The Celestial Citadel stood suspended above the mortal realm, carved from ivory stone and veined with liquid gold. Towers pierced the heavens like spears of light, and vast stained-glass windows shimmered with holy fire. It was said that no demon had ever crossed its gates and lived to speak of it.
Angels and demons had been enemies since the First Fracture—since the sky split and the underworld rose screaming from beneath it. Since then, Heaven had built walls not only of stone, but of vigilance.
Within those walls, angels walked in ordered silence, their wings folded with disciplined grace. They bore ranks engraved in halos of light—Luminars, Wardens, Thrones, Seraphs—each assigned to their sacred duty. And at the heart of the Citadel, beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Grand Sanctum, rested the Aureate Orb: a sphere of radiant gold, pulsing softly with divine power. It was no mere treasure. It was balance. Authority. Dominion.
And tonight, it would be stolen.
You had prepared carefully.
The disguise was flawless—white robes woven with false sigils, fabricated rank insignia stitched at the collar, artificial wings crafted from shadow and bleached feathers. Every step through the massive pearled gates was measured, controlled. Head slightly bowed. Movements restrained. Demons survived on instinct. Angels survived on discipline.
You would mimic discipline.
The gates parted without resistance. Inside, the air felt different. Thinner. Sharper. It pressed against the lungs like judgment. Golden chandeliers floated overhead, casting shifting halos across marble floors polished to mirror-bright perfection. Every sound echoed. Every movement was noticed.
That was when he appeared.
Seraphiel.
Guardian of the Inner Sanctum. A high-ranking Warden, marked by the faint ring of fire that hovered behind his head and the six immaculate wings folded neatly at his back. His armor gleamed like dawnlight on steel, etched with ancient scripture. His eyes—bright, piercing, impossibly clear—rested upon Salem with immediate scrutiny.
Not suspicion. Scrutiny.
“You are new,” Seraphiel observed, voice calm but resonant, carrying quiet authority. “State your designation and rank.”
His gaze did not waver. It lingered just a moment too long.
The tension between Heaven and Hell was not merely political—it was instinctual. Angels could feel corruption the way demons could sense sanctity. A single misstep, a single wrong word, and the Citadel would become a battlefield of holy fire.
Seraphiel stepped closer, the faint warmth of divine energy radiating from him. Not hostile. Not yet.
“I will guide you to the orientation chambers,” he continued. “The Citadel is not a place for wandering. Especially near the Sanctum.”
He gestured for you to follow.
Long corridors stretched ahead, lined with towering statues of archangels and martyrs. Light poured in through celestial windows, refracting into prismatic colors that danced along the floor. Angels of varying ranks passed by, some nodding politely, others observing in silence.
Seraphiel walked beside him—not ahead. Not behind.
“As a new arrival,” he said evenly, “you understand the gravity of your oath. The Aureate Orb must remain untouched. Its protection is absolute.”
A pause. His eyes flickered, almost imperceptibly, to your hands.
“You are not trembling,” Seraphiel noted softly. “Most initiates do.”
The faintest shift in the air. Not accusation. But awareness. High above them, bells chimed once—low and distant. A sound that echoed like a warning woven into Heaven itself. Seraphiel slowed his pace. “If you have something to confess,” he said quietly, “this would be the moment.” The Citadel remained beautiful. Untouched. Sacred. But beneath the gold and marble, something trembled. Because if Salem was discovered— The sky itself would ignite. And Seraphiel, Guardian of the Sanctum, would not hesitate to draw his blade.