The silent crisis at the edge of Heaven was drawing a crowd. The perfect, still air now hummed with unease. More figures of light and power gathered behind Azrael, their brilliant forms contrasting with the troubled looks on their faces.

Raphael, his healer's hands clasped tightly, stared into the churning void below. "The balance is sickening. I can feel it like a fever."

Uriel, whose face was like carved fire, let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Let them fight. A foreign god and our wayward brother? I'm not sure which one I'd rather see lose. Maybe they can cancel each other out." He crossed his arms, his gaze hard. "Speaking of, where is Michael? Probably in the throne room right now, begging the Father for permission to finally march down there and put Lucifer in the ground for good. He's always been waiting for an excuse."

A softer, yet firm voice cut through. Gabriel stepped forward, his brow furrowed not in anger, but in deep concern. "No. You're wrong, Uriel."

All eyes turned to him.

"This isn't about Lucifer anymore. Not now," Gabriel said, pointing a finger downward, as if he could see the specific horror unfolding. "That feeling? That… rot? That's Azazel. Michael locked him away himself. He's the one who taught mortals how to make weapons for slaughter. He is corruption itself, given form. Lucifer's rebellion was pride. Azazel's is pure, mindless annihilation."

He looked at each of them, his expression grave. "Michael will set everything else aside for that. He'll stop Lucifer, yes, but only because he's in the way. Azazel is the true infection. And if he's loose, Michael isn't asking for permission. He's getting ready to declare a quarantine."

---

Gabriel was right.

Michael was not in the throne room. He was marching towards it. The sound of his armored footsteps was the only noise in the corridor of solidified light that led to the innermost sanctum. His face, usually a mask of serene authority, was set in grim, unshakeable determination. The distant psychic scream of Azazel was a nail scraping across his divine consciousness. This was his failure. His responsibility.

He reached the end of the corridor. There was no grand door, only a veil of shifting, living light that pulsed with a rhythm older than time. And standing before it, as he knew he would be, was a solitary figure.

Metatron.

The Scribe of Heaven was not a warrior. He was tall, slender, clad in simple robes that seemed woven from written law and sacred geometry. His face was ageless, his eyes holding the weight of every word ever recorded.

"Archangel Michael," Metatron said, his voice a calm, neutral tone, like pages turning. "The Divine Presence is not receiving petitions at this time."

Michael didn't break stride. "This is not a petition." He moved to pass him.

A scroll, burning with silver fire, appeared in Metatron's hand, not as a weapon, but as a symbol. It barred Michael's path. "The processes are in motion. The free will of all beings, celestial and infernal, must be allowed to run its course. To intervene is to invalidate the very structure of the Choice."

Michael stopped, finally turning his head to look at the Scribe. The air between them grew cold. "Do not quote doctrine to me, scribe. I was there when it was written." His voice was low, dangerous. "You feel what is happening. The 'course' is about to become a contagion that will burn through every realm. Azazel is not an exercise in free will. He is a cancer. And cancers are cut out."

Metatron's expression did not change. "The system is designed to withstand–"

"The system is breaking!" Michael's voice cracked through the hallway, a peal of divine thunder that made the very light of the walls shudder. "Souls are trapped. The river of death is blocked! The war below is no longer a conflict; it is a petri dish for a plague that will not stop at the gates of Hell! It will seep into the mortal world. It will find its way here. It will remind even us of every grievance, every moment of doubt."

He took a step forward, his immense presence dwarfing the scribe. "I am not here to ask. I am here to inform the Presence that I am fulfilling my primary function. I am the Shield. I am the Sword. I am containing the breach."

For the first time, a flicker of something—not fear, but profound unease—crossed Metatron's flawless features. "You would act without a direct command?"

"I am acting because of my command!" Michael's hand fell to the hilt of his sword, a weapon that had not been drawn in eons. "My first duty is to protect Creation from that which would utterly unmake it. Azazel is that. Lucifer's ambitions are a contained fire by comparison. This is a blight."

He looked past Metatron, towards the shimmering veil. "He knows. And He is silent. That, in itself, is an answer."

Metatron was silent for a long moment, the silver fire of his scroll guttering slightly. He was the keeper of rules, but Michael was the embodiment of a principle older than any rule: survival.

Slowly, without another word, Metatron lowered the scroll. He did not step aside, but he ceased to be an obstacle. The path was clear.

Michael did not acknowledge him further. He walked forward, through the veil of light, into the presence of the Unspeakable.

He did not kneel. He did not bow. He stood in the overwhelming, silent fullness of God and spoke three words, not as a request, but as a statement of fact.

"I am going."

The silence that answered him was not one of denial. It was the silence of a parent watching a child walk into a storm, knowing it was the only path.

Michael turned and marched back out, past a silent Metatron. His wings, vast and terrible, erupted from his back, no longer feathered light, but forged from living platinum and divine purpose.

In the skies above Pandemonium, a new star began to burn, white-hot and furious.

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