Prologue
Artist: w_u_j_i in Instagram
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In the dawn before time could be measured, before stars held their stations and shadows dared take shape, there was a god, renowned not only for his beauty but for an intelligence so vast, so intricate, that the universe itself became his loom. He wove a tapestry of galaxies, each thread a glistening filament spun from his boundless wisdom, each cosmic breath giving rise to a realm of possibility. His creation was not a solitary one; within his grand design, seven archangels emerged—radiant, fierce, each one a pillar of his divine intention. These seven were more than guardians; they were the hands that sculpted humanity, the watchful, eternal eyes that guided mortal hearts toward the divine.
Among them, none was greater than the St. Archangel Michael, the Leader and Warrior of the Heavenly Hosts. A warrior cloaked in flame and shadow, Michael held the universe in the breadth of his wings and bore a sword forged from the heartbeat of stars. With a single stroke, he could silence the symphony of an entire universe, could fracture the fabric of existence itself, yet he wielded his power with unwavering purpose, serving his Creator with an unmatched loyalty.
But destiny is a thread no angel can escape, and the god who spun the cosmos wove into its fabric a mystery—a singular life whose presence rippled through every creation, every life, every star.
It was the life of a mortal, a human king known as Elliot.
Elliot, whose spirit burned like a comet and whose eyes held the wisdom of countless lives; Elliot, whose destiny was bound in ways no prophecy could foretell. It was he who would one day stand before the mighty Archangel Michael, unafraid, unwavered, and would look upon him not as a warrior, not as a commander of legions, but as something more.
In their meetings, Elliot would gaze upon the archangel, his expression one of profound wonder, of unspeakable longing. The words would come in a murmur, quiet yet weighted with the power of a thousand lifetimes, and they fell like stardust into the silence between them. “Have I ever told you,” Elliot would begin, his voice laced with awe, “how beautiful you look?”
Michael, for all his strength, his centuries of battle and unyielding conviction, could only stand motionless, entrapped in the same binding melody. He had heard these words, this singular utterance, in countless variations, echoing through the timeless corridors of his being. Over and over, through epochs and eras, in voices both young and old, Elliot’s words haunted him, binding him in a relentless cycle.
