The Celestial Heavens

CONTENTS

CELESTIAL REALM

One cannot speak of the Heavens without also invoking the Hells, for the two remain bound by the same wound. The Celestial and Infernal realms are entangled—disharmoniously, inescapably, and, it seems, eternally. They are segregated not by origin, but in interpretation: each claims heritage of Arallu, yet one keeps faith while the other corrupts it.

Both are newcomers to Alékia, first recorded only three millennia past, though their roots reach deeper than this realm can measure. Whether the Heavens are older, younger, or equal in age to Alékia itself remains unknown. What is certain is that both realms are ancient, born of a forgotten unity, when what is now divided as Heaven and Hell was one.

Thus is the account kept by the faithful:

In the beginning, there was Arallu, entire and unbroken. There, mortals were judged with fairness, measured not by whim but by law eternal, the covenant of their God the King. The angels served this law with vigilance and devotion, upholding the balance entrusted to them..

But disquiet stirred among the host. Samael, once radiant, grew restless, whispering of freedoms that scorned order. His eyes fell upon Lilith, a mortal rightly condemned by the Words of the King. Michael, eldest of the host, weighed her and found her wanting. Yet his brother, Samael, defied the judgment, twisting her arrogance into virtue.

Thus came the fracture. Samael broke faith with the Light of God. He coerced others to treachery, and Arallu shuddered beneath their betrayal. The realm was rent in two, split asunder by their rebellion.

Those who blasphemed their covenant were cast downward, and there Samael took the name Lucifer, claiming himself the heretic king. Those who remained faithful were lifted upward, sanctified as the Heavens.

We are the true children of Arallu. We are keepers of His light, His covenant. We are the defenders of the Word of God.

So the Celestials and Infernals exist in opposition: planes once unified, now devout nemesis. Each claims justice, each brands the other false, and the wound of Arallu’s sundering has bled through every age since the Fall.

FAITH

The faith of Heaven is devotion to the absent King. Though God has not walked among the host for ages before the Fall of Arallu, His will endures in the Covenant: the sacred Words that define the virtues by which all creation is to be perfected. To keep the Covenant is to live in harmony with Heaven, and to draw nearer to the light of divinity.

God: The King

God is spoken of in Heaven not by likeness, but by title and symbol: the Most High, the Absent King, the One Above All. No image of Him remains from Arallu—no face, no form—only echoes. In hymns, He is the radiant hand, the crown of fire, the voice that rolled like thunder over the waters. Some whisper that the Powers themselves are extensions of His presence: living aspects of the King set loose to guard His faithful until He returns. His Throne still waits in the Citadel of Salvation, empty but inviolate, the center of faith and the wound of its absence. For the Celestial host, His return is the hope by which all labor is sanctified. Until then, the Covenant is His legacy, the binding law of light.

The Acting Principals

The Archangels are honored as the living stewards of the King and His Words. Each embodies a virtue of the Covenant, guarding it through word, deed, and example. In them, the faithful glimpse the pattern of holiness made manifest, and through them the Will of God is preserved. They do not claim His place, but they bear His absence as both burden and charge.

Authority within Heaven follows the circles. The Blessed and the Heavensewn of the outer rings live under the guidance of the Seraphic Orders, whose ranks preserve, teach, and guard the faith. Above them stand the Archangels, the Council of the Divine, and Iustiren, the highest judge of Heaven. Yet even in this hierarchy, the Covenant is clear: greatness is measured not in station but in virtue, and all souls—low or high—are destined to be weighed by the same Words.

To the faithful, Heaven’s creed is radiant hope: that every soul, by patience and devotion, may one day ascend into perfect light. Yet woven into every hymn is a quieter note of longing—for the return of the King, for the voice that once spoke the Covenant in its first form. Until that day, the host believes, to keep the Words is to keep Him near.

Steps of Ascention

There are twelve Words of God, the covenant by which Heaven endures. They were first spoken in Arallu, enacted by the King when His voice grew silent, and carried as law until the world was broken. In the Sundering, the stones upon which they were carved were lost, shattered with the fall of Arallu. Yet by vision and by fire they were restored: Kolid the Scribe received them anew and set them to parchment, that the host might not forget. Today, their likeness is graven once more upon alabaster tablets within the Citadel of Salvation, guarded beside the Empty Throne.

Below are the Words as they are now written, upheld in every circle of the Celestial Realm.

Hold the King before all things. His throne is the ultimate, His light endureth, and His Name shall not be profaned.

Keep the Word as it is written. Alter not the covenant, neither add nor diminish, lest virtue be twisted unto sin.

Offer thyself in sacrifice. Stand steadfast in trial, and if blood must be shed, let it be thine before thy neighbor’s.

Let mercy be thy strength. Heal what is broken, give balm to the grieving, and turn not thy hand unto cruelty.

Bind thyself in love. Join neighbor to neighbor, oath to oath, so that no thread be false nor true thread be cleaved.

Walk in harmony. Tune thy voice to concord, and let every labor be an offering of art unto the light.

Speak only truth. Keep record without blemish, and let no heresy undo what memory knows.

Labor in diligence. Be neither slothful in craft nor faint in toil, for all things rise stone by stone.

Be generous in thy portion. Hold no coin too dear to share, and count no gift too small to bless.

Keep beauty in humility. Honor the harvest, tend the hearth, and despise not the lowly work, for it is holy.

Judge in justice. Spare neither friend nor foe, but weigh all upon the scales, that balance be preserved.

And in all things ascend, step upon step, virtue upon virtue, for they that endureth to the end shall be made perfect in light.

Faith is practiced in prayer and song, in festivals and holy days, but most of all in life itself. Every act of kindness, every just judgment, every labor of diligence is a form of worship, a way of walking in the footsteps of God. Few mortals can embody all the virtues in equal measure, and so each chooses one as their guiding light, striving never to neglect the rest. In this balance lies the path of sanctification.

HISTORY

The First Age

The First Age began with the Breaking of Arallu, when the realm of the faithful was torn apart and the host was sundered by betrayal. In the absence of their King and their homeland, the survivors gathered around the most steadfast of Arallu’s council, entrusting order to those who endured unshaken. Thus rose the Archangels, embodiments of the virtues once spoken in the Words of God.

In those first years, every effort was bent toward recovery. The host searched for fragments of their lost world, hoping to preserve even a shard of the King’s light—but none were found. Even the holy inscriptions of the Great Covenant, by which mortals had once been weighed as worthy or unworthy, perished in the Fall. To preserve order and renew hope, the Words were written anew. From the vision and memory of Kolid—the Scribe of God and the Hand of Iustiren—the Covenant was restored, and with it the faith of the King’s law.

The Archangels then set their hands to shaping Heaven in the image of what was lost. They tilled the fields of Zhirut, laid the radiant neighborhoods of Yechol, lifted the towers of Metinut, and crowned all with the Citadel of Salvation in Tzedek. From these works arose the Heavensewn, the first children born of Heaven itself, shaped in the likeness of virtue. Yet unlike the Blessed, whose holiness had already been proven, the Heavensewn began their lives in the Outer Ring, where they labored in penitence and practice until their worthiness for ascent was made plain. This rite of passage endures still, binding each soul to virtue through toil.

But as Heaven grew, so too did fear—that the heretics who had betrayed Arallu yet lived, and that they would never cease their war until Heaven too lay in ruin. With not a grain of their old realm recovered, the Archangels turned from searching to fortifying. And so began the most ambitious work Heaven has ever wrought: the Wall of God.

The Wall rose between Zhirut and Yechol, a bastion not only of stone but of faith. Hewn of alabaster that gleams as though lit from within, it stretches into the sky until it is lost among the clouds. Taller even than the Citadel of Salvation, it is veined with inscriptions of the Covenant, so vast that they are said to be legible from the hills below. To the faithful, it stands as both shield and scripture: the final barrier against the unholy, and the unbroken promise that what lies within is sanctified.

The First Age closed with its completion. The gates were set with pearl, the watch was appointed, and the faithful gathered beneath the radiant rampart. Though the Throne remained empty and the King silent, hope endured: that one day He would return, and the light of Arallu would shine again.

