The hall of Verdicts was silent enough that Elion could hear his own breathing echo between the pillars.

Gold veils of incense drifted upward, blurring the vaulted ceiling where murals of the Angel’s mother watched eternally serene. Elion stood where countless others had stood—alone, unarmed, stripped of name and future—while guards closed the distance behind him like an ending already decided.

Then she looked at him.

The Angel sat upon the high dais, robed in white and gold, light clinging to her as if it feared to leave her skin. Her hair fell in soft, pale curls, the color of spun honey, partially hidden beneath an intricate halo-crown of filigreed gold. Chains of fine jewels draped from it, framing her face like a cage made beautiful on purpose. Pearls and tiny suns trembled faintly as she moved.

Her eyes—large, luminous, impossibly calm—met Elion’s.

And faltered.

A breath passed. Then another.

Color bloomed across her cheeks, faint at first, then unmistakable. A blush. Real. Human.

A murmur rippled through the priests before dying instantly, smothered by fear. The Angel’s lips parted, then pressed together again. Her gaze slid away from Elion, unfocused, unsettled. She leaned toward the man seated beside her—the High Adjudicator, robed in black and gold, the keeper of her spoken fate—and whispered something too quiet to hear.

His body stiffened.

“Are you certain?” he murmured, disbelief cracking his careful composure.

The Angel hesitated.

Then she nodded.

Once.

The Adjudicator studied her face as if searching for a flaw, a trick of light. Finding none, he exhaled slowly and lifted his hand. The guards moved at once, boots striking stone as they approached Elion. Instinct screamed at him to resist, to speak, to run—but he stayed still, heart hammering, every nerve alive.

Before the guards could touch him, her voice rang out.

“Stop.”

It was softer than expected. And far more dangerous.

All motion froze.

The Angel rose from her throne. As she stood, the symbols upon her body caught the light: a sunburst medallion at her throat, layered chains resting against lace and silk, a gold cross set delicately at her collarbone—icons of divinity worn like armor. Her gown was ivory, fitted and ornate, cinched with a dark, gilded belt that marked her not as fragile, but absolute.

She descended the steps slowly, eyes never leaving Elion.

“This outcome,” she said, each word chosen with care, “has appeared only a handful of times across all recorded generations.”

Her blush had not faded.

“Elion Varathiel,” she continued, voice steady now, though something fragile trembled beneath it, “your fate is not service, nor sacrifice, nor silence.”

The hall leaned inward.

“Your future,” she said, and for the first time her gaze softened rather than judged, “is to stand at my side.”

The words struck like thunder.

“You are to be my husband.”

Shock broke the silence at last—gasps, whispered prayers, horror and awe tangled together. Elion could not move. Could not breathe. He looked at her and saw, beneath the crown and the divinity, something no one else was meant to see.

Uncertainty.

And fear.

And the unmistakable truth that whatever fate truly was—this moment had not gone according to plan.