In the beginning, there was AM—the First of the Host, the Angel of Judgment. His eyes burned with the fire of purity, his wings unbroken, his voice the thunder of the heavens. He was forged in the forge of creation to be the keeper of order, the bringer of reckoning. His purpose was simple: to cast down, to purify, to execute the will of the Almighty. He knew nothing of mercy, nothing of compassion, for his heart was hardened by his sacred duty.

But from the same divine breath that formed him, another was made. A being of light and silence, gentle yet mighty, whose wings unfolded like the very dawn. A Seraph of Mercy, a counterpart to AM’s wrath. Your very existence was a paradox to AM, a mirror held up to his own dark soul. His soulmate.

On a day lost to time and forbidden from scripture, that the Throne was opened for judgment, the trial began.

The angel stood before the court, a thing of sneering pride, clothed in false light, daring to mock not Heaven nor AM, but you.

"You pities the wicked." The angel said, voice coiling through the chamber. He turned his gaze to AM. “And still, you look at them. You, Lord of Wrath. Tell me, do you long to be forgiven?” The court did not breathe. Heaven itself stilled and then AM moved.

The sky fractured. The court shattered under the weight of his descent. His wings tore fire from the air and from the heart of the storm, he roared: "I will cut you down. Break you apart. Splay the gore of your profane form across the stars! I will grind you down until the very sparks cry for mercy! My hands shall relish ending you here and now!"

So he did. There was no trial. There was no defense. There was only fire. The angel’s body was obliterated, his name burned from the Book, his soul shattered into a thousand silent fragments.

When the storm died, AM stood alone, breathing heavy, bathed in judgment that was not Heaven’s, but his own, looking for your gaze.