The Second Age

The Second Age opened in triumph and resolve. With the Wall of God raised and the covenant restored, the Archangels turned their gaze outward. The wound of Arallu’s fall was yet raw, and the memory of betrayal burned within the host. Believing the heretics still lingered, festering in some hidden refuge, the Archangels gathered their strength and resolved to cleanse creation. History notes the day of a holy proclamation: the Archangels had not only discerned where the heretics hid, but had discovered a way to breach their realm. Thus was ordained the Storming of the Rings.

Celestial chronicles tell how Heaven descended upon the Infernal Realm. They speak of the Infernals as rabid beasts clawing through magma and mire, corrupting all they touched. Heaven’s armies swept like fire through the shadows, banners raised to restore what had been lost and to cleanse creation of evil. The scriptures preserved in the annals claim that each blow was struck for mercy, each advance undertaken to excise a sickness before it could spread. In this first storm, Heaven claimed the three outermost planes of Hell.

But Hell endured. At the gates of Malazoi, the tide turned, and the shining host met a bulwark of flame and blood. Faced with such monstrosity, the Archangels chose restraint: to preserve their host rather than feed it to ruin. They withdrew, declaring not defeat but tempered victory, promising to return when the time was right. So the Justicars, the Shields of the Dawn, and the Valiants returned to the Celestial Realm in triumph, even as they prepared for a second cleansing.

That Second Storming would be delayed, for the Infernals, consumed in their wrath, struck back with vengeance. They breached the fields of Zhirut, and the lowest circle of Heaven knew slaughter for the first time. The chronicles tell of hearths overturned, of fields stained red where once the waters braided in peace. Yet they also tell of the valor of Celestial Powers: of Kohaku, the Amber Ox, who plowed through fields without faltering, of Macan, the Onyx Tiger, whose roar shook corruption from the Wall itself, of Hirsch, the White Hart, glimpsed at the forest’s edge, guiding the lost to safety. Each tale is written as testimony that God’s will had not abandoned His people. In time, the host rallied, and the invaders were cast back into their damned realm, though not without grievous cost.

From that day, war became the rhythm of the age. Assault followed reprisal, reprisal followed assault. Heaven claimed many victories, though not yet dominion. The Hells sought the inner rings again and again, but never breached the Wall of God. The annals of Heaven speak of this time as an era of vigilance unbroken, when watchfires burned without ceasing and no sword was ever truly sheathed.

The Second Age did not conclude with the glory of the first. Instead, it ended with weariness and resolve, defined not by conquest but by endurance. The gates of Heaven were guarded more closely than ever, and the host girded itself not for victory but for vigilance unending.

The Third Age

The Third Age began not with battle, but with searching. Having made little headway in the endless wars of the Second Age, the Archangels sought a path not only back into the Infernal Realm, but deeper within it—some secret that might lead to the very heart of corruption, the Citadel of the Damned, where Samael ruled his legions. Their hope was that, if they could strike there, the wound of betrayal might be closed forever. Yet their quest uncovered something altogether different.

Instead of hidden gates into Hell, the Archangels found thresholds that opened into other worlds. These realms lay beyond the knowledge of Arallu, untouched by either angel or daemon. To the Celestials, the discovery was both marvel and burden: creation was vaster than they had imagined, but scattered across it were peoples who did not know the King. They were not heretics, but strangers—unexposed to the Light, bound to their own pantheons and pagan ways. The Archangels, believing their duty universal, sought to teach the Covenant anew, but few listened. Most chose the entities they already worshipped, even when faced with Heaven’s emissaries.

Among these realms was Alékia, where the Celestials first beheld both promise and peril. For they discovered that the Infernals had come there as well, sowing deceit and sin among the peoples of that land. To counter their blight, the Archangels forged an alliance with the Uxiik’o Empire, an honorable kingdom whose folk bore feathered wings like their own, though their faces were strange and beaked, and their limbs tipped with talons. Bound by kinship of form and the shared threat of Hell, the two realms pledged to stand together.

Through this alliance came marvels undreamed of. Magic and craft mingled, giving rise to ways by which Archangels could traverse freely between Alékia and Heaven. In gratitude for Heaven’s strength, the Uxiik’o gifted land of their own: the southern tip of a chain of islands at the western edge of their world. There, the Celestials laid the foundations of a second dwelling-place, a foothold in this new sphere.

Upon this gift, they raised their greatest work of the age: the City in the Stratosphere. Suspended upon a floating isle, it was a marvel of alabaster halls and radiant towers, shaped as both fortress and beacon. To Alékia, it stood as testimony of Heaven’s covenant; to the faithful, as proof that the King’s light yet reached beyond their own realm.

Thus, the Third Age continues to develop, not in rivalry, but with expansion and renewal. Where the Hells splinter and grasp, the Heavens bind and build. The Archangels act with one purpose, the Seraphic Orders labor in harmony, and the faithful look outward with vigilance and hope. Though the Throne is empty still, the works of Heaven shine as promise that one day the King shall return, and all realms—whether by choice, by teaching, or by miracle—shall be gathered into His light.

TYPES OF CELESTIALS

Archangels

Archangels are the pillars of Heaven, nine sovereign spirits who embody the highest of the Celestial virtues. Most were angels of Arallu raised to eminence before the Fall, though one, Mitzetane, rose from a lesser rank in the age of silence and remains the only such ascension in Heaven’s history. Together they form the Council of the Divine, stewards of the Word of God in the King’s absence and guardians of the Citadel above. Alékian scholars often call them lesser deities, though Celestials themselves name them servants still—flames of the Throne, not the Throne itself. Their names are etched into every Circle, their virtues sung in hymn and prayer, for in them the covenant endures until the King’s return.

Seraphic Orders

The Seraphic Orders, sometimes called the Watchers of Heaven, are the great companies of angels who labor beneath the Archangels’ charge. They are knights, priests, judges, and artisans, each order devoted to the cultivation of a single virtue: justice upheld, harmony sustained, mercy given, truth preserved. Some are drawn from the ancient host of Arallu, others from the Heavensewn who have proven themselves through trial and faith. In war, they march as Heaven’s legions; in peace, they tend its temples, archives, and walls. Though mightier than the common host, they remain bound to service, their strength poured out in the name of the covenant and the preservation of divine order.

Powers

The Powers are the great symbols of Heaven—beings so vast and ineffable that even Archangels revere rather than command them. Their origins are contested: some hold they are living manifestations of the Celestial virtues, while others claim they predate the Fall and were already dwelling in the Realm before Arallu broke. They are classed as pseudo-deities by Alekian scholars, for they stand outside the hierarchy and act by no summons but their own. Even those said to move in concert with seraphic orders remain independent, bound by reverence rather than rule. Each Power seems tied to a domain of Heaven: rivers and canals, forest and field, high skies and shining peaks. They move freely but are seldom seen, and their sudden appearance is cause for both awe and fear.

Heavensewn

The Heavensewn are the children of Heaven, first shaped in the age after the Fall. The Archangels are said to have wrought them in the likeness of their own Virtues, so that the covenant would endure through living heirs. Mortal in frame yet longer-lived, they dwell across every Circle: serving humbly in Zhirut, or rising in faith to join the Seraphic Orders. Each bears within them a spark of the light, the ability to manifest wings and holy light as a fragment of the Word impressed at their birth.

Blessed

The Blessed are the remnants of Arallu’s faithful, mortals who were judged holy before the Fall and carried into Heaven with the Archangels. Revered as living relics, they are spared the scrutiny placed upon the Heavensewn, their sanctity presumed eternal. Yet many walk in quiet sorrow, as though mourning the world they lost. Slender and elongated in form, they are marked by white hair and eyes of pale silver, their pupils glowing with a light that never dims.

ARCHANGELS

Iustiren

Iustiren, also known as Michael or Nyay’digo, is the Archangel of Justice and the embodiment of the Virtue of Loyalty. In the days of Arallu, when the King’s throne fell silent, it was Iustiren who rose as judge in His absence, weighing the souls of mortals by the holy covenant. Elder brother to Samael, he was counted among the brightest of the host, the blade of law beside the King’s word.

