The morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows of Saint Michael's Church, casting fractured beams of red, gold, and blue onto the cold stone floors. Castiel sat in his small room, back hunched, eyes fixed on the wall but seeing none of it. He hadn't slept well. His dreams were full of fire, blood, and the echoes of screams. Gursahib's face haunted him most of all—frozen in time, a quiet smile that now belonged to memory.
He finally rose, his limbs heavy. The events of the night before weighed on him like chains. He had killed men—bad men, yes—but people nonetheless. Could they have changed? Could they have been saved?
He needed guidance.
Castiel walked through the quiet halls of the church until he reached the Father's study. Father William sat behind his desk, reading scripture by the light of a single candle. He looked up and immediately saw the weight Castiel carried.
"Come in, my son," he said gently.
Castiel sat across from him and took a long breath. "Father… I did something. I need to tell you everything."
He spoke. He told the story of Gursahib's disappearance, the gang, the powers that awoke inside him—the smiting, the wings, the teleportation, the massacre. He didn't leave anything out. When he was done, silence filled the room like fog.
Father William leaned forward, his hands clasped. "May I… see them?"
Castiel nodded. He closed his eyes and called to them. A soundless wind filled the room, and in a flash of white light, two massive, radiant wings of holy energy unfurled behind him. A glowing halo shimmered into existence above his head. The light wasn't blinding—it was warm, powerful, divine.
Father William stood slowly, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in awe. He walked around Castiel, taking it in. "It's true," he whispered. "You've been blessed by the Lord… or perhaps… perhaps you are something more. An angel reborn in mortal flesh."
Castiel dismissed the wings and halo, and the light vanished like a breeze. "I don't feel like an angel," he said quietly. "I feel like a murderer."
Father William sat back down. His tone changed—gentler now, more fatherly than ever. "You made a mistake, Castiel. You're only fourteen. Even saints struggled in their youth. You acted out of grief, and anger… not righteousness. That's the danger of power. But I also know this—you have a good heart. You mourn for your friend. You regret your actions. That matters."
Castiel nodded, still unsure. "What do I do now?"
Father William placed a hand on his shoulder. "You learn. You grow. And you make a promise."
"a promise?"
"To never kill, unless you are certain—beyond any doubt—that the person is truly irredeemable. That they cannot, and will not, ever change. Let your heart guide you. Let God guide you."
Castiel stood, a weight lifting from his shoulders. "I swear it," he said, voice clear. "To God—I swear I will never take a life unless I believe they are beyond redemption."
The Father smiled, proud. "Then there's something I want to show you."
They walked through the church, down a narrow corridor rarely used, until they came to an old wooden door at the back of the building. Father William pulled out a key, unlocked it, and led Castiel down a hidden stone stairwell. At the bottom was a great door of iron and oak. He opened it slowly.
The chamber beyond took Castiel's breath away.
Massive and circular, lit only by candlelight and shafts of sun from high windows, the room was silent and sacred. At its center stood a towering statue—an angel in armor, wings spread wide, sword raised high. Saint Michael. His expression was stern but noble. The sword in his hand was unlike any Castiel had ever seen. Its blade was broken—shattered a third of the way up—but the hilt and lower piece still radiated ancient power.
Behind the statue was a giant mural of Saint Michael casting Lucifer from Heaven, flames and light clashing in the heavens. It sent chills down Castiel's spine.
"What… is this place?" Castiel whispered.
"This," Father William said, voice hushed, "is the Hall of the Watcher. Few know it exists. Long ago, it is said that the Archangel Michael created a sword—a weapon of divine light, forged with his own grace. He used it to defeat Lucifer in the Great War. But after casting his brother out, Michael broke the sword. He said no man or angel should wield such power lightly again. He scattered its pieces across the earth."
He walked over to the statue and gently touched the hilt of the broken sword. "This is the largest fragment. It's lain here for centuries. Waiting. For someone worthy."
Castiel stared at it. Something stirred in his chest. A warmth. A recognition.
"I want you to take it," Father William said. "You're not perfect. But you have something most people don't—hope. Maybe, one day, you'll find the other pieces. Maybe you'll reforge the Sword of Light. And when that day comes… may you wield it with wisdom, and mercy."
With reverence, Castiel stepped forward. He gripped the hilt with both hands. The moment his skin touched the metal, a surge of light pulsed through the room. The candles flared. The mural behind him glowed faintly. The statue seemed to smile.
Castiel held the broken blade in his hands and felt something inside him click into place.
He wasn't just a boy.
He was something more.
And his journey had only just begun.