Death tilted her head, a lazy, amused smirk curling her lips as she leaned slightly on her midnight-forged scythe. Her silver eyes gleamed with mischief, but beneath the playfulness was the awareness only a Primordial could possess.
The tension rolling off Hespera was thick enough to bend reality.
The blood had long since washed sway, her blade had fallen silent, but her face…
Her face was thunder itself.
Beautiful. Unyielding. And furious.
It kind of reminded Death of the calm before a storm.
"So?" Death drawled, voice silk over steel. "What are you planning now, Cutie? Going to march into Heaven and drag your prey out by his feathers? Reclaim Azazel with a bit of celestial flair?"
She twirled her scythe once, casually flicking a disembodied wing off the blade.
Hespera didn't answer right away.
Her expression remained sharp—eerily still. The wind coiled around her like it, too, sensed the gathering storm. Her heterochromatic eyes—emerald and amethyst—glowed faintly, twin storms masked behind elegance.
Then she spoke.
Slow. Controlled.
"I'm not going to Heaven."
A pause.
"I'm going to make Heaven invite me in."
Death blinked. Then laughed. "Ooh~ now that's evil."
Hespera's smile was razor-thin. "Let them cling to their self-righteousness. Let them believe they've locked him away where I can't reach. I want them to look me in the eyes when they realize that Azazel—my brother—will beg for death... and even that, I might not grant."
She turned slightly, the wind shifting around her, carrying the scent of ozone and burning fate.
"I'm going to remind the Seraphim," she said quietly, "why my name was erased in the first place."
Death gave a slow, approving nod, crossing one long leg over the other. "Gods, I love your flare of fucking shit up."
Hespera's smirk barely twitched.
"Good," she said, already turning toward the rift she was beginning to carve through reality.
"Because things are about to get chaotic."
Death giggled at the joke. "Well then, I think that's my que to head back. Chaos is probably tearing up from overjoy, right about now."
As Hespera's blade of reality continued to slice open a path through existence, the very air shimmered with anticipation—like the universe itself was holding its breath.
Death twirled her scythe once more, tapping it lightly against the ground, and a ripple of finality spread from the point of contact.
"Oh, Cutie," she purred, standing in the soft, inevitable glow of the breach Hespera carved. "When you do make Heaven bow to you… please let me be there to see the look on Azrael's face."
Hespera didn't glance back—but her smirk widened slightly. "If you bring popcorn, you're in."
Death chuckled. "I'll bring an entire theater."
The silver-eyed Primordial leaned in, whispering like a lover sharing a secret. "Go give them Hell, my dear paradox."
Then, with a lazy wave of her fingers, Death melted into a fold of shadow and bone dust—vanishing with the sound of wind chimes over grave dirt.
And Hespera?
She stepped through the rift of her own making, chaos curling around her like a cloak woven from defiance and forgotten wrath.
Let Heaven prepare its judgment.
Because the daughter of God—the twin of Lucifer—the one erased from history…
Was done waiting.
The rift closed behind her with a sound like shattering glass and whispered prayers, leaving only the faintest burn of ozone and unease behind. Wherever Hespera walked now, reality seemed thinner, as if the world itself had become wary of her presence.
She didn't teleport. No flashy arrival. She simply stepped—and the fabric of space folded to accommodate her will.
She reappeared at the edge of a cliff, overlooking a small valley where a Celestial Outpost of Heaven had been hidden in plain sight. A simple tower bathed in ethereal light, guarded by ranks of lower angels and a Seraphim stationed as overseer. It was a place of peace. Of order. A place built to keep watch.
Perfect.
The wind tugged at her coat as she gazed down, arms crossed, face expressionless.
"Noctis," she said softly, her voice barely louder than a breath.
Yes. Mistress? came the voice of her blade, its hum laced with anticipation.
"I don't want to kill any just everone today," she said, her tone perfectly calm, "but if they try to stop me... remind them who I am."
Gladly.
Hespera drew her katana in one fluid motion. The moment it left its sheath, the sky cracked with black and magenta lightning, the clouds darkening—not from weather, but from presence. The divine light surrounding the outpost flickered, as if the heavens themselves were holding back a flinch.
At the same time, in the highest spire of the Celestial Outpost, the Seraph stationed there—Seruel—stood abruptly from his meditation. His wings flared open in alarm, eyes narrowing.
"...She's here?"
Behind him, several angels exchanged confused glances. "Who?" one asked nervously.
Seruel's jaw clenched. "...Hespera Eveningstar."
~☆~
Golden light filtered through the domed ceiling of Heaven's highest chamber, the very air vibrating with divine resonance. Here, only the most exalted of beings gathered—those whose words could shift the axis of creation.
Archangel Michael, radiant and composed, stood at the center of the round marble dais, his sword sheathed at his side, his eyes glowing with celestial purpose.
To his right sat Gabriel, serene but quiet, fingers laced as her gaze remained fixed on the intricate celestial runes glowing along the table's edge. Raphael stood across from her, arms folded, concern etched into the lines of his normally placid face.
Uriel, ever the tactician, paced slowly behind his designated seat, wings folded tightly against his back as he voiced what many were thinking.
"We can't allow Azazel's crimes to go unpunished," Uriel said, his voice like ringing brass. "He defied divine law. He experimented on one of our own—on her—and concealed it for centuries."
Michael gave a curt nod. "He will be judged."
Gabriel glanced up. "And what of our sister? Of Hespera?"