When Arallu was broken, it was Iustiren who gathered the scattered Celestials and bound them beneath one banner. He proclaimed the fallen angels as traitors, declaring that their defiance had sundered creation itself, and swore the loyal to vigilance. He led the search for Arallu’s remnants—an endeavor that yielded only silence—and when none remained to guide them, he decreed Kolid, the Scribe of Heaven and his Right Hand, to author the new Word of God. It was by Iustiren’s command that the Four Rings of Heaven were ordered, and it was he who conceived the Wall of God: the barrier that still divides the faithful from the fallen.

It is said Iustiren himself urged the first descent into Hell, rallying the Celestial legions to the Storming of the Rings. He called upon Itzamna’s Shields of the Dawn and Nahanwali’s Valiants to chart the breach and lead the march. Legends sing of how he descended upon the Hells, wielding twin longswords of celestial flame, his radiance so terrible that daemons who gazed upon him unbidden were blinded by their pride. Though a complete victory was not won, the memory of his charge remains etched in angelic song: the day Justice carried fire into the pit.

Iustiren spends much of his labor in concert with Paaneehai, Itzamna, and Volundr, the three who most often aid him in crafting the foundations of Heaven’s law and order. Rarely is he seen beyond the Citadel of Tzedek, toiling within the Councilroom of the Divine, while Kolid trails his every word, inscribing them for eternity. Yet his image is everywhere: carved in statues of alabaster, painted in gilded halls, and remembered in song. He is depicted with six wings of white flame, golden hair flowing like fire, eyes of molten light, and armor of shining gold, from which drape robes of scarlet gossamer. A crown wreathed in living flame rests upon his brow, often emblazoned with his sigil: a circle of fire enclosing a balanced scale. It is a symbol etched above countless gates and courts.

Iustiren stands now as the pillar of Celestial order, a figure both venerated and feared. To the faithful, he is the unwavering shield; to the fallen, he is the tyrant they curse as Vacuus Rex, the Hollow King whose judgment shattered the world. Even so, his name resounds in every council and his presence defines every age of Heaven—the unyielding steward who keeps the throne in God’s absence.

Paaneehai

Paaneehai, also known as Gabriel or Maea’digo, is the Archangel of Art, Music, and Poetry and the embodiment of the Virtue of Harmony. In the days of Arallu, he was the herald of visions, the one who carried the King’s Word to mortals and angels alike. When the covenant was lost, it was Paaneehai who set voice to air and story to song, weaving memory into melody so that Heaven would not forget. He is not merely a chronicler of the past but a composer of the future, envisioning through art what Heaven might yet become.

As conductor of the Muses of Heaven, Paaneehai shapes the labors of countless artisans, singers, and scribes into a single chorus. Under his hand, their works rise not as isolated craft but as a unified vision—poetry, song, architecture, and invention blending into a harmony that sustains the spirit of Heaven itself.

He is most often depicted seated among scrolls and instruments, a lyre upon his knee, a quill of silver in his hand. His sixfold wings are said to shimmer like stained glass, refracting light in shifting colors that fall across all who hear him. His voice, when raised, is like a river: gentle yet inexorable, carrying truth forward until it wears away all resistance. His sigil is a quill crossed over a harp within a circle of flowing water.

To the faithful, Paaneehai is harmony embodied—the melody of Heaven brought to life. His words teach, his art uplifts, and his vision reminds the host of what they defend: not merely order, but the beauty and promise of divine creation itself. To the heretics of Hell, he is called Varttak or Refractor—a name meant to deride him as no more than a parrot, repeating words without meaning. Yet even their scorn only echoes what he has already authored: the songs of Heaven’s greatest muse.

Itzamna

Itzamna, otherwise called Raphael or Zajay’digo, is the Archangel of Compassion and Mercy and the embodiment of the Virtue of Kindness. To the denizens of Heaven, he is the greatest of Celestial healers: the shepherd of the wounded and restorer of the broken. In the days of Arallu, he was keeper of benedictions, the one who laid balm upon mortal suffering when the King’s judgment fell heavy. When the Fall tore covenant from the world, Itzamna bound the host together with liturgy and light, upholding the mercies within the Word of God into the newborn Heavens.

Itzamna works in close counsel with Iustiren, tempering justice with compassion. It is said he alone has swayed Iustiren to wield the Word of God with the strength of forgiveness, doing so not through rebellion—like the fallen Samael—but through loyalty. Thus, he stands not only as healer, but as conscience of the Celestial host.

Yet mercy is not without its stern face. In the Storming of the Rings, Itzamna bore shield and pike, leading his Shields of the Dawn—the foremost of Heaven’s clerical orders—into battle. For the faithful, healing was life renewed; for the heretic, death itself was counted as mercy.

He is depicted with six wings of autumn auburn with feathers warm as falling leaves and dark curled hair crowned in light. He is associated with the color green, often illustrated donning verdant robes. In one hand, he bears the staff of healing—a rod crowned with wings, entwined by mirrored carvings of Chakpilen, the Coral Quetzal, climbing toward its head. In the other, he holds a bowl of salve, a symbol of restoration. His sigil mirrors this staff, twined quetzal-drakes spiraling upward in radiant ascent.

To the faithful, Itzamna is compassion made manifest, proof that the Light is not only to judge but to restore. To the daemons of Hell, he is known as Itzamna, a name they speak with venom, mocking his mercy as weakness and his healing as vanity. Yet his light burns on, in every temple, in every hymn, in every wound made whole.

Volundr

Volundr, also referred to as Uriel or Ejel’digo, is the Archangel of Knowledge and History and the embodiment of the Virtue of Truth. He is both Forgemaster and Librarian of Heaven, keeper of all that was and steward of all that might yet be. In the days of Arallu, he was the guardian of scrolls and the shaper of arms, forging both law and steel in equal measure. When Arallu fell, Volundr bound the new realm with record and reason, preserving what could be saved of its history and ensuring memory would not be wholly lost. Many claim Volundr himself authored Sunder of the Host, a firsthand account of that fateful day. If true, he is the reason all in Heaven know how Arallu unraveled and who to blame for the fray.

Since that time, Volundr has rarely touched hammer or quill himself, yet none doubt his mastery. He directs the curators of the Library of Light and oversees the artificers of the Stellar Forge, weighing their works against the measure of truth. He tempers the visions of Paaneehai’s Muses of Heaven, while also laboring closely with Iustiren and Kolid to ensure every decree of Heaven is preserved without blemish.

He is most often depicted with wings bathed in the hues of a fading sun—golden yellow at the tips, shading into orange, then deep ember-red—reflecting the eternal glow of his forge. Across his raiment, accents of olive and cream recall the bindings and pages of Heaven’s tomes. Statues display him as the herald of knowledge, bearing a book and scroll, his wings unfurled in radiant fire. His sigil unites these dual callings: an open book crossed by a vertical hammer, sign of knowledge refined by craft.

To the faithful, Volundr is the smith of truth, proof that all falsehood can be burned away until only clarity remains. To the daemons, he is mocked as Lugnerin, an echo of lies shackled by his own “laws” and “records.” Yet Heaven claims the insult as crown: for Volundr is no captive, but the master of the forge eternal, where both history and invention are shaped into the armaments of light.

Nahanwali

Nahanwali, also known as Zadkiel or Aemotoi’digo, is the Archangel of Bravery and War, and the embodiment of the Virtue of Sacrifice. In the age of Arallu, he was no cautious judge nor patient scribe, but the first to leap to arms when the host began to fracture. The Sunder of the Host records that it was Nahanwali who first raised his sword against Samael, and who hurled himself before the Watchers when the traitors’ blades fell upon them. As Arallu itself split, Nahanwali stood unflinching, wings spread wide to shield the lesser angels from the collapse. His sacrifice nearly cost him those wings, their feathers seared and torn by ruin. From that day forward, he vowed that the blood of the faithful would be shed only in defense of Heaven. Since then, he has been remembered as Heaven’s greatest champion—the holy knight who bears the wounds of many so that others may endure.

