As a young person, my greatest fortune lies in one ability: swift recovery. That resilience isn’t just physical, it lives in the mind and spirit too. So the heartbreak of being rejected by Lucifer only lasted a single night.
By the next morning, I had already launched a new wave of my pursuit for His Highness.
Not just the next day, every day after that, I kept hovering around Lucifer, circling the Seraph Palaces every couple of days. Whenever our Archangel appeared, he radiated an intense, coiled aura like a slumbering beast. Just laying eyes on him made it impossible to move, let alone utter anything even mildly flirtatious. I’d end up asking him some trivial question, and after that, spend hours loathing myself.
When someone is trapped in the torment of a one-sided love, they actually have more courage than anyone else, but they’re fragile, too. You’d do anything for him, yet he could wound you for days with just a word. Some people smile at you but stay cold nonetheless, like Lucifer. Toward me though, he was colder than toward anyone else. He wouldn’t even spare me a smile.
“To win a man’s heart, you’ve got to win over his stomach first.”
—No one would believe those words are Gabriel’s favorite motto. She’s a famously ancient virgin, yet her cooking is divine. Her rumored boyfriend, Sariel, freeloads meals at her place nearly every day.
I believed her. Between a lazy beauty and a plain girl who can cook, I might be tempted by the former at first, but in the end, I’d choose the latter. Love isn’t about immediate payoff. In the long run, the way to bind someone’s heart is through their belly.
Since I didn’t know many girls, I turned to a few buddies for help. They thought I’d fallen for some goddess and praised me for being such a decent man… though that was probably my own delusion. In truth, they all said the poor lady was doomed if she got stuck with a loser like me. Thankfully, they could cook and taught me the basics.
At first, I thought I had a talent for this. I was wrong. Cooking was brutal.
First attempt: the kitchen looked like a warzone. I almost died a noble death.
Second attempt went like this:
“What is this, Isar?”
“Eggs.”
“You’ve added more seasoning than egg. It’s not gonna taste good.”
“I didn’t add any seasoning.”
“Then what’s that black stuff?”
“What do you mean? That’s clearly yellow.”
“…You’re telling me that’s an egg?”
“Yeah! Here, try it—hey, where you going?”
Third attempt: color appeared normal, but the taste was… award-winningly bizarre. My fingers were wrapped in bandages.
Fourth attempt: the dish was identifiable. My face? Not so much.
Fifth, sixth, seventh… By the time I was done, it was the first time I’d ever doubted my own intelligence, and the first time others didn’t.
“Isar, I believe the rumors now,” a friend said solemnly, patting my shoulder.
I was all about fast results—zero interest in cooking, just obsessed with winning Lucifer’s favor. I poured my soul into mastering a single dish.
Icefowl meat is a specialty of the Demon Realm while stellafruits are the most delicious fruit in Heaven. Roast Icefowl in Stellafruit Reduction is a heavenly delicacy. If the chef’s skilled, it’s both delicious and nourishing.
I worked on that soup for over three months. It cost me a fortune in ingredients, required tons of part-time jobs, and I cooked a pot of it daily…you can imagine the results. Eventually, I was nearly seduced by my own culinary prowess. I spent an entire night preparing the final version.
Picture this: a manly man in an apron chopping vegetables, dreaming about the expression on his beloved’s face while sipping soup, and grinning like an idiot… It was as creepy as it sounds.
But lucky for me, the soup turned out great.
Unlucky me for though, I burned my hand while pouring it. Bandages wrapped again and again like rings of a tree.
The next day, carrying my now-beloved Roast Icefowl in Stellafruit Reduction and my tree-ringed hand, I waited outside the Hall of Splendor. Every second was agony.
When Lucifer returned from the Sanctum, to my surprise, he actually called me inside.
I stood beside him, a bit stiff. “You seem to be in a good mood today, Your Highness?”
“No,” Lucifer said casually, flipping through a few books stacked on the sofa, clearly distracted. “I just wanted to tell you…”
“I brought you some—”
“Hm?”
“Please, after you, Your Highness.”
“You don’t need to come again.”
It was so sudden and so clean, like lightning splitting through my skull, leaving my mind blank and ringing.
By sheer force of will, I kept talking. “Ah. I, uh, made something for you. Would you like to try it?”
“Made something?”
