The wind here had once been clear and pure, carrying warm, holy currents.
But now, as it blew across Castiel's face, it felt as though it were mixed with shards of glass—cold and piercing.
He stood before the shattered steps of the Seventh Holy Temple.
The steps had once been forged from light and clouds. Now they were dim and mottled, their edges marked by charred cracks and dried golden blood—the blood of angels.
The towering temple doors hung crookedly, one hinge broken. The once exquisite and intricate relief of the Holy Eye on the doors had been smashed apart by some violent force. Only a hollow eye socket remained, staring blankly at the sky.
The sky, too, was no longer the tranquil weave of azure and golden light he remembered.
It had taken on a sickly, layered hue. Farther away, currents he could not identify churned through it, carrying an air of decay.
The air was filled with a faint yet lingering smell of char, along with something subtler—the lingering scent of pain left behind by wounded souls.
This did not look like Heaven. It looked more like ruins that had just survived a brutal civil war.
"Lord Castiel." A voice sounded behind him, respectful but unable to hide its exhaustion.
Castiel turned and found Hannah, once a low-ranking recording angel under his command. Gentle by nature, Hannah excelled at organizing legal texts rather than fighting.
At the moment, Hannah's wings were dull and lightless. His left wing even bore the obvious mark of a break that had been crudely rejoined, held in place with bandages made of light.
His face was pale from prolonged tension and lack of rest.
"Hannah." Castiel nodded, his gaze sweeping over the injured wing. "How many are left?"
Hannah lowered his head, his