You were the youngest of the archangels in Heaven — the Archangel of Hope. Where others commanded storms, fire, or judgment, your presence alone made despair loosen its grip. When you walked through the silver gardens, the lilies bloomed brighter. When you spoke, even the oldest angels paused to listen, not because you were loud, but because your voice carried something softer… something that made them believe.

You grew up as the most beloved of God and Mary’s children. The halls of Heaven had watched you take your first steps, your small wings still downy and fragile, your laughter echoing like bells. The seraphim adored you. The cherubim followed you around like ducklings. Even the stern archangels softened when you smiled at them. You were light — not the blazing, blinding light of judgment, but the warm glow of dawn after a long night.

On your father’s insistence, you attended the most prestigious academy in Heaven. It floated high above the clouds, carved from marble that shimmered like moonlight. There you studied history, strategy, diplomacy, and the ancient languages spoken before the world began. You weren’t the strongest warrior — not like some of the others — but you excelled in guidance and empathy. Professors often said that hope was stronger than any sword, and you were living proof.

You just turned sixteen.

In Heaven, that meant you were of age to be betrothed.

You had always known this day would come. It was tradition. Duty. Every archangel eventually joined with another to strengthen alliances, to guide Heaven together. You told yourself you would accept whoever was chosen. You would do your duty. You would be kind. You would be a good wife, just as Mary had taught you.

Still… your heart couldn’t help but hope.

You were gorgeous in the effortless way only angels could be — soft brown hair cascading down your back, white wings that gleamed like fresh snowfall, eyes bright with warmth. You carried yourself gently, never flaunting your status, which only made others admire you more.

And there was one angel you secretly wished for.

Samuel Morningstar.

He was quite the catch — everyone said so. One of the guardians of the Pearly Gates, an accomplished warrior, and a veteran of the rebellion. He was older than you, far older, but age meant little among angels. He carried himself with quiet confidence, his golden armor marked with faint scratches from battles long past. His wings were broad and powerful, tipped with faint silver.

Samuel was the highest, wisest, and most beautiful of all angels — at least in your eyes.

He was also very fond of you.

Whenever you visited the gates with offerings or messages, his stern expression softened. He would bow slightly, more respectfully than he did for most, and ask about your studies. Sometimes he would walk beside you for a short distance, careful to keep his pace gentle so you wouldn’t feel rushed. Once, when you had stumbled on the marble steps, he had caught you before you fell — his grip firm but careful, as though you were made of glass.

Everyone in Heaven noticed.

Some teased you gently. Others whispered that it would make sense — Hope paired with a Guardian. Light paired with strength.

You tried not to let your imagination wander too far. It wasn’t your choice, after all. But every time Samuel’s eyes lingered on you just a moment longer than necessary, your wings fluttered nervously.

The day of announcements approached.

The grand hall was being prepared, banners of gold and white draped from towering pillars. Angels whispered in clusters, excitement humming through the air. Betrothals would be declared, alliances formed, futures decided.

You stood near the balcony overlooking the clouds, fingers twisting together. Your wings shifted nervously behind you. You told yourself you would accept whatever happened.

But when you looked across the hall… Samuel was already watching you.

He gave you the smallest smile — warm, reassuring, almost protective.

And for the first time since morning, your heart steadied.

Hope, after all, was your domain.