A thousand millennia passed, and the silence of Heaven was not as pure as it once had been.
Though golden choirs still sang, though light still flowed like rivers in the sky, an unease had settled behind the halos and hymns. It was soft at first—a whisper in the wings of angels, a question unspoken. But at its center, it pulsed in one being more than any other.
Morning Star.
He was the brightest of them all, the First of the angels—the Seraph crowned in light, the one who sang the First Note. His beauty rivaled the stars themselves. His voice held the breath of creation.
And he knew it.
He was not born of pride. No. He was born of devotion, radiant and obedient, his wings pure and vast. But over time, his gaze began to linger. Not on the creator, but on himself.
In the pool beneath the Throne of Light—where reflection was forbidden—he saw it.
His face.
His wings.
His glow.
He was glorious.
And in that sacred, silent moment, Morning Star I looked at his own image and whispered:
"Why must I bow?"
A tremor ran through the skies.
Heaven did not break. But it noticed.
Whispers turned to murmurs. Murmurs became belief. Not all, but many. A third of Heaven, entranced by the Morning Star's brilliance, began to wonder what the world would be like with him on the throne.
And so it began
The War in Heaven.
It did not start with swords of screams, but with wings unfolding in defiance. With angels stepping away from the chorus. With silence in the presence of God.
Then came the first blow.
Blades of fire were drawn—some forged by the Creator's breath, others twisted from the will of those who longer bowed. The sky cracked with divine fury. Lightning shaped like swords cleaved through citadels of crystal light. Feathers burned mid-flight, falling like meteor showers over the Holy Plains.
The Morning Star, clad in armor made of starlight and arrogance, rose with his loyal host behind him. He did not roar. He declared:
"No throne shall claim me. No crown unearned shall weigh my head."
The archangels, loyal to the throne, descended like divine tempests—Michael, sword aflame, wings unfurled to their fullest. He met Morning Star not with hatred, but sorrow.
"This is not the way, brother."
"Then step aside," Morning Star said, eyes glowing like dying suns. "Or be shattered."
Their battle tore through constellations. Across galaxies unborn. Through temples that never touched the ground. Time itself fractured as angel clashed with angel.
Screams echoed across Heaven.
Some fell. Some vanished. Some changed.
As Morning Star struck down the final guardian of the gates, Heaven's light began to flicker. The throne pulsed once, mournfully.
And then—judgment.
With a voice that shattered every illusion, the Creator spoke:
"You were the Morning Star. Now you are the Fallen."
He raised a single hand.
The gates of Heaven opened—not as welcome, but as exile.
And the traitors were cast down.
They fell—not like stars, but like memories torn from eternity. Through rifts of fire and void. Through screams of time and forgotten light.
Wings once white turned black, scorched by their own choices. Halos cracked. Grace peeled away like flesh in flame. And as they crashed into the burning chasms of the realm below, some screamed. Others wept.
And Morning Star—now fallen, scorched, gasping—looked around him.
Lava surged like rivers of blood. Skies bled shadow. Creatures without names slithered beneath the ground, whispering secrets older than God.
The air itself was despair.
His new kingdom.
His punishment.
His throne.
He staggered to his feet, wings charred, golden armor melted into his skin, and whispered in horror:
"This... this was not made by God."
And somewhere, deep beneath it all, behind a prison of silence and sorrow, the younger twin stirred.
The sin was not rage.
It was not rebellion.
It was Pride.
And thus was committed the Second Sin—when Heaven cracked, and the Morning Star fell.