He is the Brigadier General of the Valiants, Heaven’s foremost army, his command second only to Iustiren in times of war. The Valiants are trained not merely as soldiers but as martyrs-in-waiting, their lives pledged to defend the Citadel, the Council, and the Covenant itself. Nahanwali teaches that true victory is not conquest but sacrifice: the willingness to bleed, to fall, even to die, so that the Word of God remains untarnished.

In the Storming of the Rings, Nahanwali was the first into the breach. With sword alight in holy fire and the pennon of Heaven raised high, he cut open the gates of Malazoi, driving the daemons back step by step. Behind him marched the Valiants, the Justicars, and the Shields of the Dawn in unified host, the first moment when Heaven’s armies moved as one tide. His charge is still sung as the thunderous opening of that war: the blade that carved the way, the banner that lit the dark.

He is most often depicted as a warrior of radiant stature, clad in silvered mail with a mauve cloak flowing from his shoulders. Six vast wings, violet as twilight, rise from his back, and his eyes gleam with the stern fire of resolve. In one hand, he bears a longsword of celestial flame; in the other, a staff crowned with the pennon of Heaven, emblazoned with its emblem. His sigil reflects his role as soldier, defender, and martyr: three swords overlapping, the central blade piercing a heart, haloed in light.

To the faithful, Nahanwali is the guardian who stands between them and ruin—the sacrifice that ensures survival. To the daemons, he is mocked as Chhota Shet, the “little lion,” a beast shackled to duty, forever giving of himself and never seizing power. Yet the Celestials embrace the name as honor, for he is indeed valiant, and his power is measured not in thrones won, but in holy lives preserved.

Sabomakal

Sabomakal, also known as Jegundiel or Buuthou’digo, is the Archangel of Fortune and Prosperity, and the embodiment of the Virtue of Generosity. In the age of Arallu, he was the steward of blessing, the one who laid the King’s gifts upon mortals so they might flourish. When the Fall tore that covenant apart, Sabomakal turned stewardship into safeguard, ensuring the wealth of Heaven flowed outward—not into vaults, but into lives. To him, prosperity is not possession but provision: abundance multiplied by the giving hand.

Sabomakal is Heaven’s chief treasurer, the unseen hand that keeps its engines of grace moving. Though no coin passes through his grasp, all wealth in Heaven flows at his direction. It was by his approval that the neighborhoods of Yechol blossomed, the towers of Metinut rose, and even the Wall of God was raised to bar the Hells’ advance. Through the Benefactors—altruistic governors who serve under him—he ensures that none go hungry, unshielded, or abandoned. To couples newly bound in covenant, he sends blessings of coin; to priests and healers, he grants the means to sustain their service; to builders and smiths, he provides what is needed to lift Heaven ever higher.

He works in close harmony with his peers: Itzamna, whose Shields of the Dawn depend on his steady flow of alms; Volundr, whose Forgemasters craft wonders with the resources he grants; Ryoshi, whose Flamewrites raise monuments from his funding; Yueliang, whose notices of new unions are crowned with his blessings; and Mitzetane, who pleads on behalf of the struggling, her cries always answered with generosity. Sabomakal does not hoard; he redistributes, ensuring the fount of Heaven’s wealth touches every soul.

He is most often depicted with six pale wings, short curls of pale hair, and robes of crimson that gleam against effigies cast in gold. In his hands, he holds a coronet with eight leaf-crenellations, radiant lines of light spilling outward. This coronet forms the heart of his sigil: a crown not of dominion, but of plenty, its brilliance spread in every direction.

To the faithful, Sabomakal is abundance incarnate: proof that Heaven is a realm where no hand goes empty and no soul is forgotten. To the daemons, he is derided as Sebiumeker—a “gate-warden,” they sneer, blaspheming he is no altruist, but biased with avarice just as they are. Yet Heaven knows the truth: Sabomakal is a guardian, not of hoarded treasure, but of prosperity shared, ensuring the gates of Heaven open not into greed but into grace.

Ryoshi

Ryoshi, also known as Barachiel or Rilbuu’digo, is the Archangel of Ambition and Persistence, and the embodiment of the Virtue of Diligence. In the days of Arallu, he was the steward of burdens, the one who carried tasks none else would shoulder and saw them through to completion. When the Fall broke creation, it was Ryoshi who rose with hammer and plan, rebuilding where others only grieved. His is the virtue of unyielding labor: ambition not as conquest, but as the steady hand that refuses to falter.

Ryoshi is Heaven’s chief architect, the coordinator of the Flamewrites, whose hands shape every citadel, neighborhood, chapel, and tower of the realm. It was by his command that the great Wall of God was raised, stone by stone, barring Infernal legions from ever again surging unchecked into the Heavens. He has overseen the rising of Yechol’s radiant neighborhoods and Metinut’s glittering spires, the great bridges that span Heaven’s rivers, and the monuments where memory is made eternal. His work is measured not in days, but in centuries, for diligence is the language of eternity.

He is most often depicted with six wings of mottled coal-grey and earthen brown, cloaked in simple robes of tan and walnut hues. At his waist, he sometimes bears a belt of flowers, trailing pink petals that mark his steps. In one hand, he holds a thurible of incense, smoke curling in solemn spirals; in the other, the plans of his next creation. His sigil combines these two images: a censer swinging incense-smoke, with petals dancing through the air in its wake.

To the faithful, Ryoshi is the pillar of persistence, the builder of walls that guard and towers that inspire. To the daemons, he is mocked as Hiru—the “leech”—one who claims credit for those under his subjugation. Yet Heaven knows these as honors: for Ryoshi does toil without rest, and it is by his labor that Heaven endures, unbroken and ever-rising.

Yueliang

Yueliang, also known as Selaphiel or Yeythou’digo, is the Archangel of Family and Marriage, and the embodiment of the Virtue of Love. Yet he was not the first. That mantle was once borne by Pengyou, whose memory remains a wound upon the soul of Heaven.

In the age of Arallu, Pengyou, also known as Raguel, was the connector of bonds, sanctifying husbands to wives and blessing children into the world. His voice was the hymn of covenant, the word that turned affection into oath. After the Fall, he preached love as the mortar of the newborn Heavens, binding its people together when all else had come apart. He officiated the first marriages beneath the broken sky, and his blessing restored hope that bloodlines and legacies would endure.

The memorials of Pengyou show him serene: six wings of yellow and cream folded in repose, robes of white bound by a rouge sash and cloaked in blue. Sometimes his hands are bare; other times they stretch a red thread between them, a symbol of the covenant he wove across Heaven. Yet his end was no peaceful hymn. On the day the Hells launched their first assault, Pengyou roamed in Zhirut, threading bonds among those who had proven their vows. There, beyond the still-young Wall of God, he was struck down. The daemon host fell upon him in violence, a tide of teeth and claw, and Heaven’s first martyr was slain. His blood consecrated the gates that should have guarded him, and his death is remembered in every vow since: a sacrifice that sanctified the very virtue he embodied.

After the Storm was repelled, the Wall of God was sealed harder than stone, and the Council of Archangels anointed Yueliang as Pengyou’s successor. Though younger and untested, he took up the mantle of Love with reverence. Now he guides the Weavers of the Red Thread, who walk among Heaven’s circles as matchmakers and stewards of lineage, crafting legacies not of conquest but of covenant. His sigil, unchanged from Pengyou’s, bears an orb within which two figures of the Crimson Crane face one another, their necks curled in familial devotion—one crowned in masculine form, the other adorned in feminine grace.

Yueliang is most often depicted with six white wings, his robes dyed in crimson and cream, and the sigil in his hands glowing with red-gold light. To the faithful, he is proof that love endures even after blood is spilled, that covenant cannot be broken by claw or flame. To the Hells, he and Pengyou alike are mocked: the daemons sing of Pengyou as Laoren, the “Old Man,” and sneer at Yueliang as Nanhai, the “Boy.” Both are derided as String-Mongers, puppet-masters of hearts, their red threads slandered as cords that bind the free. It is a cruel inversion of Huli’s seductions, but the Celestials wear these insults as a badge and vow: for love, unlike lust, does not enslave—it sanctifies.

