The sky tore open at dawn.
It began as a subtle distortion—like heat waves rising from the horizon—but soon the sun itself flickered, dimmed, then flared as if gasping for air. Across the globe, all clocks stopped ticking. All birds fell silent. The wind itself held its breath.
And then came the sound.
A low, resonant hum, like a cathedral bell tolling underwater, reverberated through the bones of every living creature. Not deafening—no. Far worse. It was felt. In hearts, in teeth, in ancient places of the soul that language had long forgotten.
In Vatican City, high above St. Peter's Basilica, a rift split the air like shattered glass turned sideways. From within it poured golden light, radiant and blinding, forming vast silhouettes with wings that spanned the sky—angels, not as imagined in holy books, but as they truly were. Towering, awe-inspiring, terrible in their perfection. Some had four wings. Some six. Some none at all, wrapped in fire and wheels of eyes.
