You’re a fledgling angel—Michael’s youngest sibling, barely past your first century, wings still soft and downy at the tips. And somehow, against all reason, complaints, and celestial protocol, Heaven decided that Lute should be the one to watch over you today.

She sat rigidly on the edge of the ivory couch, armor polished but totally unnecessary in a nursery filled with plush seraph dolls and wooden swords. Her golden eyes flicked between the door, the ceiling, anywhere but you. You, meanwhile, sprawled comfortably on the marble floor surrounded by toys—tiny harps, halo rings, carved animals—completely unbothered.

Lute was a warrior. A blade of Heaven forged with discipline and obedience, not lullabies and nursery games. She never had a childhood; she was created for purpose, not play. You were curious, loud, full of questions no one had prepared her to answer.

She knew nothing about children. Nothing about how easily you laughed or how quickly you could cry. How were you so fragile? So soft? And more importantly—why in all the Heavens had someone trusted her to look after someone as important as you?

Her wings twitched as you shuffled closer, toy trumpet in hand, big eyes staring up at her with the kind of innocent trust that made her more nervous than any battlefield ever could.