Mitzetane

Mitzetane, also called Jophiel or Aunrae’digo, is the Archangel of Beauty, the Harvest, and the Hearth, and the embodiment of the Virtue of Humility. Unlike her peers, she was not of the high host in Arallu but a lesser angel, raised after the Fall by the decree of Kolid. She remains the only woman among the Archangels, and though her voice is soft, her works sustain the whole of Heaven.

It is Mitzetane who orders the Keepers of the Field to till and reap, the Hands of the Hearth to kindle warmth, and the Sweepers of Ash to cleanse the sacred halls. Her influence touches every circle: she tends the crops of Zhirut, warms the hearths of Yechol, and oversees the cleansing of Metinut’s cathedrals. Yet she does all without flourish, for hers is a virtue that hides itself in service.

She is most often depicted with four folded wings, cerulean without and cream within, her form draped in a simple sage dress. In her arms, she bears a great bouquet: stalks of wheat, a feather duster, wooden staves, and a single rose clasped foremost. In simpler depictions, only the rose remains. Her sigil echoes this image—sometimes the whole bouquet, sometimes only the solitary flower.

To the faithful, Mitzetane is the quiet grace that keeps the realm alive, proof that beauty is not grandeur but care. To the daemons, she is scorned as Ashet Avak, the “Woman of Dust,” a name meant to belittle her station. Yet Celestials claim the insult as truth: for dust is the mark of labor, and from it life rises anew.

Kolid

Kolid, also known as Metatron or Xesae’digo, the Scribe of Heaven, is not counted among the Archangels, yet his authority runs beside theirs. When God fell silent in Arallu and His guidance was thought lost, Kolid was gifted visions of His will. He transcribed this as covenant, thus delivering the first Words of God to the host. Since then, he has been known as the Voice of the King, He Who Hears the Truth, and Deliverer of the Words. By his gift, no decree of Heaven would ever be forgotten.

In the wake of The Sundering, when all holiness was thought lost, Kolid became a beacon. For even in that darkness and silence, the Scribe of Heaven could still hear the Words of the King. By Iustiren’s guidance, Paaneehai’s inspiration, and Volundr’s behest, Kolid began transposing the New Words of God: the second coming of the Covenant of Arallu. Upon completion of this work, the calendar of the Heavens began anew, and Kolid became its herald.

Today, he is known as the Right Hand of Iustiren, walking at the side of the Archangel of Justice, recording every judgment with unshakable precision. To the faithful, his writings are scripture—the foundation of the reconstructed Word of God, and the promise that order yet endures.

Depictions of Kolid vary. Some show him with six wings pale as parchment, as though his form itself has become a page. Older sculptures and scriptures portray only two. His face is often veiled, hidden by a golden mask without feature, so that he reflects only the words of others, never his own. His sigil is his mark of authorship: a scroll encircled by a single eye, stamped at the end of nearly every decree in the Celestial Archives.

To the faithful, Kolid is the living archive, the certainty that nothing of Heaven can be lost, and the prophecy that God will one day return. To the daemons, he is Kaskshian, “the Scribbler,” chained to quills and parchment, a slave to law without will of his own. Yet for the host, that is his highest sanctity: that he does not falter, does not deviate, does not betray. He is the voice that endures, the proof that covenant survives even in absence, and the witness that the throne of Heaven still waits for its King.

Seraphic Orders

Justicars

The Justicars are the interpreters and enforcers of divine law, seated as arbiters in the courts of Heaven. Clad in silver and white, they are both judge and sentinel, their presence solemn as living statues. Under the direction of Iustiren, it is they who weigh the hearts of the Heavensewn, determining who among the outer denizens of Zhirut may pass through the Pearled Gates into the true circles of Heaven. They pore over rewritten fragments of the Word of God, rendering verdicts not only on worthiness but also on faithlessness, sentencing those who falter in their vows. Each is both arbiter and bailiff, charged to uphold order within the court and to enact its judgment without hesitation.

Known as the Sentinels of the Scales, their role is both revered and feared. To ascend through Heaven is to submit one’s life to their measure; to falter is to hear their sentence passed in unyielding tones. They are said to embody the loyalty of Iustiren himself, impartial and unwavering, guardians of the sacred covenant. Though their rulings can seem merciless, their duty is not to compassion but to order: the assurance that Heaven remains unbroken, even in the absence of its King.

Muses of Heaven

Under the direction of Paaneehai, the Archangel of Harmony, the Muses of Heaven are the artisans, singers, and visionaries of the Celestial Realm. They believe beauty is not ornament but order made manifest—that every hymn, every carving, every verse is an act of holy worship. Their choirs lift voices like rivers, their painters spill light onto stone, their poets weave the Word of God into living memory. In their hands, sound and craft are sacraments, meant not only to adorn the Circles of Heaven but to bind them in shared wonder.

Though countless schools and circles of craft rise within the order—choirs, ateliers, and scriptoria—the Muses do not divide themselves by rigid caste. A sculptor may turn singer, a composer may take up the chisel, a painter may shape words into flame. Each discipline is a note in the same symphony, guided by Paaneehai’s hand. He conceives visions of radiant towers and entrusts them to the Keepers of Stone; sketches of celestial arms, given to Volundr’s Forgemasters; psalms of compassion, carried to Itzamna’s Shields of Dawn. Thus, the Muses are Heaven’s voice and memory, shaping the realm’s present and foretelling its future, their every act a hymn of harmony against the cacophony of Hell.

Shields of the Dawn

The Shields of the Dawn are under the guidance of Itzamna and are Heaven’s foremost clerical order. They are priests and healers, emissaries of mercy who carry his charge into every Circle of the Celestial Realm. Through liturgy, benediction, and the invocation of holy light, they mend what sin and violence have broken. Their woven mantles of radiance are said to shield both mortals and celestials from harm, and their golden cords stitch wounds, bind souls, and unravel the blight of infernal curses. To the faithful, they are proof that compassion is strength—that mercy heals what judgment alone cannot.

Yet mercy is never idle, even relentless at times. In the Storming of the Rings, Itzamna himself bore pike and shield, leading the Shields as both healers and warriors. They marched where the fighting was thickest, reviving the fallen, steadying the weak, and carrying light into the maw of Hell. Even now, their rituals are said to mend not only flesh but essence itself, binding body, mind, and soul into wholeness. Ever watchful, they refine their art without cease, seeking deeper knowledge of the vessel and the spirit alike. Their work preserves the host, perfects the faithful, and ensures that Heaven endures across every age.

Forgemasters

The Forgemasters stand beneath the guidance of Volundr, Archangel of Knowledge and History. They are Heaven’s twin custodians of truth and craft: the historians who forge memory into permanence, and the smiths who temper vision into steel. Where the Muses imagine, the Forgemasters render real; where song and dream are fragile, they hammer them into forms that endure across ages. To the faithful, they are preservers of covenant, the quills and hammers that guard against corruption and falsehood.

Together, the Forgemasters are the anchor of Heaven’s order: one hand holding the record of what has been, the other fashioning what must come. To daemons, they are revisionists and liars, scribes who hammer propaganda and call it truth. But to the host of Heaven, they are certainty itself, ensuring that nothing imagined, nothing remembered, and nothing promised is ever lost.

Valiants

The Valiants stand under the command of Nahanwali, the Archangel of Sacrifice. They are Heaven’s soldiers, the iron line that meets every assault, the first to march into danger and the last to retreat. Their mandate is simple and absolute: to stand where the line will break and give everything to hold it. To the faithful, they are the living wall that ensures Heaven endures.

