After the last lecture of the day, Sloane and Aanya headed toward the mess hall, choosing to cut through one building into the next and cross one of the glass bridges. From up there, they were high enough to see over the rows of identical white structures below. In the distance, taller spires broke up the skyline—what she assumed was air-traffic control—scattered among shorter towers and the hazy blue outline of mountains at the horizon. The air shifted gently as they walked, warm and clean in a way that still felt unnatural. Sloane inhaled deeply, letting the crisp sweetness fill her lungs.

  Their final lecture had dragged on forever. They sat through a painfully dull history lesson about the planet they were on, followed by a parade of speakers praising Omega and all the “benevolent” work done for their people. Then came the building-to-building shuffle—language class, job briefings, training overviews—like they’d been thrown back into school. Only this time the stakes were higher. Much higher.

  Learn the language. Learn the skills. Learn the roles you can “volunteer” for to start earning credits. It all sounded helpful on paper. Necessary, even. But the fine print…the fine print felt like a leash.

  She was walking the fine line between learning and indentured servitude. And if she was thinking it, then everyone else was too. You could practically feel the tension buzzing through the halls. Her arm was constantly prickled with goosebumps. The energy in the air wasn’t just tense—it was electric. Like the air itself was warning them that something here was off.

  They entered the mess hall building and took the stairs down to the main level. The room was enormous, white tiles decorated the floor below, tables spaced perfectly in symmetrical lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the walls, giving a full view of the nearby buildings, the field beyond, and the ocean glinting in the fading light.

  Food didn’t arrive the way humans were used to. Hovering trays glided along magnetic tracks suspended from the ceiling, silently delivering meals with precise, alien timing. Drinks materialized in cups at the push of a panel, steaming or chilled depending on the selection. Robotic arms moved with elegant precision, clearing plates and resetting tables in seconds. It was efficient, almost too perfect—and completely foreign.

  Being the only mess hall in the sector meant everyone typically ate at the same time. Humans, Valkyries, Meriel walking on legs, even Celestials with shimmering skin—everyone crowded in, making it nearly impossible to find an empty table. Sloane wove through the throng, scanning for a place to sit or someone willing to share a table. But the air felt off. Her gut screamed danger.

  “Something’s about to go down. I can feel it,” she murmured.

  Aanya glanced at her, confused, just as the chaos hit. A sharp bang rang out. Chairs and tables tipped over. Plates and trays flew through the air, some even launching towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. Humming from the hovering trays and robotic arms went from gentle background noise to chaotic whines, the systems struggling to keep up with the sudden violence. Sloane grabbed Aanya instinctively, pulling her down as a chair slammed against the floor nearby.

  Great. As if she hadn’t already had a hard day. She and Aanya skidded several feet across the white-tiled floor both of them grunting as their bodies made contact with it.

  They scrambled to their feet, dodging flying debris, and bolted toward the far back of the hall. Screams mixed with shattering glass, and the air was thick with the smell of spilled food and panic. In an instant, one of the floor-to-ceiling windows exploded outward, shards of glass spraying like rain onto the pavement below. A chair—or maybe a table—had to have slammed into it.

  Humans were at the center of it, faces twisted in rage, moving like animals, foaming at the mouth. The anger spread outward, infecting anyone in its path. More began to throw punches not even knowing what they were fighting about. Outside, more screaming echoed, the chaos amplified by the alien architecture that carried every sound. It’s as if this riot spread like a virus around them. This didn’t feel like a localized event, it was everywhere.

  Even the nonhumans hesitated, some stepping back cautiously, their glowing eyes flicking around as though calculating threats. The mess hall’s perfect alien order had shattered in seconds. It wasn’t just a fight—it was an eruption.

  Angels came swooping in through the shattered window, trying to calm the raging crowd. One landed in the mess hall only to get clocked with a left hook from some massive guy who clearly didn’t care about his own life. He was throwing punches at anyone in his way, even humans trying to stop him. Sloane could only watch, wide-eyed, as chaos unfolded. He had to be the one who started all this.

  Her gaze shifted to her left. Humans pressed against the wall, watching with disgust. And then it hit her—the human race splitting right in front of her eyes. Those who wanted to stay human, and those who didn’t. They were seeing themselves as the animals they’d become, bringing that same chaos to a new planet. The entitlement, the loudness, the need to be noticed—it was pathetic. And compared to this population of ancient, impossibly powerful beings, humans were nothing.

  Sloane’s eyes scanned the room. Everyone standing back were observing, just like she was. They all knew the truth. At the end of the day they will need to pick a side.

  She turned to her right and spotted two guys leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. Both tall, but starkly different in style. The one closest to her was put-together, pale, with dark—maybe black, maybe brown—hair and the most striking blue eyes she had ever seen. The other guy was dark-skinned, wavy black hair, jacked, and radiated an almost reckless charm. She silently labeled him Hot Tamale.

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  They didn’t look like they’d be friends under normal circumstances, but here they were. The handsome one glanced at her, locking eyes for a beat. When their gaze met, it felt like two pieces that didn’t belong together finally clicked. It jolted her in place. She tried not to stare and offered a small nod. He mirrored it.

  Mr. Handsome, she decided. That was his name for now. Talking to him? Far down on her list. Still… he stirred something she hadn’t expected—a flutter in her stomach, confusing and unfamiliar. She wasn’t looking for anything—certainly not a connection like this.

  Some people moved on quickly. She stayed where she was, still in mourning, unsure if she ever would fully get past all she’d endured. That feeling he brought up? She noted it, set it aside, and decided she’d deal with it later.

