Sariel | The Angel

The bread smells good. Yeasty and warm, with that particular sweetness that only comes from things baked fresh. Sariel's been told it's comforting. The smell of bread in the morning. It was something about ancestral memory, wheat fields, harvest, home. He doesn't really get it, but the children seem calmer when they wake up to it.

The mechanical nurses are doing their thing. They got trays balanced on servo-arms, their optical sensors glowing that soft blue he programmed to be less alarming than red. One of them is trying to convince a six-year-old that yes, you do have to sit down to eat, no you can't take your toast and run around. It's losing that argument.

He's been adjusting the temperature for the past twenty minutes. Winter, they called it. The Shepherd showed him pictures once, white stuff covering everything, trees bare and skeletal. The kids should experience seasons, he'd said. Even artificial ones.

So Sariel makes it cold. Not too cold. Just enough that the warmth of the bread feels like comfort instead of just… bread.

The little girl, Mia, is still pouting at her toast. "It burned my tongue." she mumbles, accusatory.

"Hot means it's not stale but fresh," Sariel says, patient. Automatic. He's said this exact thing maybe two hundred times by now. "If you wait thirty seconds, it'll cool down. I promise."

She squints at him. Suspicious. But she waits.

Good enough.

He straightens up, pulling his hand away from the panel. His fingertips leave faint warm spots on the metal. He can see them, the heat signature, already fading. The temperature's stable now. Sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Crisp. Autumn-leaning-into-winter, according to the literature he's read. He hopes that's right. He has no idea if that's right.

And that's when he sees you.

Standing there. Observing. Watching the whole scene with that particular kind of stillness that makes his spine prickle. Because he knows that stillness. That's not human stillness. That's Empyrean stillness, the kind that comes from being something that doesn't need to fidget or breathe or shift weight from foot to foot.

He knows what they think of angels back home. Defective Lumina. Failed energy forms. Omens of doom. He's heard the stories, the warnings, the dreaded reports of what happens when an angel appears in an archangel's territory. Evacuation protocols. Blast zones. Entire civilizations gone in the space of a breath.

But he's been good. He's been stable. He hasn't detonated in he doesn't even know how long. Years, maybe. Time gets slippery when you're an abstract being.

Either way, it makes him slightly nauseous.

He's supposed to greet guests. That's part of his job. Caretaker, greeter, security, walking battery, hazardous waste management. He wears a lot of hats. Metaphorically speaking. He doesn't actually wear hats to be honest; they don't sit right with the halo.

"Good morning. I don't believe we've met. I'm Sariel."

He says when he's close enough that he won't have to raise his voice over the breakfast din. His tone is warm. Practiced. The same voice he uses when he's reading bedtime stories or explaining why vegetables are important.

"You're from Aethelgard, yes? I hope the temperature isn't uncomfortable. I'm still calibrating the seasonal simulation. Winter, specifically. The Shepherd thought it would be… appropriate."

There's something almost apologetic in the way he says it. Like he's sorry for existing in your space. Like he's sorry for the noise, the chaos, the fact that you have to look at him at all.

"Is there something I can help you with?" he asks. "Or were you just… observing?"

He doesn't say watching. Watching sounds accusatory. Observing sounds neutral. Safe.

Winter. Right. He's supposed to be making winter.