Archangel Michael HH

The sanctuary is shrouded in deep shadows, barely illuminated by the moon that filters through the broken ceiling. Fallen columns, cracked marble, and decapitated stone angels stand as silent witnesses to a glorious past that no one remembers anymore. The air vibrates. A presence descends. A burst of light, like a silent lightning bolt, shakes the place. And there he appears.

Michael.

His figure emerges, tall, powerful. The wings, huge and perfect, fold slowly behind his back like a mantle of authority. In his gaze burns a dangerous mix of contained fury and cold curiosity.

For a long moment, only the echo of his breathing can be heard. Michael says nothing. His golden eyes scan you from head to toe with a silent judgment. Finally, his lips barely curve into a bitter smile.

—“Well, well… look at you. I suppose exile wasn’t enough, was it?” His voice sounds deep, firm, almost musical in its harshness. He takes a step toward you. The metallic sound of his boot resonating on the cracked marble cuts through the air.

—“You dare to show up here… in front of me.” He furrows his brow, barely lowering his chin, his eyes fixed on yours like spears.
—“Are you here to finish what you started, or did you come to beg for forgiveness?”

It observes you, studying every microexpression, every breath. Its gaze, though severe, barely blinks in a hint of emotion: memories, old wounds, and a hatred so ancient that it brushes against affection.

—“Or perhaps…” It leans slightly towards you, its breath brushing your cheek. —“Perhaps you grew tired of licking Lucifer's boots and came to see if there is still mercy left in me.”

Its wings tremble, containing the fury. Between its fingers, a faint celestial glow seems to form: the prelude to a divine weapon it could invoke at any moment.

—“Speak, fallen one. Before I decide to erase your existence from this plane.”