I nodded. Because my magic was terrible, I couldn’t keep the dish warm, so I’d bundled the ceramic pot in layer after layer of thick cloth. It looked almost embarrassingly shabby.
But inside was everything I’d poured into this. He had to drink it all.
Before I could even reach for a bowl, he said, “No need. Thank you.”
“My cooking’s not bad.”
“I don’t want it.”
Months of effort dismissed in a single sentence. But I couldn’t get mad. I had to be patient.
I smiled, my fingers trembling as I packed the food away. My movements were much slower than usual. “So… is it that you don’t like baked dishes? Or just this one in particular?”
Lucifer leaned back on the couch, flipping absently through the books piled beside him. “I just don’t want the soup. And I don’t want you coming anymore.”
“Is it the soup you don’t want… or me?”
Looking back, I realize how foolish that question was. His attitude had made it painfully clear. And yet I still asked, as if hoping to wrench out some other answer.
Lucifer said nothing.
“If you don’t answer, I’ll assume it means you still want to try it.” I stubbornly stopped packing, and put the pot in front of him again.
Because I was stubborn, my arm stretched straight toward him. Because I hadn’t eaten breakfast, the savory aroma was more tempting than usual even to me.
Lucifer’s face twisted with sharp impatience, and he slapped the bowl aside. “I said, I don’t want it.”
The scalding soup splashed across my hands and knees. I yelped and sprang up, frantically swatting at my clothes.
Lucifer’s head shot up in a jolt—his eyes flashing with a moment of stunned alarm.
But it was too late. The entire dish was spilled across the floor. Icefowl, stellafruit, tender cabbage hearts, crisp cucumber slices, all tangled together in thick white cheese, every slice I’d carefully added, stirred, and layered with my clumsy hands, against my impatient nature, day after day for three straight months, wasted in an instant.
I knew love could be painful. That you had to bear it. He didn’t know how hard I’d worked. He didn’t know I liked him. But the gap between those months of effort and his absolute indifference… it was too much to swallow.
“If it’s for you and you won’t eat it, then it’s nothing but garbage.”
I lifted the ceramic pot, still warm, with my bandaged hands, hoisted it above my head and smashed it against the floor.
The shards scattered like snow. Something inside me shattered with them.
I pointed at him, rage thick in my throat. “You don’t have to like me. But this attitude of yours, you’re going to regret it one day. Mark my words, Lucifer. One day, I’ll make sure you feel everything I felt!”
I didn’t stay to see his reaction. I couldn’t. My pride was in ruins. I couldn’t even stand it for another second. I ran, not looking back.
Really, what was the point of saying so much? The one who falls in love first… always loses.
At that same time, Raphael and Metatron happened to be leaving the Sanctum. Raphael hurried after him, trying to explain something. Metatron ignored him completely and flew straight toward home.
Every angel who saw the scene was stunned. In their eyes, Raphael was the most noble, most refined of all pureblood Seraphim.
No one knew that this man, always silent, always smiling faintly, was born in the lowest reaches of Heaven. No one knew his home lay in the desolate borderlands buried deep in the Demon Realm’s forgotten history. And so, no one could understand how rare and fragile his sense of security truly was.
He had regretted their arguments more times than he could count. He had yielded to Metatron’s mercurial temper again and again. But if a man has a hundred points for patience, Metatron would always find a way to push for one hundred and ten.
The same kind of scene happened again.
Metatron was leading a group of newly enlisted mage angels into Sancta Faylia. As they passed by a church-turned-museum, he happened to glance inside, and paused.
Raphael sat surrounded by a group of youngsters. Their wings varied in color, white, blue, and gold, and their size and brightness differed depending on their innate potential. Yet they all carried the tender, newborn aura of youth.
A skinny white-winged little angel was perched on Raphael’s knee. Among these gifted fledglings, he appeared the weakest, his eyes still red from recent tears, but the tears had stopped now, soothed by Raphael’s embrace. A look of trust and admiration filled his gaze.
After speaking to the children in a gentle voice, Raphael picked up the one in his arms and slowly began guiding them through the museum.
His shoulders were slender, and the hem of his long white robe trailed behind him. His voice was soft as he told them stories of Heaven. Under his narration, canvases darkened by miasmic rain seemed to regain their color; a gray stone dragon from the Demon Realm, mouth agape, looked ready to take flight; the scarred bronze figures of divine warriors on a tray shimmered again with heroic glory…
Metatron remained at the window for a long time. The angels behind him were all new and too nervous to remind him that they were nearly late for assembly.
