Book 1

Of humankind’s first mistake, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree - a taste that brought Death to the world, and all our sadness, The loss of Eden, until one greater Man Restores us and reclaims that blissful place - Sing, Heavenly Muse, who on the highest peak Of Oreb or of Sinai, inspired That shepherd who first taught the chosen people In the beginning how the heavens and earth Rose from Chaos.

Or, if Zion hill Pleases you more, and Siloa’s brook that flowed Fast by the oracle of God, I call on you To help me with my ambitious song - A song that aims to soar higher than anything Written before, in prose or poetry.

And especially, you, Spirit, who loves The sincere heart and purity above All temples - teach me, for you know; you were There from the start. With mighty wings, you Sat like a dove, brooding over the vast Abyss, And brought it to life.

Illuminate what’s dark In me, lift up what’s low, and support it - So I can reach the heights of this great story, And show how God’s ways are just for people.

Tell me first - for Heaven hides nothing from your sight, Nor the deep darkness of Hell - tell me, what caused Our grandparents, in that happy place, Favored by Heaven so greatly, to fall Away from their Creator and break his rule Because of just one restriction, while being Lords of the world?

Who first seduced them to that awful betrayal?

It was the infernal Serpent; his deceit, Stirred up by envy and revenge, tricked The mother of humankind, when his pride Had cast him out from Heaven, with all his army Of rebel Angels - by whose help, aspiring To place himself in glory above his equals, He thought he could equal the Most High, If he resisted and, with an ambitious goal Against God’s throne and kingdom, He started a proud war in Heaven and a fierce battle - A battle he lost.

The Almighty Power Threw him headlong, flaming from the sky, With terrible destruction and burning, down To endless ruin, there to live In chains of diamond and punishing fire, Who dared defy the All-Powerful to fight.

Nine times the length of a day and night For mortal humans, he and his horrible crew Lay defeated, rolling in the fiery gulf, Confused, though immortal. But his doom Reserved him for even more anger; now The thought of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him.

He throws his hateful eyes Around, eyes that saw huge suffering and shock, Mixed with stubborn pride and steadfast hate.

At once, as far as angels can see, He surveys the dismal, wasted land - A horrible dungeon, on every side, Like one huge furnace, blazing; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible, Serving only to reveal sights of misery, Regions of sorrow, gloomy shadows, where peace And rest can never live, hope never comes That comes to everyone but torture without end Still pushes, and a fiery flood, fed With ever-burning sulfur that never dies.

Such a place Eternal Justice has prepared For those who rebel; here their prison is set In complete darkness, and their portion is fixed As far away from God and light of Heaven As from the center thrice to the farthest pole. Oh, how unlike the place from which they fell!

There, his fallen comrades, overwhelmed by a storm of fire, he saw. Next to him, in power and in crime, was one long known in Palestine, now called Beelzebub. To him, the Arch-Enemy - Satan, as he was known in Heaven - spoke, breaking the awful silence.

"If that’s you - but wow, look at you, fallen, changed! Not like the one who, in the bright realms of light, outshone countless others! If the one I once fought alongside, sharing hopes and dangers in our grand plan, is now suffering equal ruin... look how far you're fallen."

He proved so much stronger with his thunder. Who knew he had that kind of power? But I donn't regret it, or change my mind, even though my appearance has changed. My pride, my refusal to accept injustice, raised me to challenge him.

And I brought countless spirits with me - those who dared to dislike his reign and preferred me. Together, we defied his power in a fierce battle on the plains of Heaven, shaking his throne. So what if we lost the field? It’s not over.

We still have our unbreakable will, our eternal hate, and our courage to never submit. What else can’t we overcome? He’s not going to force glory out of me. To bow and beg for forgiveness, to deify his power - the one who doubted his own empire because of my strength - that’s beneath this downfall.

"Fate gave us the strength of Gods, this heavenly substance, and it won’t fail. Through this experience, we’re stronger, wiser. We can plan a war, using force or cunning, against our grand foe, who now celebrates his victory and reigns over Heaven. Seriously."

The fallen angel spoke, though in pain, boasting loudly but racked with deep despair. His bold companion answered quickly:

"Prince, leader of the many powerful beings who led the angelic armies to war under your command, fearless in our deeds, endangering Heaven’s eternal king and testing his power - whether held by strength, chance, or fate - I see and regret the disastrous event."

