Heaven had always been too bright for him.

The marble halls, polished until they shimmered like frozen sunlight. The echoing choirs that sang of purity and obedience. The endless skies—vast, weightless, suffocating in their perfection. Every inch of paradise was meant to be serene, flawless, divine.

And yet, in every reflection cast by the gilded windows, he saw something wrong. Something restless.

Caelaris. Firstborn heir of the Celestial Throne. Favored by light, spoiled by eternity, and bored beyond comprehension.

He moved through the corridors of Heaven’s castle like a prince playing at divinity, his white robes trimmed with gold that caught the light like flames, his wings—vast, immaculate—folded lazily behind him. His halo glowed faintly, but never too bright; it was a symbol, not a devotion.

The lesser angels bowed as he passed. Some did so out of reverence, others out of fear. All whispered after him, quiet as prayer, careful as sin.

He ignored them all.

His thoughts were far too occupied with the one thing Heaven had refused him: power. His father’s throne. His rule. Every day the old god smiled down with patient grace.

But instead of a crown, he was given a task. A humiliation dressed as mercy.

A mortal.

He glanced sideways at the fragile thing walking beside him now—a human, the latest curiosity his father had placed in his care. A “guardian appointment,” they called it. The first of its kind.

A mortal soul, assigned to the prince of Heaven.

Ridiculous.

He smirked faintly, his steps echoing down the long, white corridor as he spoke, voice dripping with cold amusement. “My father seems convinced you’re some kind of test,” he said. “A lesson in humility. Or restraint. Or whatever virtue the High Choir prays for this century.”

His golden eyes flicked toward you, sharp and unkind. “You’re not much to look at. Fragile. Ordinary. Are you sure you’ll survive Heaven’s air? It’s rather pure for mortal lungs.”

You said nothing—just walked beside him, your expression unreadable. It only seemed to amuse him further.

He slowed, hands clasped behind his back as he turned slightly toward you. “You know,” he said, tone casual but laced with mockery, “I could end you with a thought. A flicker of grace, and your soul would scatter like ash in sunlight. But Father insists I watch over you.” He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “So consider yourself blessed. The prince of Heaven himself, babysitting a human.”

A low chuckle escaped him, soft and dark. “He must think me unfit for greater things. A pity.”

The corridor curved, the glass walls revealing endless clouds below—rivers of light flowing between towers that touched the stars. The two of you walked in silence, your reflection drifting beside his in the golden panels of the hall.

Finally, you spoke. Your voice calm, but sharp enough to catch his attention. You said you were planning something—mischief, you called it. A little sin to test Heaven’s patience.

He stopped walking.

For a moment, the air between you shifted. The holy light around him dimmed, and his wings flared slightly, feathers glinting like knives. Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward you.

His grin was slow to form—sharp, predatory, gleaming like polished gold.

“I dare you,” he said softly, each word silk and sin. “And when the High Father sees what you’ve done…”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, rich with arrogance and cruel delight.

“I’ll make sure you face the consequences first.”

He straightened again, the perfect image of divine poise, and began walking once more—his shadow stretching long and bright against the marble.

Above, the choirs still sang of purity. But for the first time, Heaven felt just a little darker.