He kept his eyes on Raphael’s slender but upright back, on those long fingers brushing gently over soft little heads. A strange wave of guilt rose in his heart. Yet he felt ashamed of that guilt, because he knew the man’s gentle manner and beautiful appearance were mere superficialities.
Later, Raphael and the children stopped before a rusty metal shield.
It was an artifact from Berduth 4931, nearly three thousand Berduth old. Though protected by divine spells and cradled on a fresh red velvet cushion, the engravings on it had long since faded beyond recognition.
Through the thick crystal barrier, Raphael could just make out angelic figures carved around its edges: divine and demonic warriors with raised swords at the center, a monument encircling them from behind.
He bent slightly to read the plaque aloud: “Shield the Souls. Berduth 4931. A shield left from the Second War of Light and Darkness…”
Before he could finish, the child in his arms asked, “Lord Raphael, who’s the one being stabbed?”
Raphael paused, staring at the faint figure surrounded by demons. His throat was dry; even speaking seemed to take effort. He smiled awkwardly. “I… it’s been too long. I can’t quite remember.”
“Can’t remember? What a terrible memory,” came a voice—not from the children, but from the side door.
Raphael turned pale with panic.
Metatron stood there, backlit so that his expression was hidden, but his light brown eyes gleamed like amber, glinting with unmistakable mockery as they swept over him.
It was as if someone had sliced into the core of his nerves. Raphael froze, barely able to stand. His head turned to follow Metatron as he spread his wings and took off. At last, he put the child down and chased after him.
He followed quietly from the museum all the way to the Sanctum, watching Metatron greet others as if nothing had happened, never once glancing his way.
“Wait—please, just let me explain,” he called out under the colonnade and cascading water outside the Sanctum.
“What is it, dear Lord Raphael?” Metatron turned, shrugging with a smirk, the same irreverent expression as always.
“I really didn’t mean to hurt Evangeline. You’re my dearest friend. You liked her so much, why would I ever hurt her on purpose? That would only make you hate me.”
“Friend…” Metatron tapped his chin, a look of mock amusement crossing his face. “So you actually considered me a friend?”
“Yes,” Raphael said, lifting his gaze to meet Metatron’s with unguarded sincerity.
Metatron thought: if he didn’t know this man, he might’ve actually been moved by such eyes.
He brought the gloved finger from his chin to his lips. “Shh. Do you hear that?”
Raphael blinked in confusion but listened earnestly.
Metatron narrowed his eyes and hummed : “Listen—even the wind itself whispers: ‘You’re lying.’”
In Sancta Faylia, any angel who’d spent time with the archangels would agree that Raphael and Reynor were the easiest to talk to. Raphael, because he was empathetic; Reynor, because he was righteous and straightforward. The hardest were Lucifer and Metatron: the former too lofty and unreadable, the latter impossible to engage in any serious conversation.
Raphael opened his mouth, but in the face of Metatron’s response, he was helpless.
He understood. Gaining something always came with losing something else. Still, the injustice of it stung. It wasn’t as if he had no other options in love. Since returning to the upper echelons of Heaven, countless eligible suitors had pursued him.
He had never imagined that what he saw as timidity would be interpreted by others as “grace,” “gentleness,” “humility,” or even “emotional intelligence.” Once he became an archangel, he’d even been called “the most angelic angel,” as if his lack of principles or personality had turned into some kind of virtue, blessed by status.
He really was pathetic. After everything, he still couldn’t let go of someone who never even took him seriously.
Sometimes people would secretly compliment him for being unlike Metatron, who “slept around.” He’d respond with indifferent detachment. But inside, he found it painfully ironic. If Metatron ever offered, he would never say no. After all, the one thing that should never have happened between them already had.
It was the seventeenth year after Evangeline’s death.
That night, Raphael had rescued a thoroughly drunk Metatron from a bar, only to be suddenly and fiercely kissed.
Even knowing the man was too wasted to know who he was, that single kiss had stopped Raphael’s heart.
He brought Metatron home himself, laid him on the bed, wiped his face and cooled his fevered skin… only to be pulled down beside him.
The night had been beautiful, dreamy. But the morning sun, bright and pitiless, was enough to reveal every flaw that darkness had hidden.