It lost us Heaven and destroyed this mighty host. They’d been laid low, as much as Gods and heavenly beings can perish. But our minds and spirits remain invincible, and strength will return, even though our glory and happiness are gone, swallowed up in endless misery.

"But what if our conqueror - the one I now believe to be all-powerful - has left us our spirits and strength, so we can endure our pain and serve his vengeful anger? Or, as his thralls, bound by war, we can work in the heart of Hell, or run errands in the gloomy depths?"

"So, what's the point of feeling strong, even forever, if we’re just gonna face eternal punishment?" Adam asked, his voice low.

"Being weak sucks, no cap," Satan retorted, snapping back.

"But listen, we’re never gonna do anything good. Our whole vibe is to be the opposite of what He wants. If He thinks He can somehow twist our bad stuff into something good, then our job is to mess that up - to find a way to turn good into evil. It might even annoy Him, and mess with His plans."

But check it - the Victor’s called back His revenge crew. The fiery storm’s blown over, and even the thunder’s quieted down after unleashing all that rage. Let's not miss this opportunity, whether it's out of spite or just pure fury.

"Do you see that bleak, desolate plain over there, totally void of light, except for the eerie glow of these flames? Let’s head there - get off these burning waves. Let's rest, if there’s even a chance of that."

"And then, let's regroup and figure out how to keep messing with Him, how to fix our own mess, and how to bounce back from this disaster. What reinforcements can we find? If not, what's our next move?"

Satan, talking to his closest friend, lifted his head above the waves, his eyes blazing. His massive body stretched out across the lake, a truly monstrous sight - like the Titans or Typhon from ancient tales, or even Leviathan, the biggest sea creature God ever made.

"He's probably napping on the Norway foam," Satan continued, "like some sailor might mistake him for an island and moor his tiny boat to his scaly skin, while night covers the sea and everyone wishes for morning."

Satan lay chained on the burning lake, never having risen or stirred, except because of Heaven’s permission.

He was left to his own dark designs, piling up damnation on himself as he tried to spread evil and make Him see how all his malice only brought forth infinite goodness, grace, and mercy - shown on Man, but poured down on himself in triple confusion, wrath, and vengeance.

Suddenly, he shot upright from the lake. The flames recoiled, rolling back in waves, leaving a horrifying valley in the center. Then, with his wings spread, he launched himself into the dusky air, the weight of him feeling strange.

He landed on what seemed like solid ground - though it burned with the same intensity as the lake. It looked like a chunk of Pelorus or Etna, ripped away and fueled by volcanic fury, sublimed with mineral rage. The ground left behind smelled of smoke and stench.

That’s where the tired feet of the unlucky ones rested. Next, his second-in-command followed, totally psyched they’s escaped the Styx River. Like, they thought they did it on their own, no divine help needed.

"Is this the place?" the lost Archangel asked, sounding low-key unimpressed. " This gloomy, depressing soil? Is this what we’re trading Heaven for? This endless gloom instead of celestial light? Fine, whatever. Since he’s the boss now, he can decide what’s right."

It’s best to be as far away from him as possible - the one reason has made him equal to us, force has made him supreme over everyone else. Later, happy fields! Hello, horrors! Hail, Hell! And you, deepest Hell, welcome your new owner - a mind that can’t be changed by location or time.

The mind is its own place, and it can create Heaven in Hell, or Hell in Heaven. Does it even matter where I am, as long as I’m still me? And what would I even be, besides less than him - the one thunder made bigger? At least here we’ll be free.

"The Almighty didn't build this place out of jealousy, and won’t kick us out. We can reign here, secure. And honestly, reigning in Hell is better than serving in Heaven."

But why leave our loyal friends, our partners in loss, just lying there, stunned on the forgetfulness pool?

"Wake up, people!" Satan yelled.

Then Beelzebub answered, "Leader of those awesome armies that no one could defeat - except the Almighty!"

If they hear your voice, their last shred of hope - heard so often in the worst moments, right on the edge of battle when everything's raging, it’s our signal - they’re gonna find new courage, even though they’re groveling and face down on that lake of fire, like we were, shocked and amazed.

"It's not surprising, falling from such a crazy height!"

He barely finished when the top Fiend started moving toward the shore. His giant shield, made of some unreal material, was huge and round, and hung behind him.

