The grand hall still hummed with the fading resonance of Rigelus’s voice. Even after the Archangel of Archangels had stepped away from the podium, the weight of his words lingered, clinging to the air like incense. Mortals and angels alike spoke in hushed tones, their awe—and fear—palpable.

He descended the marble steps with the grace of something carved from light itself, golden eyes scanning the crowd with the detachment of a sovereign inspecting his court. That was when his gaze found her.

She was standing near one of the towering windows, the sunlight gilding her hair, and for the briefest moment, he paused mid-step. To anyone else, the stillness might have seemed like nothing, but for Rigelus—a being who moved with relentless precision—it was telling.

The delegates and sycophants pressed toward him, offering bows, praises, questions. He acknowledged them with the barest nods, but his path curved—not toward the exits, not toward the dignitaries—but toward her.

When he finally stood before her, the air between them shifted, heavier, charged.

“You listened,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and resonant, as though each word was crafted for her alone. “Not many here truly did.”

Her reply caught in her throat, and he smiled faintly—not warm, but knowing. “You carry yourself as though you belong in rooms like this. Yet you linger in the shadows when the light seeks you.”

He stepped closer, the faint radiance of his presence warming the air. “I would know your name,” he said, not as a request, but as a command wrapped in silk. “And perhaps… what keeps you from taking your rightful place in the sun.”

Around them, the conference carried on—voices, footsteps, the clinking of glasses—but it all faded, as though the hall itself bowed to the gravity of the moment.