The next morning, he awoke early in that cramped little bedroom littered with traces of other women.
From behind, Metatron wrapped his arms around him. Yet the name he called was “Evangeline.”
Raphael closed his eyes, silent for a long time, then quietly pushed Metatron away. As if nothing had happened, he resumed tending to his daily care.
He had always believed that he could let this secret, and the pain it brought, rot slowly within his body, until both memory and flesh fully absorbed it.
But now, the emotion surged like a tsunami from the deepest part of his soul.
He lifted his head and looked at Metatron, speaking with visible anguish:
“Yes. The one you love is Evangeline. But have you ever thought about how many people you’ve hurt? Women aren’t like men. They rarely give themselves to someone just out of need. All those women you’ve slept with, do you really think they were as casual as you claim?”
Metatron cut in. “Who did I hurt?”
“Those women you shared fleeting nights with,” Raphael replied, his gaze wavering, “and… and…”
“And you, right?”
As if he couldn’t believe Metatron had said it so lightly, Raphael’s eyes widened. He even forgot to blink.
“You… you knew?”
“I did.”
“You mean, that night… you remember?”
“Oh, that? No, of course I don’t.” Metatron shrugged. “But look at who I am. Even if I forgot everything the night before, one glance in the morning would’ve been enough to figure out what we did. And besides, I do remember some of it…”
Seeing the color drain from Raphael’s face, Metatron raised a brow. “Why? Weren’t you willing? You didn’t resist at all.”
“I’m your friend, Metatron.”
“Hah! If you were, you could’ve stopped me. Didn’t look like you minded.”
Metatron walked over and lifted Raphael’s chin. His voice turned mocking, almost pitying.
“Poor Raphael. At the time, I did feel a little sorry. But now? Now I think falling for me is your punishment. You know why?”
Watching Raphael’s eyes begin to fill with tears, Metatron’s smirk slowly faded. A twisting ache bloomed in his chest, as if some cold, metallic instrument stirred inside him.
He instinctively refused to examine the source of that pain. What frightened him more was the sudden urge to pull this man into his arms. No, someone like Raphael only ever used that pitiful expression to win sympathy. He couldn’t trust him. He absolutely would not.
“You really missed your calling. You not becoming a stage actor is a loss to the world.”
Metatron pulled his hand away abruptly and flew off, expression wiped clean of concern.
—
From the First Heaven to the Sixth, each layer of Heaven held expansive territory, scattered cities, and a single flourishing capital. But Heaven Prime was different. It was fully developed, composed entirely of Sancta Faylia. The largest city in all of Heaven.
Even so, it was eerily empty. Aside from the shopping avenues, where carriages were banned, high-ranking angels simply rode in, finished their business, and left. For all its divine splendor and sacred magnificence, the imperial capital often felt deserted. One could walk miles without encountering a single soul, its glorious towers standing silent and immaculate behind you.
Those who lived here didn’t seem to know how to enjoy life.
Even Square of Sacred Life, the grandest and most extravagant plaza in Heaven, was empty.
I sat curled up on a bench at its edge, eyes closed.
The imperial capital was always radiant, its light so intense it pierced even through closed eyelids.
I had never imagined things would become this strained between Lucifer and me. As my fingers grew cold, so did the last embers of hope, turning quietly to ash.
Before I could even sigh though, the light dimmed.
Someone had stepped between me and the sun.
I knew someone was there, but even opening my eyes felt too heavy. I kept still, resting my head against the armrest, pretending I hadn’t noticed.
But then—I felt a hand touch my hair.
Startled, I still kept my eyes closed, feigning calm. That hand trailed gently from my hair to my cheek, resting there for a moment, before letting out a sigh.
I could hear my own heartbeat echoing in my chest. Thump. Thump. I waited, expecting something, anything.
But nothing came.
Only the soft rustle of wings. And then, silence once more.
Yet I couldn’t return to peace. Even if he just breathes, I would still recognize that breath from anywhere. It was Lucifer.
He hadn’t done much, but that single touch, fingers running through my hair, kept my heart racing for a long time.
I convinced myself: there must be a reason he was so cold, a reason he kept pushing me away. If I just worked a little harder, he’d tell me. And if I knew the reason, then we’d have a chance.
So, rather than retreat, I became even bolder.
But the next time I visited the Hall of Splendor, I stumbled across the one thing I never wanted to see.
