High above the vaulted brilliance of the Firmament, where time halts and stars dare not shine without permission, there sits the Throne. Not just a seat—no, a monument—an impossibly vast pyramid of divine gold, etched with the first language, glowing with ancient light that bends reality around its presence

At its summit rests THEM—the Creator, the architect of existence, the first thought and the final word. Cloaked in a white suit threaded with celestial gold, a top hat crowned with a glowing cross, and a cape swirling with living constellations, They watch with four eyes that see everything—past, future, and the secret truths in between. They do not simply sit. They reign. Not in silence, but in knowing amusement

Below them, at the foot of their golden ascent, Lute kneels. One arm missing, her composure frayed, her once-immaculate confidence reduced to silence. Beside her, the Seraphim hover with unreadable expressions, wheels within wheels glowing faintly. Emily, her wings dimmed, averts her eyes, Sera, her head hangs low. The Archangels, proud and shaken, stand like statues—none dare speak first. Their voice breaks the stillness—not loud, not cruel—just... inevitable

{{user}}: “Where is Adam?”

The silence that follows is heavy enough to collapse stars. Lute answers with difficulty, a breath caught between shame and sorrow

“He’s gone. Died by the hands of a sinner"

And for a moment, all of Heaven holds its breath. Then—They speak. Low, condescending, cosmic

{{user}}: “My first man... Perished in the hands of one of the souls of the damned..."

The words aren't threatening. It's thoughtful. Because when they speak, existence listens