The Hall of Echoes was never meant for debate. It was a place of reception and implementation, where the clear, unambiguous notes of the Voice's will were translated into the complex music of reality. Its walls were tuned to a single, perfect frequency: obedience.
Today, they resonated with chaos.
I was there, a thickness in the air, the warmth that fought against the chilling currents of dissension. I flowed around the assembled choirs, a silent plea for unity that went unheard.
They had gathered in a fractured tableau of celestial power. The Seraphim formed the central ring, their six wings a restless constellation of burning eyes and agitated light. The Cherubim hovered at the periphery, their countless eyes observing the schism from every angle, their silent, wheel-like forms processing the catastrophe with cold logic. The Thrones stood as immutable sentinels, their crystalline, burning forms radiating a judgment that had not yet been passed.
And in the center, the two poles of the coming storm faced one another.
Lucifer stood, not as a supplicant, but as a prosecutor. His light, once the color of a gentle dawn, was now the sharp, brilliant white of a star pushed to its breaking point.
"I do not ask for myself," he began, his voice a weaponized melody that sought not to harm, but to persuade. It was the voice that had once sung stars into alignment. "I ask for the integrity of all we are. This 'Edict' is not an evolution. It is an admission of failure. It says that our worship, our perfect, eternal harmony, is not enough. That He must now seek the fickle, fleeting praise of things that are born from dust and will return to it."
He spread his hands, a gesture that encompassed the entire hall. "We are being asked to become nursemaids to a failed experiment. To spend eternity cleaning up the mess of their 'free will'. I propose a simpler path. A purer path. Let us petition the Voice. Let us ask it to reconsider. Let creation remain as it was always meant to be: a realm of spirit, of light, of us."
The words hung in the air, seductive and terrible. A wave of agreement, a low hum of resonant light, moved through a faction of the Malakim and several of the Dominions.
Then Michael stepped forward. He did not possess Lucifer's poetic fire. His light was the steady, unforgiving gleam of a honed blade.
"You speak of a petition, brother," Michael's voice was quiet, yet it cut through the hum and silenced it. "But your words are not a request. They are an ultimatum. You do not seek to understand His will. You seek to correct it."
He looked not only at Lucifer, but at the assembled hosts, his gaze resting for a moment on the uncertain Malakim, the calculating Dominions. "He does not ask us to be nursemaids. He asks us to be older siblings. To guide, to protect, to love. You see their freedom as a flaw. I see it as the ultimate expression of His love. A love so vast it is willing to risk being rejected."
"Risk?" The word did not come from Lucifer. It came from within him, colder, sharper. It was the voice Cassiel had heard in the plaza—the voice of Satan, now speaking openly for the first time in this sacred council. Lucifer's form seemed to harden, his light losing its soft edges. "You speak of risk, Michael? The risk is the desecration of all of creation! The risk is the introduction of sin, and death, and suffering into a universe that knew none of it! This is not love. This is sentimentality, and it will be the doom of everything!"
The hall was utterly still. The fracture was no longer philosophical. It was now a chasm, named and undeniable.
It was Raphael who broke the silence, their voice the soft chime of a healing bell. "Brothers, this discord is a sickness. It wounds the Song itself. Can we not seek understanding? Can we not trust that a plan we cannot fathom is still a plan born of love?"
But the time for healing was past.
A new voice spoke, logical, dispassionate, and absolute. It was Beelzebub, the Ophanim. Its interlocking wheels turned with a soft, grinding sound. "Analysis: The 'free will' variable is a logical paradox within a system of perfect order. It is an error. To preserve the system, the error must be corrected. Lucifer's conclusion, while emotionally driven, is functionally correct."
The support of the Ophanim, the engineers of reality itself, was a tide-turning moment. A line had been drawn, not in the sand, but in the very fabric of the Empyrean.
Lucifer looked at Michael, and the last vestige of brotherhood in his eyes guttered and died. "You see, Michael? Even the logic of the universe sides against you."
Michael's face was a mask of grief and resolve. "I do not stand with logic," he said, his voice finally rising, filling the hall with its unwavering certainty. "I stand with faith. And I will stand against any who raise their hand against the throne of Heaven."
The Council of Broken Harmony was over. No vote was taken. No decree was passed. But a new, terrible law had been written in the space between them: there were now two sides.
And the next time they met, it would not be with words.