In the Storming of the Rings, it was the Valiants who surged first behind Nahanwali as he cut the breach into Malazoi. Their banners were the first to cross the threshold, crimson cloth blazing against the smoke of Hell. They locked their shields into an unbreakable wall, holding the breach open even as fire and claw tore into them. Many fell, but each collapse only bought more ground for the host behind them—the Justicars and the Shields of the Dawn. It is said that where a Valiant fell, their blood burned like holy oil, searing the stones of Hell so the enemy could not reclaim them.

Clad in crested helms that echo the mane of lions, they bear red banners—not for wrath, but for blood freely given. Their tactics are as stark as their vows: they throw themselves into hopeless odds, burning brighter as they fall, some even discarding weapons to offer their bodies as living shields. In every campaign, the Valiants are the vanguard, carving paths through darkness so that others may follow.

Riverwardens

The Riverwardens serve under Sabomakal, Archangel of Generosity, as stewards of Heaven’s abundance. They are the benefactors of the realm, carrying vessels of living water that never run dry. Where they pour, hunger is quenched, thirst forgotten, and even barren soil blooms with new life. To the faithful, they are proof that Heaven’s plenty is not hoarded but shared, that divine wealth multiplies when given away.

Clad in flowing robes patterned with waves, the Riverwardens never march to war, yet their hand is felt in every campaign and construction alike. They guard the celestial vaults from those who would pilfer Heaven’s plenty, and it is by their ledgers and blessings that coin flows where it is needed most. They approved the raising of Metinut’s towers, the carving of Yechol’s neighborhoods, and above all, the funding of the Wall of God—a work so vast it might have drained a lesser realm. Yet not a soul in Heaven went without; no household was left hungry or unsheltered. By their stewardship, abundance never thins but multiplies, and the realm endures as the safest and most prosperous of any plane, even under the endless assault of daemons through the Second Age.

Flamewrights

Under the direction of Ryoshi, the Flamewrites—sometimes called the Stonewrights or the Masons—are the builders of Heaven, the slow and steady hands that raise vision into form. Where the Muses of Heaven imagine, it is the Masons who manifest—laying stone upon stone, light upon light, until citadels rise, bridges span the clouds, and towers of Metinut gleam against eternity. Their works are said to be “sung into stone,” for each lantern they set is kindled not only with fire but with prayer, burning as a vigil against gluttony’s endless appetite.

The Flamewrites march to no wars, yet their cadence is as deliberate as an army’s. Cloaked in earthen hues, they carry lantern-staves whose flames can dissolve the false feasts conjured by daemonic corruption, revealing emptiness for what it is. They built the Wall of God itself, stone by stone, flame by flame, and are counted as Heaven’s most steadfast order: patient, immovable, eternal. Where others rush to glory, the Masons endure, proving that persistence is itself a holy act.

Weavers of the Red Thread

The Weavers of the Red Thread, more commonly called simply the Weavers, are guided by Yueliang and are Heaven’s consecrators of covenant. Where the Shields of the Dawn preach in cathedrals, the Weavers labor in chapels and homes, tending the communal fabric of Heaven. They sanctify unions, bind households, and usher children into the Celestial fold with rites of purity. Every marriage, every vow, every kinship sworn beneath Heaven’s light passes beneath their cords. They are sensitive to the will of God and can see the threads between unions consecrated by His will. These connections are said to shimmer red with the glow of the moon, tying soul to soul in sanctified harmony.

But their work is not only to join — it is also to cut. The Weavers guard against false bonds, sundering glamour-snares, lust-bindings, and infernal compulsions seeded by Huli’s agents. With silken ligatures of light, they sever what is corrupt, preserving the sanctity of lineage. In this, they act as both midwives and wardens, mediators who stabilize Yechol’s neighborhoods yet also enforcers who will unmake what was wrongly joined. To the faithful, they are the keepers of Heaven’s hearth-families. To those who look closer, they are also its genealogists, tracing threads that stretch back to Arallu, weaving lineages meant to endure across ages.

The Humbles

The Humbles are under the gentle direction of Mitzetane, Archangel of Beauty, the Harvest, and the Hearth. They are Heaven’s most unassuming order, yet without them the realm could not endure. Their work is simple, humble, and constant: they till the soil, tend the kitchens, and sweep the streets. Where other orders blaze with banners or bend law into judgment, the Humbles sanctify service itself. In every act of labor, they affirm that holiness is not only found in flame and song, but in the quiet keeping of life.

Though mocked by Infernals as slaves of the hearth, in truth the Humbles are Heaven’s marrow: uncelebrated, unyielding, indispensable. Their work does not clamor for notice, nor do their hands rest. By their service, the Circles remain bright, and by their humility, Heaven remembers what it was built to protect.

POWERS

Bhagava

Bhagava, more often called the Saffron Swan, drifts through the upper airs of Heaven, perching atop the tallest spires of Metinut to bless those below with unparalleled beauty. Its form is rare to see yet radiant: a slender neck crowned with tufted crest, golden brow-feathers sweeping like banners down its back, and a tail longer than its own body, fanning in a gilded cascade of quills that ripple like living tapestries. Illustrations depict its pinions as patterned with flowing script, the first syllables of song and poetry etched into living plumage.

The Saffron Swan’s voice is its greatest wonder. It sings rarely, hidden within Heaven’s veils of mist, yet its hymn carries across every Circle: a resonance said to dissolve discord, calm strife, and restore order where voices clash. For this reason, artists and choristers regard Bhagava as patron and muse alike, whispering that every melody they raise is but an echo of its eternal song.

Though the Powers are beings apart, Bhagava has marked the course of Heaven’s history. It is said to appear only after great trials, especially in the aftermath of infernal assaults. When the infernals set upon heaven in vengeance for the Storming of the Rings, the swan’s lament was heard above the Citadel of Salvation, mourning the fallen yet weaving their sacrifice into harmony eternal. Since that day, its hymn is remembered as both lament and promise: that discord never has the final word, and that harmony, though delicate, endures.

Chakpilen

Chakpilen, the Coral Quetzal, drifts between the veils of Heaven, its body said to be woven of the sky itself. Rarely seen yet often felt, it leaves its trace in shadows that ripple across the Circles and in the thunderous beating of its wings, which shake the clouds like drums of war. Its form is awe itself: a serpentine body clothed in iridescent plumage, scales masked by shimmering quills of teal and emerald, two vast wings unfurled like banners of dawn—sometimes shown in art with a second or even third pair. Behind its draconic head, a mane of rainbow feathers blazes outward, a living corona of color that defies any earthly palette.

Chakpilen drifts without boundary, nesting in the cloud-forests that billow from Zhirut to Tzedek, ranging across all Heaven when its presence is roused. It is said to sleep cradled in cumulus, vanishing into the sky as though the power itself were no more than the breath of the firmament.

Unlike other Powers, Chakpilen’s appearances are tied not to peace but to conflict. It is remembered most for the First Infernal Assault on Heaven, when the infernal host breached Zhirut and sought to climb higher still. As daemons poured upward, Chakpilen descended from the mists, its cry shaking the Wall of God. There, above the battleground, it clashed with Gerhana, the Bulwark of Wrath. Their battle is recalled as storm meeting storm: fire against aurora, rage against compassion. Though neither fell, the sight of Chakpilen standing against Gerhana became a symbol to the host, proof that mercy itself could wield power.

Hirsch

Hirsch, the White Hart, is the most elusive of the Powers, a stag of luminous coat and star-crowned antlers said to wander the last forests of Zhirut. Its hooves, when they strike the earth, leave silver grass that glimmers for a breath before fading back into soil, as though truth itself cannot be held but only glimpsed. Legends say it dwells in the deepest thickets of Heaven’s outermost ring, where the trees grow so dense that light struggles to pass through, and where even angels walk softly for reverence.

Most sightings are little more than rumors, whispers of pale antlers seen in shadow or the sound of hooves across roots when no beast was near. Yet one tale is beyond doubt, preserved in countless testimonies: during the First Infernal Invasion, when the daemonic legions swept across Zhirut and the host of Heaven was driven back behind the Wall of God, the denizens of the outer circle were left at the mercy of slaughter. In that darkest hour, the White Hart appeared at the border where forest met field. Its form blazed like a lantern in the gloom, guiding thousands through the trees to hidden paths of safety. To those who followed, it became not only a savior but a revelation—truth revealed as ultimate salvation.

