“Youngs.” A voice like harp strings pulled tight. My mentor, Amriel. She doesn’t have a face, just a shape of mercy and fire. “You’re lingering again.”
I’m Youngs. Only seventy-three celestial cycles old. That makes me a fledgling by Heaven’s standards. The elder seraphim glide past me without a glance, their six wings folded in solemn knots. They carry scrolls of law and light. Me? I carry a single feather that fell from the Archangel Michael’s left wing during the last Reckoning Drill. I keep it tucked under my tunic. It still glows when I’m nervous. heaven pov angel youngs
Heaven isn't what the hymns say. Not exactly. “Youngs
Right now, I’m nervous.