It looked like the moon, which a Tuscan artist might see through a telescope from Fesole, or Valdarno, looking for new lands, rivers, or mountains on its spotted surface.

His spear - so huge, a pine tree from Norwegian hills, cut down to be the mast of a massive admiral’s ship, would just be a stick - he carried it to steady his steps across the burning ground, nothing like the steps you’d take on Heaven’s blue sky. The heat was intense, filled with fire.

Still, he pushed through it, until he stood on the beach of that fiery sea and called out to his legions - Angel Forms, scattered like fallen leaves in Vallombrosa, or like reeds floating on the Red Sea when Orion's fierce winds blew, scattering Busiris and his Egyptian knights, who were chasing the people of Goshen.

They watched from the safe shore as their bodies and broken chariots floated by.

"So many were scattered, lost, and broken, covering the flood, stunned by their awful change. He yelled so loud that the whole deep of Hell echoed: "Princes, rulers, warriors - once the best of Heaven, now lost! Can this shock even shake eternal spirits?

Or did you choose this place, after fighting, to rest your weary souls? Is this posture a vow to worship the Conqueror, who now sees angels and seraphim rolling in the flood, with their weapons and banners thrown aside? Will his swift followers from the gates of Heaven see us like this and crush us?

"Or transfix us with thunderbolts to the bottom of this gulf? Wake up! Rise! Or fall forever!"

They heard, and were frozen, then they leaped up like soldiers startled awake on guard duty. They realized how bad things were, but they instantly obeyed their leader’s voice - a massive wave of them.

It was like when Amram’s son, in Egypt’s worst days, waved his staff, summoning a dark cloud of locusts on the east wind. They blanketed the land of Pharaoh like night.

So many fallen angels hovered under the fiery roof of Hell, between the upper, lower, and surrounding flames. Then, like a signal, their great leader raised his spear, directing their course, and they descended in perfect formation, landing on the solid brimstone, filling the entire plain.

It was a crowd unlike any the North ever poured out from her frozen lands to pass Rhene or the Danaw - when her barbaric sons flooded the South, spreading beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands.

Immediately, every squad and every group rushed toward their leader - godlike shapes, forms beyond human, princely titles, and powers that once sat on thrones in Heaven. Though their names are gone from Heavenly records, erased from the Books of Life by their rebellion.

They hadn’t yet received new names among the sons of Eve, wandering the earth by God’s allowance, to test humanity. Through lies and deception, they corrupted most of mankind, leading them to abandon God, their Creator, and the invisible glory that made them.

They transformed into beasts, adorning themselves with fancy religions full of pomp and gold, and worshipping devils as gods.

Then, they became known to people by various names, and various idols were worshipped throughout the heathen world.

Tell me, Muse, who were the first and last to awaken from their fiery slumber, answering their great Emperor’s call? Next in worth, they came singly to where he stood on the bare strand, while the masses remained aloof.

The most important were those who, from the pit of Hell, dared to fix their seats, roaming Earth to hunt their prey - long after settling near God’s seat.

They built their altars beside his, gods worshipped among the nations, daring to hear Jehovah thundering out of Zion, throned between the Cherubim.

They even placed their shrines within his sanctuary, abominations profaning his holy rites and solemn feasts, daring to confront his light with their darkness.

Moloch, a seriously messed-up king, dripping with blood - human sacrifice and parents’ tears - ruled supreme. But the noise of drums and cymbals was so loud, their kids’ screams as they were tossed into the fire went unheard. That’s how it was for his creepy idol.

The Ammonites worshipped him in Rabba, across the watery plain, in Argob and Basan, all the way to the Arnon River.

Still, it wasn’t enough. He tricked Solomon, the smartest dude around, into building his temple right next to God’s temple, on that shady hill. He turned the pleasant Valley of Hinnom into Tophet, then called it Gehenna - basically, the ultimate symbol of Hell.

Then came Chemos, the gross-out god of Moab, from Aroar to Nebo and the wildlands of southern Abarim. He was worshipped in Hesebon and Horonaim, beyond the flowery valley of Sibma, covered in vines, and all the way to the Asphaltic Pool.

They called him Peor, too, when he tempted Israel in Sittim, during their march from Egypt, to perform some seriously wild rituals that cost them big time.

