In the beginning there was silence, when neither time nor space held form, there was only the Word—a voice that sang without sound, and from it, Light emerged. Not the flicker of flame or the burning of stars, but the Primal Light—pure, unbound, and eternal. It was the essence of the Creator, the origin of all things seen and unseen.
From that Light, the Seven Cardinals were formed, later known among mortals as the Archangels. These beings were not meant to rule—they were not monarchs, tyrants, or deities unto themselves. They were balance-bearers, facets of the Creator's infinite design. Each carried a divine principle in its truest, most radiant form—light made manifest as function, order, and meaning.
Michael, the Sword of Light.
Michael was the first to awaken within the Light, and from the moment his form coalesced, he became its blade and barrier. Radiant, imposing, and eternal, Michael is the enforcer of divine will, standing sentinel against corruption and collapse. His sword does not obey physics or cause, it obeys only righteousness—striking with the full gravity of cosmic justice. He stands not to conquer, but to correct. It is said that when Michael draws his blade, even the concept of sin recoils. Though his visage is terrifying, his purpose is mercy—strict, firm, and luminous.
Raphael, the Healer of Realms.
Born from the breath of the Creator's compassion, Raphael's domain is that which is wounded yet refuses to perish. He walks between broken worlds and dying stars, hands ever glowing with the emerald flame of life renewed. He speaks little, but his presence brings serenity, a stillness that runs deeper than thought. Though lesser beings often see him as a gentle figure, Raphael's strength is unmatched when healing is impossible—he can end suffering with a touch as easily as he can preserve life. In him lies the will to restore what others would discard. His power does not rewrite fate, it reweaves it.
Gabriel, the Voice That Echoes Forever.
Where there is a whisper in the darkness, a prophecy on a dying breath, or a song sung by one who believes they are alone—Gabriel is present. Neither bound to gender nor form, Gabriel is the resonance of truth. Their voice built the scaffolding of time, shaped language, and crafted the hymns that all spirits know in their bones. They are the Divine Herald, whose every word carries the weight of destiny, and whose silence is more profound than thunder. Gabriel does not offer answers. They offer awakening. And for those who are not ready to hear, even a single syllable from their lips can shatter the soul.
Uriel, the Flame of Knowledge.
Uriel is the light that burns in the minds of the curious, the keeper of truths too dangerous for even the divine to fully wield. He walks among records that have no author, tending to libraries that exist outside of reality. His lantern burns with revelation, and those who see it are forever changed—whether blessed or cursed. Uriel is both terrifying and beautiful, a force of insight that makes ignorance an act of protection. He alone understands every possibility the Creator foresaw—and the consequences of revealing them. If you find Uriel, beware: he offers no comfort. Only understanding. And understanding is the sharpest blade of all.
Raguel, the Arbiter Between Stars.
Raguel is justice not as humans define it, but as the cosmos requires it. He does not judge to punish, he judges to preserve harmony. His eyes are stars that record everything they witness. His gavel—called Verdict—rings through galaxies. He weighs guilt against potential, not in scales of law but in balances of consequence. Raguel is rarely seen, but always felt in moments of equilibrium. The guilty fear him. The innocent respect him. And the uncertain pray never to know his gaze. He stands in the void between light and shadow and declares: "Let there be balance."
Remiel, the Shepherd of Departing Souls.
There is no death where Remiel walks—only return. He is the gentle guide at the edge of every life, the unseen hand that catches falling souls before they disappear into the void. His presence feels like memory and yearning, like a song remembered from childhood. He carries the Lantern of Endings, within which flicker the lights of every soul waiting to return to the Source. Remiel mourns for none, but he honors all. Even the darkest soul finds peace in his arms, not because it is forgiven, but because it is understood. In him is the sacred art of release.
Azazel, the Cardinal of Death
Azazel was not cast down—he chose to descend. Formed last among the Seven, he walks the twilight between life and afterlife, not as a judge, but a guide. Clad in ashen armor with wings bound in remembrance, Azazel bears the sorrow of others, his silence a testament to sacrifice. He forged the Scythe of Passage, a relic destined for the final Bearer. In suffering, he found purpose. In death, love. Among the divine, he is the closest to compassion—enduring pain not for glory, but so that others might live without it. He is death's mercy.
Together, the Seven Cardinals form the architecture of all creation. They did not build the world, but they preserved it when it cracked. And when the Creator fell silent—retreating from the world without a word—they remained. Not to lead. Not to replace.
But to wait.
For one day, the Light would flicker again—not in the heavens, but in the hands of a mortal.