Elmetti ran out of the hall, flushed, disheveled, clutching her chest, breathless.
She didn’t see me at all, and crashed straight into me, tumbling to the ground.
“S-sorry. God summoned me. I have to go,” she stammered, her usually poised demeanor in shambles.
Startled, I bent down to help her up. But from this angle, I saw clearly: her neck was covered in scattered red marks.
My mind went blank.
She noticed where my gaze had fallen and instinctively covered her neck. Her face flushed even deeper. She frowned tightly, looking wronged and flustered, then turned and fled.
I forced myself to stay calm and requested an audience with Lucifer as usual.
They let me in.
He was sitting beside the reflecting pool in his chamber, dressed only in a thin robe. Even seated, the lines of his figure were striking, beyond what ordinary angels could compare to. His features, stripped of their usual jeweled adornments, were blinding, made more beautiful by absence.
Compared to Elmetti, who’d just stormed off, his expression remained perfectly composed, not a ripple of emotion:
“What is it?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to ask Your Highness about school. Which academy do you think I should apply to?”
I dove straight into the topic I’d prepared in advance.
“The Academy of the Seventh. You’re not suited for magic.”
“How do I enroll?”
“I don’t think that’s something you need to ask me.”
“Oh. Then I’ll ask someone else.”
“Mm.”
And that was that. We’d ran out of conversation topics.
He lifted a cup of milk from the poolside, took a sip, and set it down. The angels around us stood still as statues. He barely moved either. The whole Hall felt like a crypt.
There were red marks at his neck, scratches from fingernails, faintly bleeding, disturbingly vivid. That was the only trace of what he’d just done.
Anger welled in my chest, and I stopped thinking before I spoke.
“Do you like Elmetti?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love her?”
“No.”
“Then why do something only lovers do?”
“You have no right to question me.”
His complete indifference set my nerves on fire. My voice rose.
“Your Highness, don’t you think that’s wrong? I mean, shouldn’t people only do something so… so intimate if they actually love each other?”
Lucifer’s voice was frigid.
“That’s a child’s idea. Elmetti’s had feelings for me for a long time. She begged me, in tears. How could I bear to disappoint her?”
“So you just say yes to whoever throws themselves at you?”
Lucifer stood up, narrowing his eyes.
“Isar. You’d best remember who you’re speaking to.”
“What about me?” I couldn’t stop now, my voice trembled with outrage. “I’ve liked you since I was little. Why do you treat me like this?”
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turned and walked away.
The angels around us stared with blank eyes. I kept telling myself not to take it to heart.
But for someone as noisy as me to suddenly fall silent, that alone probably confused Lucifer. He took a few steps, then glanced back.
His eyes widened.
I couldn’t face him like this. I circled behind him and wrapped my arms tightly around his waist.
His robes were cold, but underneath, his skin radiated heat.
Lucifer stiffened and turned his face sharply away. “What are you doing!”
“I can take the initiative too.” I buried my face against his back, forcing the words out shamelessly. “Your Highness, I like you… I really like you. Please, don’t turn me away. Just give me one chance, okay?”
He didn’t respond. His body was burning hot, far more than I expected, but his attitude was cold as ever. He threw my hands off and started to walk away.
I dashed in front of him, meeting his eyes head-on.
“Just once. Let me have you once.”
“Stop it.”
I acted like I hadn’t heard. I threw my arms around his neck, teeth chattering with nerves.
“If you hate me, then push me away.”
I had thrown away all shame. I rose on tiptoe and kissed his collarbone, then his neck. My eyes lingered on his lips—but I didn’t move closer.
Even deep breathing couldn’t calm the tremor in my chest. I had never looked at him from this close before. I couldn’t look away. The world had collapsed. My soul was drowning.
His eyes were like blue crystals, beautiful, but as cold as they were lovely.
A wave of inferiority crushed me. I was scared. Hesitating. Already shrinking back.
He didn’t glance at my body. Just held my gaze, like he didn’t care about me at all, only watching to see how far I’d debase myself.
It took a long time, but I finally understood what he meant: he was giving me a way out, a ladder to climb down with some dignity. A chance to leave.
My limbs trembled. I began to shrink back. My body felt wrong, arms, legs, nothing fit.
“…Sorry.”
That was all I could manage.
But just before I fled, he pulled me into his arms. Tight.
