The Heavenly Court
The sky was no longer blue.
Upon a throne of silver, the Sovereign of the Heavens sat, face unreadable, majestic and cold. Before Him knelt Draxiel, god of war. One of his wings was torn, his divine radiance dimmed. Around them, the high gods stood in solemn silence, a circle of judgment.
"How many thousands did you burn, Draxiel?"
The Sovereign's voice rumbled across the Seventh Sky, shaking its very core.
"Did you truly believe their sacrifice was just a number in your pursuit of peace?"
Draxiel lowered his head. His voice, when it came, was fractured.
"I did not seek to kill. I only wished to end the war. If the fall of one city could spare the world..."
"Enough!"
The Sovereign's voice cracked like thunder.
"Murder is still murder."
A soft step echoed through the chamber.
Verity, goddess of wisdom and keeper of truth, stepped forward. Her robes shimmered like waves of starlight.
"Your Majesty," she said gently, "if we question Draxiel's intent, then darkness will consume the earth. Yes, he spilled blood but to prevent a far greater loss."
The hall fell into uneasy silence.
Then another voice rose, firm and unyielding.
Kael, god of justice, stood on the opposite side. His golden eyes bore into Draxiel's.
"Verity, your mercy blinds you. No noble intent can justify the slaughter he caused. Draxiel deserves judgment. No god, no matter how righteous, stands above the law."
Draxiel turned toward Kael, a once-brother in arms, now a judge.
But his gaze held no hint of doubt.
The Sovereign raised His hand.
From His palm gathered the eternal light, pure and merciless. Within it stirred a shadowed energy, summoned only for the highest of punishments.
"Draxiel, to preserve the balance between Heaven and Earth, you are hereby cast out. Stripped of your power, your name, your place among the gods.
You shall fall to Earth… as a mortal."
"If you do the truth, your strength will return.
If not ..."
The final word hung unspoken, heavier than any decree.
Verity stepped forward, panic in her voice.
"Wait...! Your Majesty, this sentence is too..."
The Sovereign's gaze cut through her like ice.
"You will follow him, if another word escape your lips."
Verity froze. The words died in her throat. Her violet eyes wide with helpless fear.
She could only watch as divine light burst forth from the Sovereign's hand, a silver vortex crashing down upon Draxiel.
In a flash, he was hurled from the heavens.
The sky cracked.
The world held its breath.
And the fallen god… was forgotten.
___
Ontario, Canada, 7:00 PM.
The bakery's front doorbell chimed sharply a clear, crisp sound that rang through the little shop like a needle through cloth followed by a never-ending line of customers snaking through the narrow aisles.
The air was warm, thick with the scent of rising dough, melted butter, and caramelized sugar. Pale yellow lights glowed from rustic glass fixtures overhead, casting soft golden shadows across the honey-colored walls. Shelves lined with half-empty trays of baked goods added a cozy clutter to the scene. Everything about the place felt warm, except the people inside it.
Athena wiped the sweat from her temple, leaving a smudge of flour across her skin. Her hands were dusted white, her apron slightly crooked from hours of nonstop movement.
She stood behind the glass counter.
Athena wasn't the kind of beautiful that demanded attention, but the kind that unfolded slowly, like a quiet secret. Her features were delicate: a soft oval face framed by thick chestnut waves pulled back into a messy bun. Her eyes, a striking shade of stormy gray, held a quiet depth that spoke of both weariness and resilience. A faint smattering of flour dusted her cheeks. She was tired, but there was grace in how she moved, focused, fluid, as if she belonged to another time.
"Miss, two more milk buns, please!" someone called.
"Sorry, we're all out," Athena replied, her voice calm, her smile apologetic.
Grumbles erupted through the room like a simmering pot. Athena bowed over and over, murmuring soft apologies, forcing her voice to stay kind even when her bones ached.
When the last customer finally shuffled out, muttering under their breath, Athena exhaled shakily, rushed to pull down the curtain, and flipped the little wooden sign on the glass door to Closed.
She had barely taken a breath when a familiar voice echoed sharply from the back kitchen.
"Athena!"
It was Mrs. Janet Magdalene, the bakery's owner, a sharp-tongued woman in her fifties with tightly curled hair and a gaze sharp enough to slice dough. She was more fond of pointing fingers than lending a hand.
"How many trays did you bake today?! Look at this! Half the customers walked out empty-handed!"
Athena straightened, brushing her flour-covered hands against her apron. "We ran out of supplies, ma'am. The flour and butter were gone."
Janet scoffed loudly. "Ah, you're talking nonsense! Even a cat could bake bread if it knew how to add yeast. Just cut back on the eggs, throw in more leavening. Problem solved."
Athena clenched her jaw. "If I do that, the bread will be hollow inside, and the flavor will change. I'm not going to make something bad just to trick people."
A tense silence.
Then the crashing sound of pots slamming onto the floor broke the air like thunder.
"Get out! Clear your stubborn head before I fire you for real!"
Athena didn't argue. She didn't flinch. With practiced calm, she untied her apron, hung it on its usual hook, and walked out into the winter air.
Outside, the cold cut into her like a sharp knife, biting, and relentless. Snowflakes swirled around her boots as she walked the quiet little street lined with dim storefronts and flickering lamps. The town had already gone still, wrapped in its winter slumber. Her breath hung in the air.
Athena pulled her white coat tighter, the buttons mismatched but lovingly sewn. She walked fast, needing to feel something other than frustration and fatigue.
Then, at the end of a narrow alleyway, she stopped.
Someone was lying there, collapsed in the snow.
Athena froze.
A man. Face down. Unmoving.
He wore only dark leather pants. No coat. No shoes. No shirt. In this weather, that should've meant death. But his skin hadn't turned blue.
Cautiously, Athena approached. She knelt beside him, her heart pounding like a warning drum. She placed a hand on his shoulder, cold, but not lifeless.
When she turned him over, her breath caught in her throat.
That face…
It wasn't the face of an ordinary man. His skin was pale like porcelain, but not fragile, smooth, unblemished. His high cheekbones framed a face that looked as though it had been sculpted by divine hands. Sharp brows, flawless nose, lips with a strange silvery tint, like metal softened into flesh. His eyes are closed but he looks so peaceful
Athena was mesmerized.
For a moment, she forgot the cold.
Forgot Janet's yelling.
Forgot the smell of flour and butter clinging to her clothes.
Forgot she was just a poor girl, alone in a rented attic, with nothing but old books and a tiny kettle.
She looked around. No one. The street was empty. The world felt paused.
Just her... and him.
Quickly, she shrugged off her white coat and wrapped it around his bare body. The cold bit into her arms instantly, but she didn't care.
"Oh God... If I leave you here," she whispered, her voice catching, "you'll die… or worse."