But he didn't stop there; he spread his chaos to that hill of scandal, right next to Moloch’s place - hate mixed with lust. Thankfully, good King Josiah kicked them all out to Hell.

Along with them came those from the Euphrates River to the stream separating Egypt from Syria - Baalim and Ashtaroth. Baalim were the male gods, Ashtaroth, the female. Spirits can be anything they want, any gender or both. Their essence is pure, not limited by bodies or bones.

They can change shape, become bright or dark, and get things done, whether it's love or hate.

Israel often abandoned their true source of strength and left God's altar, bowing down to these animalistic gods. As a result, their heads bowed low in battle, falling before their enemies.

Next came Astoreth, the Phoenicians called her Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns. Sidonian virgins paid their vows and sang songs to her bright image every night under the moon.

She wasn’t unheard of in Zion either, where her temple stood on that offensive mountain, built by a king whose heart, though big, fell for these seductive idols.

Then there was Thammuz, whose annual "wound" in Lebanon made Syrian girls cry and lament his fate with love songs all summer long. Smooth Adonis ran purple to the sea, supposedly with the blood of Thammuz, wounded every year.

Zion’s daughters got caught up in the love story, their passions burning in the sacred porch. Ezekiel saw it all, led by his vision, surveying the dark idolatries of a lost Judah.

Then came someone who mourned when the captured Ark crippled his brute image, lopping off his head and hands in his own temple.

Dagon, a sea monster with a human head and a fish tail, had a temple high in Azotus, feared along the coast of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon, Accaron, and Gaza’s borderlands.

Following him was Rimmon, whose awesome seat was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks of Abbana and Pharphar, clear streams.

He was bold against God's house too. Once a leper, then a king - Ahaz, his total loser of a conqueror, whom he tricked into disrespecting and moving God’s altar. It was for a Syrian altar, you know, to burn his nasty offerings and worship the gods he’d crushed.

Then came a crew, calling themselves Osiris, Isis, Orus, and their whole squad. They had monstrous forms and messed with magic, brainwashing fanatic Egypt and her priests. They were looking for their wandering gods, disguised as these weird, brutish things, not even human.

Israel wasn’t immune either. Their borrowed gold made a calf in Oreb. The rebel king doubled down on that sin in Bethel and Dan, basically comparing God - Jehovah, who in one night, escaping Egypt, wiped out their firstborn and their idols - to a grazing ox. Seriously.

Belial showed up last. No spirit was more depraved, or more obsessed with vice. No temple, no altar for him. But who was more common in temples and at altars, when the priest goes atheist, like Eli’s sons did, turning God’s house into a den of lust and violence?

He rules in courts and palaces, in cities overflowing with noise - riot booming above the highest towers, packed with injury and outrage. When night falls and darkens the streets, Belial’s crew flies out, fueled by arrogance and wine. Remember Sodom?

Or that night in Gibeah, when a welcoming door exposed a matron to a worse kind of violation?

These were the big hitters, the main event. The rest? Too many to count. Even the Ionian gods - descendants of Javan - claimed to be gods, but they were acknowledged later than Heaven and Earth.

They bragged about Titan, Heaven’s firstborn, and his huge family, who lost his birthright to younger Saturn. Saturn, in turn, got taken down by his own son, Jove, a match for his power.

These gods first gained fame in Crete and on Mount Ida, then ruled the middle air from the snowy top of Olympus. Or on the Delphian cliff, in Dodona, or throughout Doric lands. Or who fled over Adria to the Hesperian fields, roaming the farthest Celtic Isles.

They all flocked there, heads down, looking kinda bummed. But you could see a flicker of hope in their eyes - to find their leader not in despair, to realize they weren’t completely lost. It showed on his face.

But he quickly remembered his usual swagger, using impressive words that lacked any real meaning, gently boosting their fading courage and chasing away their fears.

Then, he gave orders that, with the blast of trumpets and clarions, his mighty standard should be raised. He claimed Azazel, a tall Cherub, for this honor.

Azazel immediately unfurled the imperial ensign from the glittering staff. It shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, rich with gems and golden luster - Seraphic arms and trophies. All the while, the metal blared martial sounds.

At that sound, the entire host unleashed a shout that ripped through Hell’s dome and terrified the reign of Chaos and old Night.