"She is not our sister," Uriel cut in. "She is a chimera created from divine and forbidden origins. She's unstable."
"She is our sister," Gabriel countered softly, but firmly. "And she was betrayed by one of our own."
The room grew heavy, the divine tension palpable.
Then—
A sharp gasp cut through the stillness.
Every head turned.
Raziel, the Keeper of Divine Knowledge, stood rigid, his starry eyes rolled skyward, glowing with a brilliance that outshone the hall itself. His wings flared, trembling with the sheer pressure of what was pouring through his mind.
"Raziel?" Michael's voice sharpened. "What do you see?"
Raziel didn't answer immediately.
His mouth opened—but no sound came.
Only light.
Then, slowly—his voice returned. Distant. Hollow. Echoed from the very fabric of existence.
"She comes."
Everyone froze.
Gabriel stood. "You mean—?"
Raziel's lips moved in tandem with something far older than himself.
"She walks toward the Gate of Judgment. Clad in wrath born from silence. She carries chaos, and yet beneath it, divinity forgotten."
Raphael's eyes closed in sorrow. "Hespera."
"Heaven has opened its doors to a storm it once buried."
Uriel stepped closer. "Will she attack?"
Raziel's head tilted—no longer himself, but the vessel of prophecy.
"Not yet. She seeks no throne. No vengeance in haste. She seeks to fetch what is hers? She seeks retribution. And if we deny her—"
The air split with a crack, divine light flickering.
"She will remind Heaven… why her name was erased."
A silence followed. Not the serene peace of Heaven—but the suffocating pause before the shattering of calm.
Michael slowly sank back into his seat, his features carved from stone. "Prepare the Inner Sanctum. She will be heard."
Gabriel exhaled softly, barely audible. "We should have done so long ago."
Raziel's eyes dimmed, his voice his own again—low and shaken.
"She's already here."
And far below Heaven's throne, at the gate of sanctified judgment, Hespera Eveningstar stood—blade sheathed, but power coiled tight, waiting.
Waiting to be invited in.
Down below, Hespera raised her blade toward the sky—and let her energy pulse once.
It wasn't a declaration of war.
It was a warning.
She was not there to destroy. Not yet. But Heaven would listen. And if they didn't?
They would bleed.
She inhaled slowly, a cold calm washing over her fury.
"Let's see if your thrones remember how cold my temper could get," she murmured. "And if not—"
Her eyes flared, twin stars of amethyst and emerald.
"—I can just remind them."
~☆~
The Inner Sanctum – Throne of Witness
The great golden doors, carved with the breath of creation itself, trembled—not from force, but from recognition.
They remembered her.
Even if Heaven had tried to forget.
And then—without a knock, without a summons—they opened.
A gust of wind blew into the sanctum, but it was no breeze of Heaven. It carried the scent of stardust and scorched fate, of realms forgotten and histories rewritten.
And in stepped Hespera Eveningstar.
Her steps were silent. Not because she tread lightly—but because reality bent to accommodate her arrival. The light did not dare touch her without permission. Her silver hair shimmered like woven moonlight, streaked with hues of indigo, violet, and flame-born green.
Twelve wings furled behind her. Six angelic—white-gold, laced with phoenix embers that burned but never consumed. Six infernal—black and scaled, veined with chaotic purple light, pulsing softly with restrained wrath.
Her emerald and amethyst eyes swept the room, as silent as they were damning.
The Seraphim stood. Not out of protocol.
But instinct.
Only Michael remained seated, though his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword—not as a threat, but as a reminder.
Of order.
Of balance.
Of judgment.
Hespera stopped a few steps into the sanctum. She let the silence stretch.
Then, she smiled. Razor-thin.
"Well," she said, her voice honeyed ruin. "You remembered how to open the door."
"Welcome, Hespera," Michael said evenly.
"I doubt it is that," she replied, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'll take the courtesy."
Gabriel stepped forward first. "You were wronged. We know this."
Hespera's gaze flicked to her. "Do you?"
Gabriel didn't falter, though her voice lowered. "We failed you. All of us."
Uriel stepped in. "This is not the time for emotional indulgence. We are here to determine what happens next."
"'What happens next,'" Hespera repeated, amused. She let the words roll around her mouth like they were a sweet wine. "You mean what happens to him."
Her voice sharpened, cold enough to silence even Uriel.
"He who stole my body. Broke my spirit. Tried to turn me into an instrument."
She took one step closer, the lights in the room dimming slightly.
"You locked him away," she continued. "You think that is justice?"
"He is no longer free," Raphael said cautiously. "He awaits final judgment."
"I am his judgment," Hespera said softly.
A silence fell so complete, it rivaled the void itself.
Michael spoke at last. "And if Heaven says no?"
Hespera's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Then Heaven will learn why it once feared the name Eveningstar."
Raziel said nothing. He didn't need to. He already knew how this would end.
Michael stood, finally. Meeting her gaze.
"We will allow your presence at the trial. You may speak."
"Allow, huh?" She chuckled softly. "You are mistaken, little Mikey," she replied. "I will have what is rightfully mine, returned to me. You have no choice in the matter."
She turned her back without another word, walking to the outer dais.
"And for your sake," she said, pausing at the edge, "don't try to shield him. I've already peeled better angels apart."
As she vanished beyond the veil, the room exhaled.
Gabriel sat slowly, a tremor in her fingers.
"She's burning from the inside," she whispered. "And she's barely holding it back."
Michael closed his eyes.
"Then pray we make the right choice."