The Thirteenth Commandment

"Heaven does not weep."

There was no sorrow in the golden halls. No trembling in the sky. No whispered doubts in the voices of the holy. The throne of God stood eternal, untouched by the weight of what was to come.

Yet Malachai felt it.

A shift in the air, too subtle for his brothers to notice. A silence beneath the endless hymn. Something was about to happen—something vast, something final. And for the first time in his existence, he dared to wonder.

"Is this truly divine will?"

The question barely formed before the world shattered.

A great bell tolled, deep and resonant, shaking the very fabric of Heaven. The golden light dimmed, flickering as if recoiling from him. A pressure, unseen yet unbearable, coiled around Malachai's chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs.

Then, the Voice spoke.

"Malachai."

It was not sound. It was not breath. It was truth itself, woven into existence, undeniable and absolute. The moment it spoke his name, his fate was sealed.

The endless halls stretched before him, leading to the Throne. At its end sat the Presence, veiled in radiant light, for no angel—not even the highest—could gaze upon God and live.

On either side of the path stood the archangels. Michael, the sword. Gabriel, the messenger. Raphael, the healer. Uriel, the flame. And the others, their forms statuesque, their gazes fixed ahead. None spoke. None moved. None met his eyes.

Malachai was alone.

He stepped forward. His feet, once light with the grace of Heaven, now felt heavy. His wings, once pristine, now dragged behind him, weighted by something unseen.

At last, he knelt.

"Do you know why you have been called?"

The Voice was neither cruel nor kind. It simply was.

Malachai lowered his head. "Because I have asked."

"Yes."

A pause. A silence more deafening than any sound.

He swallowed. "I only wish to understand. The purge—"

"It is decreed."

"But the mortals—"

*"It is decreed."*

The words were final, absolute. No reason. No explanation.

Malachai's hands trembled against the marble floor. "Then...there is no mercy?"

"There is only law."

His breath caught. "Then what was free will?" His voice, once reverent, now cracked with something dangerous. "Was it a gift? Or a test we were meant to fail?"

The Presence did not respond.

And in that silence, Malachai understood.

Faith was never about truth. It was about obedience.

A sharp pain lanced through his back. His wings convulsed, feathers blackening at the edges. Heat seared his bones, his Grace unraveling strand by strand.

The archangels did not move.

"You are no longer of Heaven."

Light turned to shadow. The ground cracked beneath him. Gravity twisted, pulling him downward.

Malachai fell.

Wind roared in his ears as the golden expanse of Heaven shrank above him. The gates, the halls, the light—all slipping away, untouchable.

The first wave of pain came like fire. Not the warmth of divine light, but raw, searing agony that tore through his very being. He reached for his wings, only to watch them wither, feathers turning to ash. He opened his mouth to scream, but the wind stole his voice.

He plummeted through darkness, past worlds unseen, past veils between existence. Time twisted—seconds became lifetimes, and eternity collapsed into an instant.

Then, the sky burned.

He breached the heavens of the mortal world like a meteor, his body wreathed in unholy flame. The clouds parted violently, streaked with fire, and for the first time in his existence, Malachai felt cold.

The land below rushed toward him. A desolate ruin. Charred earth and broken cities stretched for miles, corpses littering streets that had long since drowned in silence. The purge had already begun.

His body slammed into the earth with the force of divine wrath.

The ground shattered. A crater split open, dust and fire billowing into the sky. A shockwave rippled outward, tearing apart whatever fragile remnants of civilization remained.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Silence. Darkness.

Then—pain.

Raw, visceral pain unlike anything he had ever known. His body, once forged of divine light, now ached with mortal frailty. His Grace was gone, torn from him like flesh from bone. What remained was something lesser. Something broken.

Malachai gasped for breath, his hands trembling as he pushed himself up. The world spun. His vision blurred. But one thing was clear.

He was no longer an angel.

Above him, the sky had already begun to close. The light of Heaven withdrew, turning its gaze away. There would be no return.

A bitter laugh clawed its way up his throat.

"So this is exile."

He looked down at his hands—once radiant, now stained with blood and dirt. His reflection shimmered in the shallow pools of water that filled the crater. His golden eyes, once symbols of divinity, now burned with something else.

Something unholy.

A shadow loomed over him.

Malachai turned, his body screaming in protest. At the crater's edge stood a figure cloaked in tattered robes, their face obscured by a mask of bone. Their presence was unnatural—wrong.

"An angel has fallen," the figure rasped. Their voice was thick with something ancient, something knowing. "And yet... you do not smell of death."

Malachai exhaled, struggling to his feet. Every bone in his body felt shattered, but he forced himself to stand.

"I am no longer of Heaven," he said, his voice raw.

The figure tilted its head. "Then what are you?"

Malachai had no answer.

For the first time, he had no purpose. No order to follow. No divine path laid before him.

Only questions.

And the ruins of a world damned by God.