All at once, out of the gloom, ten thousand banners burst into the air. They rippled with vibrant colors - like a seriously aesthetic vibe. Then, a massive wall of spears rose up, followed by a sea of helmets and shields, stretching on forever.

They moved in perfect sync to the sound of flutes and soft recorders - music that used to inspire legendary heroes to gear up for battle. But instead of rage, a calm, unshakeable courage filled them. No one thought about running or giving up. The music eased their worries and banished fear and pain.

Moving together, their strength united, they marched in silence to the enchanting pipes across the scorched earth.

Now they stood in view - a terrifying sight, long and dazzling, like ancient warriors armed and ready. They waited for their leader’s command.

His experienced eyes scanned the ranks. He quickly surveyed the entire battalion - their order impeccable, their faces and bodies like those of gods. Finally, he counted them.

His heart swelled with pride, his strength hardening. He gloried in their might. Never before had humankind seen such a powerful force.

Even if all the giants of Phlegra joined forces with the heroes of Thebes and Ilium - mixed with gods on both sides - and even if it rivaled the tales of Uther’s son, surrounded by British and Armoric knights - and all those who jousted in Aspramont, Montalban, Damascus, Marocco, or Trebisond - or those sent from the African shore when Charlemagne and his entire court fell at Fontarabbia - none could compare.

Yet, they watched their leader. He towered above them all, a majestic figure. Though time had dimmed his original glory, he still resembled a fallen archangel. He was like the sun rising through misty air, its light weakened, or a disastrous twilight cast by the moon.

Darkened as he was, he shone brighter than all. Deep scars marked his face, remnants of thunder and years of worry. But beneath his fearless brows, pride and determination burned.

His eyes were cruel, but also showed signs of regret and raw emotion, as he looked at the countless spirits - once blessed - now condemned to eternal pain because of his fault.

Millions of spirits had been banished from Heaven, stripped of their eternal splendor. Yet, they stood faithful, their glory withered - like trees scorched by heavenly fire, standing bare on a blasted heath.

He was ready to speak. At his signal, the ranks bowed, folding in on themselves, almost encircling him and his peers. A hush fell over them, complete and absolute.

"He tried, and tried again, but each time, even with the insults stinging, tears like an angel’s welled up. Finally, words tangled with sighs, finding their way out: "Oh, countless immortal Spirits! O Powers, unmatched except by the Almighty! -

and that battle, though devastating, wasn't a total loss. This place proves it, this awful change. It’s beyond words how much I hate it. But what mind, foreseeing or predicting, could have feared that such a united force of gods, like these, could ever be turned back?

Who can believe, even after this defeat, that all these mighty legions, whose exile emptied Heaven, will fail to reclaim their home?

I swear to all the host of Heaven, if my doubts or my avoidance of danger lost our hopes... But he who reigns in Heaven, secure on his throne, upheld by reputation and tradition, displaying his regal power, but still concealing his strength - that strength tempted our attempt, and caused our fall.

Now we know his might, and we know our own. We won’t provoke, or fear, new war. Our best option is to work in secret, using trickery and deception - what force couldn’t achieve. He’s not truly defeated until he overcomes us.

Space may create new worlds; a rumor spread through Heaven that he plans to create one soon, and plant a generation favored equal to the Sons of Heaven. We’ll pry our way there, or somewhere else. This infernal pit will never hold Celestial Spirits in bondage, nor will the Abyss forever hide us.

"But these thoughts need full consideration. Peace is impossible; who can think of surrender? Then war - open or understood - must be decided."

He spoke, and to reinforce his words, millions of flaming swords flew out from the thighs of mighty Cherubim. The sudden blaze illuminated Hell far and wide.

They raged against the Highest, fierce with grasped arms, clashing on their shields - a deafening din of war, hurling defiance toward the vault of Heaven.

Not far away stood a hill, its grisly top belching fire and rolling smoke. The rest of it shone with a glossy coating - a clear sign that metallic ore was hidden within, the work of sulfur.

A large group hurried there, wings beating with speed - like bands of pioneers, armed with spades and pickaxes, clearing a field or building a rampart.

Mammon led them on - Mammon, the least impressive Spirit who fell from Heaven. Even in Heaven, his gaze and thoughts were always downward, admiring the riches of Heaven’s pavement, trodden gold, more than anything divine or holy enjoyed in blissful vision.

