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like the more of it I breathe, the higher I will fly. I forget what it’s like to be alive like I was in Heaven, to need to breathe instead of pretending to need to breathe.
    The quiet beating of my wings is as rhythmic as a heartbeat, as slow and lazy as someone sleeping. I try to remember what it felt like to feel a heartbeat that belongs to me and not the person I’m killing.
    Without Azael near me, sulking about our demotion or hissing snarky comments in my mind, I find myself alone with my thoughts, which somehow keep returning to Michael.
    If Michael is who he claims to be—the great archangel, Lucifer’s slain brother—we should have killed him, struck him down before he is strong again. Maybe now we’ve lost our chance. We may never see him again.
    Once upon a time, Lucifer was one of the strongest angel in Heaven and, as an archangel, he belonged to the small and exclusive group of God’s most powerful warriors.
    When word was handed down that God would create humans, Lucifer refused to bend a knee before them. He thought they were not worthy of his Father’s love, that they did not deserve paradise.
    Years passed without any answer from God.
    Lucifer raised his voice in protest again, saying that if God truly loved him, the angels would be enough. But again, there was silence. Lucifer’s anger consumed him and he began to believe God was ignoring him, thought that he was abandoned by his own Father.
    As Lucifer’s power grew and the creation of mankind became more and more real, he questioned God’s silence. Was it because He was ignoring Lucifer, or was it because He didn’t exist? After all, no angel had seen His face—not even the archangels—but the angels didn’t need proof. There was faith.
    Faith, however, wasn’t enough for Lucifer. When he challenged the existence of God, was brazen enough to say that he could be God himself, Michael banished him from Heaven and sent him into a realm of eternal torture. Scores of angels had fallen down with him, and war raged.
    Lucifer’s exile twisted the angelic morals that were once burned into his soul into a horrifying, putrid loathing. Over time, his soul died, his heart stopped, and his veins froze in the icy pits of Hell. He vowed revenge on Heaven, declared war, and said he would one day sit on the throne—a throne that has always remained empty for Him—and rule us all.
    The war came to an abrupt halt after the death of Michael, after brother faced brother and Lucifer came out victorious. After Lucifer spilled Michael’s blood—the same blood that once flowed through his own veins—until there was nothing left to spill. The angels returned to Heaven and, centuries later, created man, prompting Lucifer to obsess about unraveling the fabric of humanity by destroying one soul at a time.
    Hell has been growing since then, as more and more humans are corrupted, and Lucifer has been preparing for a second war to finally claim the throne of Heaven. But if Michael is actually back, Lucifer will never have full power. He is not the true heir to rule Heaven.
    If he manages to claim the throne, he will have immense power, but it will not be absolute. Michael will stand in his way.
    Michael . He comes to me in colors—the gold of his hair, his silver wings, the red of his cheeks, the blue of his eyes that are both cool and warm all at once, both peaceful and fierce. His eyes, his eyes—I can’t escape the blue of his eyes that are now ingrained in my mind.
    The angel we met this afternoon wasn’t the formidable Michael I remember. His face was young, not lined from war. His shoulders weren’t weighed down with the weight of the world yet. He had a naïve hope to him that I know will only serve to hurt him later.
    I wonder if he is still as powerful as he once was. The way he gripped his sword, apprehensive and unsure, makes me think that, if we would have put up a fight, he wouldn’t have withdrawn it. I’m not sure if he even knows how to wield