Celestial Keep

As the last echoes of thunder faded, the lightning that had claimed the Stormbringer shot skyward, vanishing beyond the clouds. The heavens above Tristan churned, swirling with golden light as if the very fabric of the sky had been torn open.

Far above the mortal world, beyond the reach of men, the Stormbringer emerged from the blinding energy and found himself standing in the realm of the heavens—his true home, the celestial keep.

As Stormbringer, the commander of the angels, returned to the Celestial Keep after battling monstrous hordes, he was met at the great golden gates by his best friend and right-hand man, Malachai.

Malachai's silver-and-gold armor gleamed in the eternal light, his long, obsidian-black wings tucked neatly behind him. His golden eyes, sharp and calculating, flickered with something unreadable as he stepped forward. "Commander," he said, his voice smooth, practiced. "The heavens rejoice at your return. Was the battle as terrible as we feared?"

Stormbringer removed his helm, his face weary but resolute. "Worse. The monsters did not fight with blind rage but with purpose. Someone—or something—is guiding them." He glanced toward the vast, luminous halls of the Keep, the celestial glow failing to ease the weight on his shoulders. "We cannot afford to be careless."

Malachai nodded, a carefully measured look of concern on his face. "Of course. The enemy grows stronger, and yet, we hold ourselves back. We bleed, we fight, all to preserve the mortals—creatures who cower beneath us. Tell me, Commander, how long will we continue to defend those who should kneel?"

Stormbringer's eyes snapped to him, sharp as a blade. "We protect, Malachai. That is our duty." His voice was firm, but there was a hint of disappointment—perhaps even suspicion.

Malachai lowered his gaze, schooling his expression into something regretful. "Of course, my lord. Forgive me. It was only a thought."

Stormbringer studied him for a long moment before nodding. "The others awaits my report. Walk with me."

Malachai fell into step beside him, but in his heart, resentment smoldered. Stormbringer's time as commander would end. The heavens deserved a ruler, not a guardian. And soon, Malachai would claim what was rightfully his.

As Stormbringer left the Grand Chamber, the murmurs of the gathered angels still echoed in the vast marble halls. Though many revered him as their greatest warrior, not all held him in such high regard.

Some, like Seraphiel and the Archons, trusted his leadership. But others—especially those who had grown restless under the celestial laws—saw him as a relic of a time long past. A commander bound by duty, too hesitant to take the war to their enemies.

Among them was Malachai, of course, though he kept his true thoughts veiled behind careful words. But there were others—angels who had begun to whisper in the shadows, questioning why they, the divine, should continue to act as mere protectors rather than rulers.

As Stormbringer walked through the great corridor, he heard a hushed voice behind him.

"How much longer must we wait?" one angel murmured. "Stormbringer holds us back. We are not mortals—we should not be bound by their fragility."

Another scoffed. "The Council is blind to it. They still see him as the great champion, but even the mightiest sword dulls with time."

Stormbringer paused but did not turn. He recognized the voices—Uriel and Cassiel, both once loyal warriors. Now, it seemed, they were among those who questioned his rule.

He continued walking, his expression unreadable, but inside, his thoughts were troubled. Doubt was taking root among his own kind. And if he was not careful, it would be a blade at his back before the true enemy even revealed itself.