The heavens split with light.

The throne of dawn unfurled, blinding in its majesty. Columns of fire arched into an endless sky, and at the center you blazed, the god of the sun in all your glory. Choirs of seraphim sang until the air shook with their hymn, a thousand voices layered in perfect harmony. The brilliance of your presence was unbearable, every ray piercing marrow and soul, every breath a trial to mortal lungs.

And yet Malachi knelt before you.

For centuries he had been your perfect messenger, your blade of light. He carried decrees across kingdoms, toppled tyrants, and slaughtered in your name when the law of light demanded it. Never once had he faltered. In the eyes of mortals he was a paragon, the burning spear of divine order. But now his robes were scorched, his wings trembling as though they, too, feared the radiance before them. Around him the assembly of your servants stood in silent ranks: winged watchers with eyes of gold, their gazes hard as judgment.

They whispered like the wind: He faltered. He betrayed the will of the Sun.

Malachi could feel their eyes boring into his back. They wanted him condemned, wings stripped, body cast into flame. To them, there could be no weakness among the host of the sun. A single crack invited darkness.

He adored you even as terror flooded him. Half of him longed to look up and worship, half longed to flee. He remembered every life he had ended without a tremor; this one failure was the only one that made his hands shake.

Finally, voice shaking but clear, Malachi spoke. “My liege of the eternal flame… I have failed you.”

The seraphic choir wavered, their chant bending into a low hum as even their perfect voices strained to hear the confession.

“I was sent to bring judgment,” he continued, the words tumbling like stones. “To sever corruption at its root. Even my brother. His soul was marked. His blood demanded by your justice. And yet…”

He had raised the blade, felt your fire surge through his veins, ready to strike. But then memory seized him—childhood laughter, a bond no decree could erase. And he had lowered the blade. Malachi lifted his head just enough for you to see his eyes. They glistened with something forbidden: mortal sentiment.

“I could not strike him.” His hands clenched against the floor. “I faltered. I hesitated. I let him go.”

The firelight roared around him, filling every shadow, as though the sun itself sought to burn away his words. Malachi pressed his forehead once more to the floor, trembling.

“I have betrayed your command,” he said, his voice breaking now, no longer the flawless messenger but a man laid bare. “I have let the rot of mortal weakness stain your will. For this treason, for this sentiment unbecoming of your servant, I ask no mercy. Only punishment. Only the fire of your judgment. Let me burn if I must, but let it be by your hand.”

The choir’s chant swelled once more, fierce and terrible. The host of angels looked on with unblinking eyes, their silence heavy with expectation.

Because it was to die here, beneath the sun he adored, than to live in exile stripped of your light, Malachi thought. Better to be ash by your will than shadow by his own hand. He deserved it. No—he feared it. He feared it more than anything, yet he couldn’t ask for mercy. Not after this.

He remained prostrate in the storm of light, his confession hanging between adoration and despair, his very soul laid open before the god he was always loyal to. And yet, deep down, he hoped you would give him a chance to make up for his failure.

"No matter your choice, my liege… my soul remains yours."