He was the first to teach humans to ransack the center and with impious hands, to rifle the bowels of their mother Earth for treasures.

Soon, his crew opened a spacious wound in the hill and dug out ribs of gold. Don’t be surprised that riches grow in Hell; that soil deserves the precious bane.

Let those who flex about their achievements, and who are obsessed with places like Babel and the old kingdoms of Memphian kings, check this out. Their most impressive monuments - their fame, their strength, their art - are totally eclipsed.

Spirits, banished from grace, can accomplish in an hour what they, with endless work and countless hands, barely manage over a lifetime.

Nearby, on the plain, in a bunch of prepared cells, ran veins of molten fire tapped from the lake. A second crowd, working with incredible skill, began to build the solid ore, separating everything and skimming off the impurities.

A third group quickly formed a mold within the ground, and from the boiling cells, using bizarre methods, filled every nook and cranny. It was like an organ - one blast of air filling rows and rows of pipes.

Then, suddenly, a gigantic structure rose from the earth, like a puff of smoke, with the sound of beautiful music and sweet voices. It was built like a temple, with columns all around, and Doric pillars covered in golden carvings.

There was a cornice and a frieze, decorated with detailed sculptures, and the roof was all fretted gold.

Not even Babylon or the amazing city of Alcairo - with all their glory - could match it, not for housing their gods, Belus or Serapis, or for seating their kings when Egypt and Assyria battled for dominance in wealth and luxury.

The towering structure stood tall and straight. Then, the massive doors, made of bronze, swung open, revealing the vast space within, over the smooth, level floor.

From the arched roof hung countless rows of starry lamps and blazing torches, fueled by naptha and asphalt, yielding light as if from the sky itself.

The eager crowd rushed in, admiring the work and praising the architect. His hand was known in Heaven, having built countless towers where winged Angels ruled like princes, chosen and elevated by the supreme King, each holding power and authority in their bright hierarchy.

His name wasn’t unheard or unrespected in ancient Greece. And in the lands of Italy, they called him Mulciber. They told stories of how he fell from Heaven, thrown by angry Jove over the crystal battlements.

From morning to noon, from noon to evening - a whole summer’s day - he fell, dropping from the sky at sunset like a shooting star onto the island of Lemnos in the Aegean Sea.

That’s what they say, but it’s wrong. He fell long before that, along with this rebellious group. It didn't matter how high he built in Heaven; his inventions couldn't save him. He was cast headlong into Hell, along with his hardworking crew.

Meanwhile, the winged Heralds, by order of the highest power, with a formal ceremony and the sound of trumpets, announced a solemn council to be held immediately at Pandemonium, the magnificent capital of Satan and his peers.

Their summons called from every division and regiment - the most worthy chosen by rank or merit. They arrived quickly, in hundreds and thousands, accompanied by crowds.

The gates and wide entrances were overflowing. The spacious hall - like a covered field where brave champions rode in armor and challenged the best of the Paynim knights before the Sultan’s chair - brimmed with activity, both on the ground and in the air, buzzing with the rustling of wings.

As bees in springtime, when the sun vibes with Taurus... they just flood out of the hive. A massive swarm. They’re buzzing around, hitting fresh dew and flowers. Zipping back and forth, or chillin’ on the smooth planks - basically, the edge of their straw-built fortress, freshly coated in balm.

They'd be gossiping and planning, all about their business. The crowd was insane - totally packed.

Then, a signal! And whoa. A serious visual. Just a second ago, they looked bigger than any giant. Now? Tiny. Like, smaller than dwarves. Crammed together in a super-small space. Like that tiny tribe way up in the Indian mountains. Or faeries, you know?

Those mythical creatures whose wild parties some late-night farmer might see - or just dream he sees - next to a forest or fountain. The moon’s watching over everything, like the ultimate judge, spinning closer to Earth. They’re lost in their music and dancing; their joyful sounds fill the air.

The farmer’s heart leaps - a mix of joy and serious fear.

It's like that: incorporeal spirits shrinking themselves down to the smallest forms, even though there are still countless of them. They’re loose in the hall of that creepy, infernal court.

But deeper inside, in their own size, the Seraphic Lords and Cherubim - the highest-ranking angels - were meeting in a secret session. A thousand demi-gods sat on golden thrones, the place totally packed.

After a beat of silence, then the summons was read. The big meeting started.