  Then came another thump—so loud it reverberated through the entire building. The floor vibrated under their feet. Sloane jerked backward, clutching Aanya’s arm, and Aanya mirrored her grip.

  “I told you something was about to go down!” Sloane yelled over the chaos.

  “You mean besides this riot? Yeah—remind me to never question you again,” Aanya croaked.

  One of the Angels who had spoken to the humans back on the Exodus slammed into the center of the mess hall. And of course, it had to be the terrifying one.

  His white wings—tipped in blazing gold— unfurled with a sound like thunder tearing through bone. Only when he stood fully revealed did Sloane understand her mistake. He did not have one pair of wings. He had two—layered one above the other, rising and spreading until they blotted out the light, filling the space like a living cathedral.

  They weren’t just wings. They were weapons—appendages designed to unleash devastation and for carrying out commands that left no room for mercy.

  He was more than an Angel. He was something else entirely.

  The sheer force of his wings pushed everything in his path—debris, chairs, even loose trays—tumbling away. He wore a stark white uniform that made his ebony skin look carved from obsidian. His eyes glowed—literally glowed—warm gold, like molten metal and fire. Even from where she stood, Sloane caught the glint of a gold chain at his throat, shaped like a key. His jaw was locked tight, pure rage tightening every line of his face.

  “Oh no… that’s the Archangel Caelum,” Aanya whispered quickly. “We were talking about him with one of the officers on the field a few days ago. Not only is he an Archangel, he’s a Seraphim, A celestial being that’s closest to Omega. Which mean he oversees this entire military base and reports directly to him. And he’s also the ruler and God of his home world, Galilea. It’s a sky world. He’s the Keeper of Time.”

  Sloane blinked. “Perfect. Great. How did we get so lucky? Also—if he decides to blow shit up, where do we run?” Her survival instincts—dormant for a few days—came roaring back to life.

  Aanya scanned the mess hall, her eyes darting from exit to exit.

  “And how the hell does he rule a whole planet and also babysit a military base?” Sloane muttered.

  “Time,” Aanya said. “His power is time. He’s insanely powerful.”

  “So basically… there was no reason for him not to just stop the riot in the first place? He could’ve frozen everyone and avoided all this nonesense.”

  There was no time for Aanya to respond.

  Because Caelum’s voice thundered through the mess hall, slicing through the chaos like a blade. The room fell silent instantly.

  “It takes only one word—one command from me—to have you removed from existence,” he said, his voice deep enough to shake bone. “Do not mistake our kindness for weakness. Omega may wish to protect you as His own, but you are not mine.”

  No one dared to breathe. Sloane’s eyes were wide, her heart racing from the sound of his voice alone. His words pierced straight through her psyche, and she knew—without a doubt—he would be the star of her nightmares.

  “I have seen who and what you were on your home planet,” he continued, eyes blazing. “This behavior will not be tolerated. I will not hesitate to exterminate you. You will not spread your vile ways to our people. We are a world of law and order, and I intend to keep it that way.”

  His gaze swept across the mess hall like a scythe.

  “We have given you tools to succeed. Do not make me regret that. If anyone here has a problem with what I’ve said… speak now.”

  Silence. Terrifying, suffocating silence.

  Fear. Pure fear. They were all being scared into submission. Some already had been—but this was different. This felt more final.

  The room was dead silent—more so than before. Not a breath, not a twitch. A handful of angels swooped in, their wings a stunning spectrum of whites, beiges, greys, and blacks, some even mixing shades together. One figure immediately drew attention—he was the spitting image of Caelum.

  “Alistair Godwyn,” Aanya whispered, practically drooling. “He’s the High Marshal of the Angels and Archangel Caelum’s nephew.” Of course she knew.

  Alistair didn’t bother with a uniform top—he must have come straight from training. His torso was bare, muscular, flawless, every line of muscle clearly defined beneath ebony skin.

  His obsidian-black wings spread wide behind him, casting shadows across the room. They were smooth—almost too smooth—each feather glossy enough that you could practically see your reflection staring back.

  Silver-blue eyes moved over the crowd with a quiet, commanding intensity, and it was immediately clear why he was both feared and respected.

  Even though he was closely related to Archangel Cealum, his wings weren’t like his. No layers. No excess. Just one pair, sleek and deliberate, feathers lying perfectly down either side.

  A few medics filed in next, accompanied by a group of females Sloane assumed were the Valkyrie. One female stood out as the leader—stunning, per usual. Soft angelic skin, long white hair with thick braids intertwined through silky soft strands, piercing silver eyes, and tall enough to rival Sloane’s height. She exuded lethal energy. They all wore black fighting leathers, though the leader added silver armor accents that made her look unstoppable.

  Caelum cleared his throat, planting himself firmly. “Good. I have noted who caused today’s disturbances, and your punishments will be administered. I hope you do not make the same mistake twice. For now, you will all clean this mess—whether you participated or not. Keep each other in line. Next time, the consequences will not be so kind.” With that, he took off into the sky, wings catching the fading light.

  Caelum had a lot of messes to clean up, the outside still echoed with more human chaos. And it didn’t look like Aanya nor Sloane would be eating dinner tonight. Sloane glanced back at the guys—Mr. Handsome caught her eye, and she could almost read his expression: Well… this fucking blows. She couldn’t have agreed more.

  Medics began rounding up the injured while Angels and Valkyrie handed out cleaning tools, watching everyone closely to prevent more chaos. And so, the humans cleaned. It was like Catholic school all over again—except now Sloane was a 29-year-old grown woman. She couldn’t think of a better way to end the night.