Four days had passed since Father William revealed the hidden chamber beneath Saint Michael's Church. Since then, Castiel had returned to it daily, drawn to the presence of the broken sword like a flame to kindling. The chamber was ancient, dusty, lit by flickering lanterns that cast long shadows on the carved stone walls. At the center stood the towering statue of the Archangel Michael, wings spread wide, his eyes stern and righteous. The broken sword he held glowed faintly in the dimness, and every time Castiel approached it, he could feel something resonate deep in his soul.
He had taken the broken sword, gently removing it from Michael's stone hands, feeling a jolt of power course through him as he gripped the hilt. Though shattered, the blade thrummed with holy energy. Its edge was jagged, ancient — yet when Castiel focused his will, light burst forth from the broken metal, extending its shape with radiant power until a full blade shimmered in his grasp.
But the sword was incomplete, and Castiel knew it. It responded to his energy, but it could be more. Father William said there were five more pieces out there. For now, Castiel would master what he had.
He trained in solitude beneath the church, swinging the blade through the air, practicing until his arms ached and the holy light dimmed from overuse. His wings would flicker in and out, his halo casting gentle warmth in the room like the rising sun. He tested his blasts of light through the sword, finding the holy relic acted as a conduit — focusing his power, amplifying it.
But he needed to know the truth of its strength.
That night, he stood in the church's bell tower, gazing at the night sky. Snow dusted the air around Toronto, but Castiel's thoughts were elsewhere. He thought of the vast emptiness of Alaska — the wilds that could take any burden he threw at them. He spread his spiritual wings, glowing white and majestic, and with a breath, he vanished from the cold tower.
He reappeared in a barren, frozen plain in Alaska. The sky above was a curtain of stars, and silence reigned. First, he summoned his holy energy without the sword — channeling it through his hands. He sent a blast forward. It crashed into a frozen ridge, shattering it in seconds. Next, he prepared a full smiting — focusing, calling on that ancient rage that once avenged his parents. He brought it forth with everything he had.
The ground trembled.
Snow and ice peeled away for miles, collapsing into a crater of white ruin. He could feel the land itself recoil under his power. Breathing heavily, Castiel stood at the edge, watching the devastation. "Without the sword…" he muttered to himself. "Then with it…"
He closed his eyes and teleported to the highest peak he could sense. Snow whipped around him as he stood on a mountain top. The wind howled.
He summoned the broken sword of Saint Michael. The blade formed in full once more, glowing white-hot. Then, he channeled his smite into it — the sword shook in his hand, absorbing the immense energy. Castiel gritted his teeth, aimed down, and thrust.
A beam erupted from the tip of the sword, a blinding white pillar of divine fire that split the mountain.
The blast echoed for miles, and when it ended, the world below was silent. Trees were gone. Ice melted. The valley was scorched and steaming.
Castiel stared in awe. Even he was afraid of what he'd just done.
He lowered the sword, wings dimming. "This… this is a weapon of judgment," he whispered.
Without another thought, he teleported back into his room. The silence of the church felt comforting after the chaos he'd unleashed. He collapsed on his bed, the sword lying beside him, glowing faintly. Within seconds, sleep took him.
He was dreaming of Gursahib, of Father William's smile, of endless skies… until a knock echoed at his door.
"Castiel," came Father William's voice. "There are some people here to see you."
Castiel blinked awake, sitting up. His body still ached faintly from the exertion.
"Who?" he asked groggily.
"Come and see," Father William said with a smile.
The chapel was quiet, except for the faint sound of wind brushing against the stained-glass windows. Morning sunlight bled through the glass, painting soft colors across the church floor as Castiel stepped into the main hall. His boots echoed gently against the polished stone as he walked toward the visitors. His body still felt heavy from the power he'd unleashed the day before. His mind was still caught somewhere between awe and guilt.
At the front of the church stood a man in a wheelchair. He looked old, but not weak — calm, composed, with sharp, watchful eyes that seemed to know far more than he said aloud. Beside him stood a tall woman with silver hair tied back, her arms crossed. Castiel had never seen either of them before, but something about the man felt... knowing.
Father William smiled as Castiel approached. "Castiel, this is Professor Charles Xavier. He's come a long way to meet you."
Castiel raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
Xavier offered a warm smile. "Because the world is changing, Castiel. And you're part of that change."
Castiel glanced at Father William, then looked back at Xavier. "I don't understand."
"I know," Xavier said gently. "But I'd like to help you understand. Would you sit with me a moment?"
Castiel hesitated, then nodded, pulling over a chair to sit across from him.
"There are people in the world," Xavier began, "who are born different. With powers. Sometimes these powers are gifts. Sometimes they're curses. But always, they are a part of that person, not separate from them."
"Mutants," Castiel said.
Xavier nodded. "Yes. But you… you're something even more rare. Your gifts are unlike anything I've ever encountered. Holy light. Wings of pure energy. The power to smite evil from existence. That's not just mutation — that's something sacred."
Castiel looked down at his hands, now wrapped in bandages from training with the sword. "I don't know what I am."
"And that's why I'm here," Xavier said. "Not to label you. Not to control you. But to offer guidance… and maybe, a place where you won't have to carry this burden alone."
"You want me to come with you?" Castiel asked. "To this… school of yours?"
"Yes," Xavier said. "Even if just to visit. To see there are others in the world like you. Not exactly like you, perhaps — but others who know what it means to be feared, or worshipped, or hated… for simply being different."
The woman beside Xavier finally spoke. "I didn't believe it until I saw the scorch marks on the ice field in Alaska. You did that?"
Castiel nodded slowly.
She whistled. "Kid's a walking miracle."
"Miracles," Xavier said gently, "can also be misunderstood."
Castiel looked away. Four dayd ago, he had killed a room full of men. Some evil, some lost. He didn't even know all their names. He thought about Gursahib. His friend was gone. He had all the power in the world, and he'd still failed to save him.
"What if I don't deserve a place like that?" he muttered.
Xavier's expression softened. "Castiel, guilt can be a guide. But it must not become a prison. You are still young. You are still learning. And you have people who care about you — like Father William — who believe in the goodness of your heart."
Father William stepped forward, placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Go see the world, my boy. See what's out there. But wherever you go, know this — God walks with you."
Castiel looked between them both. He took a deep breath.
"Okay," he said. "I'll visit."
Xavier smiled. "Good. We leave tomorrow."
Castiel nodded, unsure of what waited for him beyond these walls. But something in his chest — something light and warm — told him he was taking a step in the right direction.