marble floor. "That's… not music," he muttered.
Seraphiel's face went pale, her wings trembling. "No. That's the beginning of the Song of Ash."
Cassiel's hand went to his sword instinctively, as if steel could defend them from a sound. "Metatron has invoked it."
Far above them, the Tribunal's once-pristine spire cracked open like an egg under invisible pressure. The obsidian hymn poured from its core, twisting the air. Angelic guards fell to their knees, clutching their ears, their halos dimming and flickering like dying suns.
Lucien forced himself to stand, his jaw tight. "He's calling them. The Obsidian Choir."
Seraphiel whispered, almost to herself, "We have to stop it before the song completes. If they fully awaken…"
Cassiel nodded grimly. "Heaven itself will burn."
The halo fragment on the table trembled, its golden cracks flaring to life.
"The Choir does not sing to praise," the fragment said. "It sings to unmake. To erase the lies of creation and everything else with it."
Lucien turned to it sharply. "Then tell me how to stop it."
The voice responded, calm yet weighty.
"There is no stopping a song once begun. Only drowning it with a truer voice."
Seraphiel frowned. "A truer voice?"
The fragment pulsed again.
"Find the Hymn of Origins. Only it can counter the Choir. Only it can rewrite the melody of unmaking."
Lucien exhaled sharply, his mind already racing. "So, we need the first song of creation. The one even the Thrones fear to speak."
Cassiel straightened. "There's only one place that could hold such a thing. The Library of the Unwritten."
Seraphiel's eyes widened. "That's forbidden territory. No one goes there."
Lucien smirked. "Sounds like my kind of place."
Cassiel shot him a look. "It's not a joke. The Library contains every song, every word, every law that was never finished. It's guarded by the Silent Sentinels. They don't negotiate."
Lucien picked up his quill, tucking it behind his ear. "Then I'll just have to make them listen."
Before they could leave, the chamber doors exploded inward.
A group of figures entered angels, but not as they had once been. Their wings were no longer white or gold, but ashen gray, feathers charred and brittle. Their halos flickered like dying embers.
The leader stepped forward , his voice hollow. "Lucien Vale. Seraphiel. By decree of Metatron, you are to be taken to the Black Spire for judgment."
Lucien tilted his head, smirking. "Judgment? Haven't we been doing that for ninety chapters already?"
The Ash-Wing's face twisted, but before he could respond, Cassiel drew his blade, its edge humming with celestial fire. "You'll have to go through me."
The Ash-Wings lunged, their movements jerky yet unnervingly fast. Seraphiel summoned her spear of light, its golden glow clashing with the ashen haze. Cassiel's sword cut through one Ash-Wing, but instead of blood, black smoke poured out, hissing like venom.
Lucien ducked a strike, rolling behind the table where the halo fragment pulsed. "I'm not built for swordplay!" he yelled.
Seraphiel glanced at him between strikes. "Then do what you do best! Argue with reality!"
Lucien's eyes narrowed. He grabbed the halo fragment, holding it aloft like a weapon. "By the authority of the First Crown, stand down!"
The fragment flared, releasing a shockwave of golden energy. The Ash-Wings froze mid-attack, their bodies shaking violently.
One of them hissed, its voice fractured. "The… First… Crown…"
Lucien stepped forward, voice firm. "You remember, don't you? Who you were before Metatron chained you."
The As,h-Wings hesitated, their halos flicke,ring.
Seraphiel seized the moment. "Leave now, or burn under the truth of what you've become!"
The Ash-Wings retreated, dissolving into gray mist.
Lucien dropped the fragment back onto the table, exhaling heavily. "That was too close."
Cassiel wiped his blade. "We need to move. If Metatron finishes calling the Choir, there won't be a Heaven left to save."
Lucien nodded. "The Library of the Unwritten. That's our destination."
Seraphiel frowned. "Do you even know how to get there?"
Lucien smirked. "I know someone who does."
The scene shifted to a desolate courtyard beneath the ruins of the Silver Arches. A single well sat at its center, filled with ink instead of water.
The Oracle emerged from the shadows a blind angel draped in tattered robes, her voice like cracked glass.
"I know why you've come," she said before they could speak. "The song has begun, hasn't it?"
Lucien approached cautiously. "We need the path to the Library of the Unwritten."
The Oracle tilted her head. "The path costs memories. A piece of who you are. Are you willing?"
Lucien didn't hesitate. "Take whatever you want. I have no time for my past."
Seraphiel reached out. "Lucien"
But it was too late. The Oracle touched his forehead. A surge of pain struck him like lightning, and a single memory one of laughter, of a life long gone faded into nothing.
Lucien gasped, stumbling. "It's done. Tell me where."
The Oracle whispered:
"Follow the ink rivers to the Hollow Arch. Beyond it lies the Library. But beware the Silent Sentinels are not merciful."
Far away, in the Black Spire, Metatron stood at the centre of a storm of ash and fire.
The Ash-Wings knelt, their hollow voices chanting. The song deepened, more notes joining the first. The sky above Heaven turned a sickly gray.
Metatron's eyes glowed with unholy light. "Let them run. Let them scramble for their scraps of forgotten songs. By the time they find the Hymn of Origins, the Choir will have already erased them."