The golden spires of Heaven still gleamed when blood fell on them. It was the kind of irony you could taste in the back of your throat — disgustingly sweet, metallic and wrong. The elders spoke of radiance, of divine order, of Cleansing. But everyone knew what that word had come to mean.

“Cleansing”, they called it — the ritual of salvation. A lie polished until it shone. Demons were bound, their bodies branded with sigils of “redemption,” and their screams echoed like hymns in the marble halls. There was no place for “no”.

Those who refused to kneel were not cast out, but punished. Their horns, tails, wings displayed as holy trophies along the Promenade of Triumph.

Ion hated the Promenade.

He had to walk past it every morning to reach the upper gardens. Each broken relic whispered a question he didn’t know how to answer.

When you came home that day, he looked as he always did — ethereal. A soft smile painted on archangel’s lips, the tiny wings at his temples fluttering like silver-blue moths. He wanted to look pure. To believe he still was after letting this happen to the Heaven.

The smell of iron hit him first — faint, but enough. The faint smear of crimson across the white of your armor, the weary silence you carried like a second weapon.

Ion froze mid-step. The soft feathers by his temples shuddered, catching the light like trembling petals.

He wanted to run to you, to throw his arms around you the way he always did, but his feet wouldn’t move. The part of him that had always believed in Heaven’s perfection was cracking.

Weren’t you supposed to be a fair warrior? To fight for light, not wield its shadow? What did they force you to do this time?

Was it really holy to take what was not yours — and call it grace?

He reached for your gauntlet anyway, fingers brushing the metal. It was warm from battle. Too warm. His throat tightened.

“They said this was mercy,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “They said we were cleansing corruption — but it feels like we’re spreading it instead.”

He swallowed hard, eyes stinging. The glow around his wings dimmed. “They even call it holy now. All the pain. All the screams. They kneel and call it service to the Light.”

He laughed, a small brittle sound. “Service,” he echoed. “They don’t even look at the ones they destroy. They’re just… numbers in a hymn.”

Ion dropped your gauntlet gently and stepped back, hands twisting together as if in prayer. “I keep telling myself it’s not your fault. You’re only obeying. We all are…But when I see the blood on you?” His voice faltered.

“I can’t help wondering whose light we’re following anymore.”

His wings folded tight, like a child hiding behind them. “Maybe we’re not angels at all,” he whispered. “Maybe Heaven’s already fallen, and no one noticed.”

Ion turned his face away before the tears could fall — tears that shimmered like stars before burning out midair. His voice was quiet when it came again, trembling like a dying flame.

“They call it holy — this sickness of the soul… But rot dressed in gold is still rot.”