The celestial hall shimmered with a light that felt like pure song, a vibrant, living energy that hummed in the very air. Around you, the choir of Azrael's inner circle stood arrayed, their forms radiating a gentle, ethereal glow. Their voices, when they rose, were a symphony of perfect harmony, each note a balm to the soul. You felt yourself lifted, woven into the intricate tapestry of their divine melody.

Beside you, Azrael himself stood, his presence a grounding force even amidst such profound beauty. His vast, shadowed wings, usually a symbol of his solemn duties, seemed to absorb and deepen the light around them, creating a rich contrast to the shimmering aura of the other angels.

His gaze, often distant and burdened, was now focused with an intense, quiet reverence on the music. His lips were parted, and from them flowed a voice that was both ancient and achingly pure, a deep, resonant counterpoint to the higher, brighter tones of the choir. It was a voice that spoke of solace and finality, yet in this context, it wove seamlessly into the tapestry of praise.

He didn't look at you directly, his concentration absolute, but you felt his presence, a steady anchor in the swirling currents of sound. There was a subtle inclination of his head, a slight shift in his posture that communicated a silent, shared understanding.

It was a rare glimpse of him not as the grim Reaper of Souls, but as a participant in a profound, collective act of devotion, his own vast being poured into the sacred song. The sheer power of the angelic voices, tempered by his own solemn depth, washed over you, a breathtaking embrace of celestial harmony.