I don’t understand that yet. But I nod, because that’s what young angels do.

Right now, I’m nervous.

I’m Youngs. Only seventy-three celestial cycles old. That makes me a fledgling by Heaven’s standards. The elder seraphim glide past me without a glance, their six wings folded in solemn knots. They carry scrolls of law and light. Me? I carry a single feather that fell from the Archangel Michael’s left wing during the last Reckoning Drill. I keep it tucked under my tunic. It still glows when I’m nervous.

“Youngs.” A voice like harp strings pulled tight. My mentor, Amriel. She doesn’t have a face, just a shape of mercy and fire. “You’re lingering again.”

Here’s a short piece of content written from the of a young angel named Youngs : Title: Wings of Dawn

And somewhere below, that girl blows out her candle. I feel the tiny death of its flame like a stitch in my soul.

Amriel is silent. Then: “Some prayers are answers in themselves.”