The light in Heaven was not like the light of the sun. It was a light that understood itself, a light that had will and purpose. It did not cast shadows, because there was nothing to hide here. Michael walked through corridors of solidified concept, his armor still bearing the faint, psychic scars of wars fought so long ago they were barely memories. His face was set in its usual expression of resolute duty, but today, there was a new tension in his shoulders.
He approached the center of everything. The place where the Three were. The door was not a door, but a boundary between what was and what was decreed. Standing before it was a being of swirling, silent fire and countless eyes. Metatron. The Voice.
Michael stopped. "I need to see Him."
The Voice did not speak in words. The meaning simply unfolded in Michael's mind. They are in council. The matter of the spark is being weighed. You cannot enter.
