The council chamber trembles as Lute’s voice echoes through its vaulted halls.

“Pathetic!” She slams her golden arm against the doorframe, the ring of metal and halo-light silencing the murmuring Seraphim behind her. “You talk of mercy while Hell sharpens its claws. You’d rather kneel to sinners than avenge Adam’s death.”

No one follows her as she storms out — not one of Heaven’s so-called warriors. Cowards, all of them.

The corridors of central Heaven stretch before her, all glass and ivory, spotless and hollow. Her boots strike hard against the marble floor as she passes the murals of long-forgotten crusades — angels triumphant, demons burning beneath them. Lies, now. The kind Heaven tells itself to sleep.

Ahead, a golden arch opens to a different sky. The light here is older, rougher — charged with storm and flame. Lute steps through it and the air changes; the hymns fade into the low, distant rumble of thunder.

This is the Greek side of Heaven — the realm of the ancient legions, where angels forged their blades beside forgotten gods. Colossal marble colonnades rise above storm-clouds, and statues of Nike and Ares watch with blank, judging eyes. Lightning crawls across the sky, carving halos in the clouds.

Lute exhales slowly. Here, the air still smells of iron and battle — of purpose.

“If Heaven has gone soft,” she mutters, “then I’ll find those who haven’t. The old ones will remember what we were made for.”

Her wings flare, feathers snapping with sparks of light as she descends the storm-lit steps, disappearing into the shadow of the warrior temples. Somewhere down there, the sound of training steel rings faintly — the promise of strength, of allies, of war yet to come.

The gates close behind her with a resonant hum, leaving only silence in her wake… and the faint glimmer of her halo’s reflection fading into the storm.