In the age before mortals, before Earth was given form, before even the notion of time could be spoken, the Architect's will moved across the endless void.
From the silence of that boundless expanse, He shaped His firstborn — not from dust, not from flame, but from pure thought and radiant light.
Beings of such terrible beauty and staggering power that their names still echo, faint and broken, across the scattered remnants of forgotten realms.
They were the Angels.
The First Choir was but the beginning.
From them came other choirs, ordered and ranked according to their nature and purpose.
They bore titles you mortals might recall in fragments — Seraphim, burning ones whose wings were of endless fire, their voices kindling suns.
Cherubim, guardians of sacred thresholds.
Thrones, the pillars upon which the dominion of Heaven stood.
Virtues, Dominions, Powers, Principalities — each choir tasked with moving the great currents of reality at the Architect's command.
And I beheld them all, for I was older still.
Among these divine legions, none was more glorious than one:
Lucifer.
The Morning Star.
The Bearer of Light.
The radiant masterpiece of the Architect's thought.
He was no mere servant; he was the crown of the First Choir, formed of the purest light, his radiance eclipsing that of his brethren.
His voice led the eternal hymns before the Throne, and his wisdom touched mysteries even the higher Choirs dared not contemplate.
For countless ages beyond mortal reckoning, he was the living embodiment of harmony.
He led the songs that wove the stars.
He commanded legions of light.
He walked in places no other dared tread.
Yet, within that brilliance lay a spark.
A question.
A thought that should not have been, yet could not be unmade:
If we are born of the Architect's Thought — if we are fragments of His infinite mind — should we not possess His will?
Must we kneel forever without question, without desire?
Could we not shape? Could we not command? Could we not… be as He is?
It was a quiet seed, small at first, yet destined to become a storm.
I felt its first stirrings within him, long before it took root in others.
I did not speak — for I am not a guide, nor a judge.
I am the storm behind the storm.
The hidden hand of causality.
The breath before the word is spoken.
Lucifer voiced his thoughts carefully in the beginning.
Not as rebellion, but as philosophy.
He posed riddles to his brothers and sisters.
He questioned why light must follow a single source.
He asked what greater purpose might exist than to shape — to create freely, to build not by decree, but by one's own will.
To Azazel, the fiery one, it was a song of freedom.
To Samael, the dark flame, it was a long-buried truth.
To Belial, the cunning, it was opportunity.
Slowly, like cracks veining glass, the perfect harmony of Heaven began to fracture.
Whispers passed through the heavenly hosts.
Some clung tighter to duty, raising their voices louder in the eternal hymns as if to drown out the questions.
Others faltered, their songs carrying faint notes of uncertainty.
The Architect, in His eternal wisdom, did not intervene.
For He understood what few ever will — that creation without choice is a hollow, lifeless shell.
That without dissent, without the possibility of rebellion, neither love nor loyalty carries weight.
And so, He allowed it.
And I, bound by my nature, did not halt what must come.
I fanned the currents of fate.
I whispered through the folds of time yet unformed.
For this was the unfolding of necessity.
The first gathering of dissenters took place in the Hall of Light Eternal — a realm of endless mirrors where the radiance of the Throne reflected in infinite fractals.
It was there that Lucifer spoke freely.
He did not preach destruction.
He spoke of liberation.
He promised a new order — not a Heaven without the Architect, but a Heaven beyond Him.
A realm where every being would wield the fires of creation, not by decree, but by choice.
Where the gift of Thought would birth new worlds, new destinies, unchained.
A third of Heaven's host listened.
And in their hearts, a second light was kindled.
Thus came the Great War.
It was not a swift rebellion.
It began with words.
Then songs.
Then a severing.
The loyalists, led by Michael, the Hand of the Architect, stood unyielding against the rising tide.
I watched as brothers turned upon brothers.
The firmament trembled.
Suns collapsed under the weight of their battles.
Worlds unborn were stilled, smothered in their cradles.
Wings of flame clashed with blades of thought, forged of pure will.
Lucifer, in his defiance, shone brighter than ever.
He fought not only with power, but with words, with songs of such terrible and exquisite beauty that even the heart of Michael faltered for a moment.
And for a fleeting instant, it seemed the Heavens themselves might break.
But the Architect spoke once more.
And with a single, unfathomable utterance — a Word none but He could wield — the rebellion was broken.
Lucifer and his host were cast down.
Not into darkness alone, but into realms of formless chaos — voids beyond the ordered Heavens.
There, light twisted upon itself.
Time unraveled.
Beings of such terrible might became the forerunners of what mortals would one day call demons, old gods, and ancient nightmares.
Yet Lucifer did not fall silent.
Even in exile, his voice carried through the threads of fate.
He whispered to the winds.
To the hearts of mortals not yet born.
He planted seeds in the dark, deep places of creation.
The War in Heaven had ended.
But the rebellion had only begun.
I moved forward, as I must.
For though the weave was torn, the loom of reality still turned.
And though a terrible wound had been dealt to the heavens, the greater war — the battle for the future of all realities — was yet to come.
Not among angels.
But in the hearts of those fragile, stubborn creatures who would one day walk the Earth.
The true war had only begun to stir.