Chapter 100 Chapter 100

Chapter 100 Chapter 100
The last time I saw her, she was crowned in my image, defiant and radiant, with fire in her veins and fury in her heart. I thought she’d rule the way I once did with precision, wrath, and pride. I should’ve known better.
She rules with love. And that terrifies me. Because love is the one thing Heaven and Hell both can’t control.

A tremor ran through the floor. Faint, but unmistakable. The sound of a gate being forced not by invasion, but escape. My fingers tightened around the armrest of the throne. Flames surge in response, crawling up the walls.
“Where is she?” I demanded.
The nearest demon, a trembling lesser warden, flinched. “My Lord?”

I rose slowly. “Don’t play stupid with me, child. You felt it. The fissure in the lower cavern who opened it?”
He dropped to one knee, wings quivering. “The Queen, my Lord.”
Of course she did.
“Did anyone follow?”
“No, my Lord. General Baltazaar sealed the passage after she passed through.”
I exhaled sharply. “Baltazaar.”

My most trusted general that I gave to her, my most loyal soldier. My biggest disappointment.
“Summon him,” I ordered.
The warden hesitated. “He’s gone, my Lord.”
I turned slowly, fire curling around my hand. “Gone?”
“He left through the old tunnels. No one saw where.”

The flames flared higher, filling the chamber with heat and light. Demons scattered, wings folding tight, shadows bending away from me. The crown above my head flared white-hot and shattered into sparks. So. Baltazaar has defected. Geminia escaped. And Heaven’s veil trembled not an hour ago. It all connects.

I vanished from the throne room in a burst of smoke and flame, reappearing in the upper spire of my citadel, the place where I could see all of Hell laid out below. The rivers of fire glowed faintly, restless, reflecting the pulse of my anger.

I could feel her trace even from here faint, but real. Her essence cuts through the infernal resonance like a song I can’t forget. She’s not in Hell anymore. She’s between. And I know exactly who she’s running to. Azrael.

The name tasted bitter, even now. The angel of death. Heaven’s perfect weapon. The one who carried my daughter’s heart the day I gave her my blood. The one she was supposed to forget. The one who didn’t. I laughed softly, low, dangerous, and almost fond. Of course it’s him. She always had a taste for impossible things.
A flicker of light appeared behind me not Hellfire, but grace. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
“Michael,” I said. “You’re getting brave.”
“I’m getting desperate,” he replied.

He stepped into view, the glow of his wings muted out of respect or maybe guilt. His expression was carved from the same marble as Heaven itself: calm on the surface, cracks underneath.
“You knew she’d run,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And you let her.”
He didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” I continue, circling him slowly, “was this part of your grand plan? Your secret little rebellion? You and that feathered choir of sympathizers think you can protect them from me?”
His jaw tightened. “From Him.”
That made me pause.
“Ah,” I murmured. “So even the loyal ones are starting to doubt.”
His eyes met my gaze. “You think this is about doubt? It’s about mercy. Something you used to understand,” he said.

“Mercy,” I repeated, almost laughing. “You mistake mercy for weakness, brother.”
“I mistake nothing,” he said. “I’ve seen what you built here. And I’ve seen what she’s become. You may call her queen, but she’s still your blood. Are you going to destroy her for loving him?”
That hit harder than I expected.

I turned away, staring out at the rivers below. The fires twisted and coiled like veins, my veins, my creation. For so long, I told myself rebellion was my legacy. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe she is. “She’s crossing into Heaven,” he said quietly. “You know what that means.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “War.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Doesn’t it?” I turned back, eyes flaring. “You think He’ll let her walk through the gates untouched? You think the old man forgives what He can’t control?”
His silence was answer enough.

“She’s playing with eternity,” I said. “And when He punishes her, it’ll make my fall look merciful.”
His voice softened. “Then stop Him.”
I stared at him for a long time. “You’re asking me to protect the very thing I was cast out for defying.”
“I’m asking you to be her father,” he said. “Just once.”
He left, and the words hung there, heavy and bright. Then he turned, wings unfurling, and vanished into light.

I stood alone, the air thick with the scent of ozone and ash. Father. The word sits in my chest like a wound that never healed.
She’s out there now, somewhere between realms, chasing the same angel Heaven keeps trying to erase. She knows the risk. She knows what will come.
And still she goes. Just like me.

I looked up toward the distant shimmer of Heaven. The veil was glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. I could almost feel her fire brushing against it, daring it to open. Daring the Almighty Himself to try and stop her. My lips curl into a slow, dark smile. “Do it, little flame,” I whispered. “Show them what I made.”
The fires of Hell roared in answer, not in fury, but pride.

Azya

The archives of Heaven weren’t meant to be beautiful. They were meant to intimidate. Endless white corridors lined with gold, shelves stacked higher than sight. Every scroll hums with divine law, each one a thread in the tapestry of order. The air smells of parchment and lightning. It’s supposed to make you feel small.
It doesn’t work on us. It’s been centuries since we’ve touched heaven, and it was only possible now because of Michael and Gabriel.

Daya moved like a shadow between the shelves, fingers grazing old sigils as she passed. She was humming under her breath a soft, rhythmic tune that kept the wards calm. She has done this dance a hundred times: one breaking seals, the other soothing them.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” she muttered, brushing dust off a crystal tablet. “You know what happens if He catches us.”
I smirked. “You panic, and I improvise. Like always.”
“Azya…”

“Relax. Michael said the throne’s occupied. He’s keeping Him busy.”
“Busy?” She huffed. “He’s distracting God, Azya. That’s not ‘busy.’ That’s suicide.”
I glanced over my shoulder, green eyes glinting. “Then we’d better make it worth it,” I said.

We reached the back of the archive, where the shelves curve inward and the light dimmed. No one comes here, not even the Seraphim. The air hummed wrong, a faint echo of something older than Heaven itself. The Vault of Unspoken Names. I placed my hand on the door. It didn’t open at first. It listened. Then the sigils flared, gold bleeding into crimson, a mix of grace and something else. A signature that shouldn’t exist. The mark of the Oath. The door groaned open.

Daya winced. “That sound gives me chills,” she said.