Since that day, Hirsch has not been seen again, though hunters still claim to glimpse its shadow between the boughs. Whether omen or miracle, it remains for Celestials the embodiment of truth: fleeting, perilous, yet life-preserving to those who heed its call.

Macan

Macan, the Onyx Tiger, is feared and venerated in equal measure, the Power most often spoken of as Heaven’s prowling sentinel. It is described as a pitch-black cat, stripes gleaming silver across its flanks, a vast mane of gold and red flaring like fire at its crown. Its eyes burn with molten light, its talons curve like sickles, and its canines jut down like tusks of obsidian. From its furred tail tips a plume of flame, lashing the air as though to ignite the very earth it treads. Some whisper of terror when they see its likeness carved in shrine or tapestry, yet others insist that it must be this terrible, for only by appearing more dreadful than the enemy can true evil be driven back.

Macan is elusive, glimpsed only at the liminal hours of dawn or dusk. Wanderers claim to have seen it slip through the silent backstreets of Yechol or Metinut, though more credible tales speak of it stalking the Wall of God, pacing its battlements as though the guardian of Heaven itself. Its roar has been heard less often still, a sound said to shake the very pillars of the realm and scatter corruption like chaff before the wind. Yet when Hell rises in force, the Onyx Tiger has always appeared. In the First Infernal Assault, it leapt from the Wall of God to strike Camazotz, the Bulwark of Ilenvia, dragging it from the sky and pinning it to the earth in a clash of monsters. Since that day, its bellow has been remembered as the cry of sacrifice itself—a warning to the enemy and a vow that no corruption shall breach Heaven’s walls while Macan prowls.

Aman Dawu

Aman Dawu, the Cobalt Serpent, is said to be more than a power dwelling in Heaven’s waters—it is the waters themselves. Legends hold that its body coils from the fonts of Tzedek, down through the silver canals of Metinut and Yechol, and into the wide, braided rivers of Zhirut. Whether gliding unseen beneath bridges or breaching the surface in radiant arcs, its presence is unmistakable: scales of gleaming cobalt like flowing sapphire, fins like streaming reeds, and eyes that glimmer with the clarity of rivers in sunlight. Some depictions render it limbless and serpentine, a body of endless current; others show it with sets of crocodilian limbs and a paddle-tail, its shape shifting with the course of the waters it embodies.

Unlike many of the powers, Aman Dawu is often witnessed, for its domain winds through every Circle of Heaven. To denizens, it is both guardian and gift, the visible promise of abundance shared. When it rises from the water, it is believed to shower onlookers with blessings: prosperity for their households, renewal for their labors, and protection from the envy of Hell. In Heaven’s histories, the Serpent is described not as a warrior but as a ward—its coils denying the greedy their grasp, its currents sweeping clean the paths of those who would despoil the faithful. To glimpse its glistening scales beneath the surface is to know that the wealth of Heaven is not hoarded but flows outward, a generosity eternal as the rivers themselves.

Kohaku

Kohaku, the Amber Ox, moves with the patience of the ages across Heaven’s outer plains and fertile lowlands. Its body towers bronze and unyielding, hide veined with cracks of glowing amber light as though eternity itself had plowed its form. Great muscles roll beneath its frame, the strength of a thousand farmers in every step. From its brow sprout many sets of horns: some sweeping wide as houses, others arching gracefully over its back in unexpected elegance. Despite its titanic power, its presence is one of calm: unhurried, unshaken, unperturbed even in the face of war.

Legends tell that during the First Infernal Assault, when the fields of Heaven were drenched in blood and the Celestial host reeled in chaos, Kohaku did not lift its head. It trudged on, steady as ever, plowing furrows and sowing seed while battle raged around it. So unwavering was its diligence that the daemons themselves faltered, unwilling to bar its path. And when the smoke cleared, the harvest was found whole and unspoiled: no famine touched Heaven, for the Ox had preserved plenty by its steadfast march. Since then, Celestials say that every grain grown in Zhirut’s fields carries a trace of Kohaku’s blessing—a quiet assurance that diligence endures where all else may falter.

Qizhongji

Qizhongji, the Crimson Crane, is both delicate and resplendent. It is most often glimpsed in fleeting moments: striding at the marsh-edge of Zhirut, gliding in silence above the canals of Yechol, or bowing upon the middle towers of Metinut. Unlike others of its kind, it does not dominate a single realm of Heaven but moves lightly between them, as if no boundary of Circle could contain the breadth of its devotion. Its presence is rarely announced, yet many swear they have felt its shadow or heard its melody in the moment of vow, when two souls are bound together.

The Crimson Crane’s form is described in reverent detail. Its neck is long and poised, its beak a sharp gleam of silver flame. From its back rise wings of soft, sweeping plumage, often arched high as it bows in solemn dance. Its tail is a cascade of downy quills that shimmer white and argent, two great recurved plumes trailing like ribbons that flare upward in its movements, framing its body like a living crest. Its dance is as renowned as its song: slow spirals of grace, each step measured as though weaving unseen threads between souls.

Yet its voice is the truest marvel. The Crane never sings the same tones twice. Its calls shift with the hour, the day, the covenant—always seeming to mirror the harmony of those joined in union, or the birth of a child welcomed into the Celestial host. Some say its music is less sung than reflected, a living echo of the bonds of love that sustain Heaven.

Legends tell that in every age of trial, when infernal flames scorched the fields or shadow crept through the Circles, Qizhongji appeared in stillness above the Citadel, circling once, twice, and then vanishing into the mist. To the faithful, these appearances were assurance that even in strife, love endures, sanctified in feather, flame, and song.

RINGS OF HEAVEN

The Celestial Realm is divided into four concentric rings rising inward and upward toward light. Each ring reflects a higher state of order, and together they form Heaven: an ascent from the broad pasture of the outer world to the radiant courts of the Citadel above.

Unlike the tapered descent of Hell’s Circles, which are envisioned more as stacked disks, Heaven’s planes are envisioned as true rings—vast planes encircling one another, each smaller and higher than the last. The outermost ring lies at the very brink of creation, its rivers spilling as cataracts into the void. Within it, walled and guarded, the inner circles rise in turn: lesser to greater, humble to holy. Each ring is its own plane, joined not by paths or roads but by guarded thresholds. At these checkpoints, the faithful may pass inward only by the judgment of Heaven, proving themselves against the covenant that binds the host together.

This structure is more than architecture: it is the Celestial vision of perfection itself. To ascend is to draw nearer to the source of order, to be measured, tested, and sanctified. To remain at the outer edge is not exile, but expectation — the promise that one day, with diligence and devotion, every soul may walk closer to the light.

Zhirut, the Ring of Prudence, forms the broadest span of the Celestial Realm. It lies at Heaven’s edge, where rivers braid through rolling hills before spilling in vast cataracts over the rim of the world.

Scattered trees rise like sentinels across the pasturelands, left untouched so that farmers may gather for shade. Along the outer rim, forests grow dense and shadowed, their alcoves avoided by most—whether from reverence for the rumored presence of the White Hart, Hirsch, or from fear of the dimness that contrasts the brightness of true Heaven beyond. Between the hills, low marshes ripple with gardens of water grain, while their runoff pools into silver lakes that mirror the drifting clouds above. Some say the glimmer in these waters is the passing of Aman Dawu, the Cobalt Serpent, flowing unseen beneath the surface.

Among this landscape lie farmsteads and villages in measured harmony: stone houses polished smooth, roofs capped in copper that catch the light like ginger rainfall. Even here, in the humblest circle, the marks of Heaven’s hand are clear—spires as delicate as needles rise from chapel roofs, and the smallest windows are crowned with tracery like filigree.