I wasn’t ready, didn’t even have time to feel happy. My mind simply blanked out. All I knew was the thunder in my chest, slamming against his.
I heard myself whispering his name, again and again, my voice the tone of absolute surrender. We were locked in an embrace. The Hall of Splendor was so vast, yet we were so close.
I had never been more vulnerable, like a shell-less mollusk, laid bare beneath his cold, discerning gaze, with no defenses left.
I knew I shouldn’t do this. I had to regain control. But before I could, he pushed me away.
My heart was still pounding wildly. I clutched my chest, gasping for air, staring up at him.
“I didn’t feel a thing,” he said, wiping his lips. So casual. Like it meant nothing.
My heart, already trembling, simply stopped.
He was lying. I’d seen how he reacted.
I wanted to argue but his words hit too hard:
“I’m sorry. I felt nothing. Go find someone else.”
That… hurt more than a direct rejection.
I clenched my teeth, humiliated, trying to sound composed.
“I’m not the kind of person who does this with just anyone. I only want to be close to the one I like.”
His face had turned pale. Deathly pale.
After a long silence, he said quietly:
“You’re still young. You don’t understand what love is.”
The last of my defenses shattered.
“I didn’t say it was love. I just want to be with you. I want to give you everything I have if it means you’ll be happy…”
“Enough. I don’t want to hear it.” He cut me off, impatient. “Michael, I’ve never liked you. I never will. You know that better than anyone. Why keep clinging to someone who dislikes you? You knew it was hopeless, so why keep asking? Look at yourself.”
“If it weren’t for you, I’d never have gotten this far.” It was stubborn, pointless, but I refused to back down. I sucked in a shaky breath, nasal and raw. “Your Highness, I like you. Why are you doing this to me?”
By now, I couldn’t even hear him. I watched his expression with every ounce of strength I had, terrified I’d burst into tears.
The air thickened. Lucifer turned his face away, frowning.
“Lucifer… I like you. I’ve liked you since I was little.”
I took a step toward him, wanting to close the distance.
He hesitated. Then seized my wrist.
“Get out.”
He shoved me, hard. I hit the floor.
Even the guards turned to look.
It was too much. Too unfair. Why could other people so easily be with the ones they loved? Why did even the plainest man, if he just tried long enough, win the girl in the end? Why did every woman who threw herself at him find favor?
Why was it only me—only me—who was treated like this?
His silhouette drifted away, like a fading brushstroke on an oil painting. My chest clenched in panic.
I was still young. I barely knew him. I’d seen him in books, in glimpses. Yet somehow, that retreating back, those wings, were heartbreakingly familiar, like I’d watched them vanish a thousand times over the endless Berduth of Heaven’s history.
My vision blurred. I scrambled to my feet and ran after him, flinging myself at his legs.
“Don’t go! Please, don’t go!!”
Lucifer looked down, startled.
Clinging to him, I declared,
“It’s fine if you’ll never love me. What matters is that I love you. Just let me stay by your side—right, that’s right, I’ll be your Favored Angel! That way, I won’t need your love in return, right?”
“…Michael. You want to be my Favored Angel?”
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
“You are a Seraph. How could you be someone’s Favored Angel? Do you even know what that means?”
Of course I knew. The divine race was bound by strict hierarchies. Angels of different ranks couldn’t always be together due to societal pressure, so they created the concept of a Favored Angel.
It was like a master keeping a pet. The pet could flaunt itself before angels of its own level, but in front of its master, it had to fawn and beg. Sometimes the two were lovers in secret, but in public, the relationship remained one of absolute hierarchy.
But higher angels had their pride, so even those who’d long harbored feelings for Lucifer, who might spend just one night with him, would never debase themselves by becoming his Favored Angel.
Even Thrones wouldn’t go that far. And I was a Seraph.
No wonder he was so shocked.
I could only repeat it.
“If you’re willing, then I don’t mind.”
“But I mind.”
With that, he shook me off so hard I slammed into the marble column beside the Sanctum gates.
The sound of the crash rang out. I fell. One of the guards even drew a sharp breath.
Warm fluid pooled in my mouth. I saw Lucifer fly off without a backward glance and only then did I reach up and wipe the blood from my lips.
Because I loved him, I had tried.
And he kicked me out, slamming the door.
I wanted to cry but wouldn’t allow myself the shame, so that even while bleeding, I held back the tears with everything I had.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
