The silent crisis at the edge of Heaven was drawing a crowd. The perfect, still air now hummed with unease. More figures of light and power gathered behind Azrael, their brilliant forms contrasting with the troubled looks on their faces.
Raphael, his healer's hands clasped tightly, stared into the churning void below. "The balance is sickening. I can feel it like a fever."
Uriel, whose face was like carved fire, let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Let them fight. A foreign god and our wayward brother? I'm not sure which one I'd rather see lose. Maybe they can cancel each other out." He crossed his arms, his gaze hard. "Speaking of, where is Michael? Probably in the throne room right now, begging the Father for permission to finally march down there and put Lucifer in the ground for good. He's always been waiting for an excuse."
A softer, yet firm voice cut through. Gabriel stepped forward, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in deep concern. "No. You're wrong, Uriel."