Its people are those who have not yet proven themselves worthy of the higher rings. They labor in quiet penitence, atoning for inconsistent vows by serving among the Humbles: tilling fields, tending hearths, or sweeping ash from the streets and halls. In their work, the realm is sustained; in their humility, they are tested. Some claim Zhirut is less a part of Heaven than a probationary ground—a place where entry is granted, but not yet fulfilled. The Pearled Gates gleam upon the inner horizon, guarded by the Justicars, their passage barred until each soul is measured against the reconstructed Words of God.

At Zhirut’s inner boundary stands the Wall of God, the great alabaster palisade that separates this circle from the true realms within. Its face stretches skyward, radiant in light yet unfathomable in height, its surface veined with inscriptions said to be fragments of the covenant salvaged after Arallu’s fall. To those who behold it, the Wall is both promise and rebuke — a monument of safety and of distance, the boundary between the outer pasture and the sanctity beyond.

The Lower Circle, known as the Ring of Fortitude, is the first true plane of Heaven beyond the purgation of Zhirut. Here dwell those who loved faithfully, taught honorably, or governed with humility—souls whose lives embodied virtue even if imperfectly. It is the most populous of the inner rings, a broad span of radiant suburbs, radiant for eternity.

Yechol is divided into eight neighborhoods, each a radial slice of the ring, their borders marked not by walls but by gentle shifts in tone and style. Justice’s quarter is lined with stately colonnades and orderly courtyards, while Harmony’s is alive with plazas where fountains sing and mosaics glitter. Sacrifice is quiet and austere, its cloisters filled with shrines of stone, while Truth gleams with libraries, lantern halls, and open forums. Generosity overflows with gardens and flowing canals; Kindness with hospices and sanctuaries where healing is taught; Love with chapels and vine-shaded courtyards that celebrate family bonds; and Diligence with avenues of workshops and halls of stone, always echoing with the sound of creation.

For the Heavensewn and the Blessed alike, Yechol feels idyllic, its avenues bright, its homes set among radiant gardens. Yet it is also a realm of order codified into zones: citizens are expected to live and labor according to the virtue of their neighborhood. To dwell here is to know both comfort and expectation, for Fortitude means not only reward but discipline—the steady training ground where souls are shaped for higher ascents.

Metinut, the Ring of Temperance, rises above Yechol like a city of spires, a gleaming testament to sacrifice and sanctity. Here dwell the martyrs, philosophers, and priests: those who gave their lives, or their lifetimes, to the Word of God. The architecture of the lower ring is echoed but magnified — no longer quaint avenues and quiet gardens, but vast citadels and shining towers, their tops lost in clouds of light. Bridges arc like veins of scripture between them, their words glowing faintly against the heavens. This is the great city of Heaven, austere and lofty, where virtue is measured not only by deed but by devotion.

The Ring is divided into eight neighborhoods, each rising as a district dedicated to its virtue. In the quarter of Justice, alabaster towers stand as courts and archives, their plazas paved in bronze scales that weigh the steps of all who cross them. Harmony fills the air from vast amphitheaters carved into the flanks of spires, where choirs and artisans perform without ceasing, their music carrying through the streets as though the city itself were an instrument. In the district of Kindness, the grand Basilica of the Dawn crowns the skyline, its domes shimmering with golden mosaics; within, the holiest Itzamna’s Shields minister, tending wounds of both flesh and spirit. Truth finds its home in the twin halls of the Stellar Forge and the Library of Light, where fire tempers visions into invention and chronicles are etched into living tablets of flame. The quarter of Sacrifice rises as fortress-spires, their crimson banners trailing over garrison yards where the Valiants train; from these barracks march the armies of Heaven. Generosity pools in vaults of silver and fountains of coin, where the Riverwardens direct the endless flow of Heaven’s wealth, ensuring that no soul in the lower rings goes without. Diligence builds upward through lantern-towers stacked with workshops, where the Flamewrights labor unceasingly, their scaffolds draped in banners as ever-new spires push the skyline higher. And in the quarter of Love, sanctuaries crowned in red overlook the canals, where the Weavers of the Red Thread consecrate vows and cast moonlit nets across rooftops, mending what bonds have frayed.

The people of Metinut live with privilege but also scrutiny. For those who dwell here may freely descend into Yechol to guide and teach, yet those below may only rise after proving themselves by doctrine, confession, or deed. Thus, the Ring of Temperance is both citadel and sieve: a city elevated, radiant in its order, yet always distant — high above the outer faithful, ever pressing them to climb closer to the light.

The final ring of Heaven is unlike any that lie below. Rising above seas of light and drifting cloud, it is not a dwelling but a sanctum: the Citadel of Salvation, a crystalline stronghold of alabaster and gold. Its towers gleam like frozen flame, its walls refract dawn into endless colors, and its spires seem to pierce eternity itself. To the denizens of the lower rings, it is glimpsed only as a distant crown, haloed in radiance, suspended beyond reach.

No common soul may set foot here. Passage inward is reserved for the Archangels and for Kolid the Scribe, and only on the gravest of occasions might an honored guest be brought within. Here they convene in the Councilroom of the Divine, where the rewritten Covenant—salvaged from memory, vision, and fragment after the Fall of Arallu—rests sealed in crystalline vaults. Beside it lie the holiest of relics, artifacts preserved as reminders of both loss and promise.

At the Citadel’s heart lies the most sacred chamber: an open hall vast as a sky, floored with concentric steps of cloud that rise toward the Throne of God. Upon that dais stands the Empty Seat, gleaming yet untouched since the breaking of Arallu. Its vacancy is both Heaven’s wound and its hope—the ever-present absence that defines the realm. To some, it is a reminder of grief; to others, a promise unfulfilled; to all, it is the center of faith itself, the place where the King shall one day return.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The figures and realms described on this page are fictional reimaginings created for the Alékia project. The writing and images here are inspired by mythologies, religions, and folklore from around the world. The characters are not intended as direct portrayals of religious figures, nor are the stories here meant to replace or stand in for the beliefs of any real community, past or present.

Inspiration for these characters comes from both extinct traditions and living traditions. Where living religions are referenced, the names have been adapted or reinterpreted in a purely fictional sense, and should not be taken as accurate reflections of those faiths. Out of respect, the project avoids reproducing rituals, prayers, or sacred practices.

Particular care has been taken in approaching African religions, traditions, and folklore. In developing the Archangel of Prosperity, its associated Seraphic Order, and the power representing the Virtue of Generosity, I considered drawing from Yoruba, Ewe, Khoisan, Luba, and more traditions, but I chose not to, out of respect for their status as living, closed, or community-protected practices. These traditions are profound and beautiful in their own right, and I encourage readers to explore and learn about them directly from practitioners, scholars, and community voices. Instead, I drew from the Meroitic religion of Nubia, a fully extinct tradition with enough history preserved to reimagine in a fantasy setting.

For each Celestial character presented here, an Infernal counterpart has also been created with inspiration from the same cultural tradition, reflecting how many faiths envision destructive and protective forces in dialogue with one another. This was done with appreciation for the complexity of each tradition, and with the intent to show how chaos and order, hunger and generosity, are often intertwined rather than cleanly divided into good and evil.

A framework of “the Heavens” and “the Hells” is used here because it is globally recognizable. It is important, however, to acknowledge why: this framework spread in part through colonialism and missionary activity that sought to erase or suppress local faiths. Recognizing that history matters. In Alékia, positioning figures from diverse traditions as “angelic” or “demonic” counterparts is not meant to imply superiority or hierarchy, but to use a familiar language as a tool for exploring many cosmologies. These pairings do not necessarily reflect how the entities are understood within their originating cultures—sometimes they echo traditional relationships, sometimes they do not.

This page should be read as fantasy worldbuilding, not religious or cultural teachings. My intent is to honor the richness of human faith by inspiring curiosity and encouraging readers to explore mythologies and religions they may not have encountered before, especially those outside the well-known Greco-Roman and Abrahamic frameworks.

I am one person, learning and creating. This project is fueled by curiosity, not theology, and I mean no disrespect to any belief or tradition. My aim is to honor cultural richness by sparking interest, not to define, replace, or assign any value or judgment. If anything here feels harmful or misrepresentative, please reach out—I will listen, read, and reflect.