When Lucifer was born, his older sisters already knew things were going to get complicated. From the moment he could stretch his wings, all they ever heard was their mother screaming and their father grumbling. Ah, but they forgave him for every single one of his stupidities—except this one.
“How in Heaven’s name did you break that vase?” Carmilla asked, staring at her brother, who looked about fifteen—though, of course, they all knew he wasn’t.
“I was just flying around here and—poof! It broke!” Lucifer said, wings twitching nervously.
“Of course it did,” Sera groaned, tugging at her ear. “You’re going to bring the whole house down one day, I swear.”
“Hey, I know he’s a jerk,” Carmilla said, crouching beside the shattered relic, “but not that much of a jerk.”
The oldest sister examined the fragments carefully, as if hoping they might magically piece themselves back together.
“Look,” she muttered, “if Mother sees this, we’re all as good as dead.”
“We?” Carmilla arched a brow. “Why we?”
Sera crossed her arms, deadly serious. “Because we’re responsible for what Lucifer does. If he fails—we fail.”
“Oh…” Carmilla sighed, rubbing her temples. “Right. Family teamwork. My favorite.”
The real problem was that all the tool they needed were locked away in their father private workshop. No one was allowed in there without permission—and if they got caught, the punishment would be far worse than breaking a vase.
Sera frowned, pacing in circles. “Okay, think. There has to be another way.”
“Maybe we can just…glue it?” Lucifer offered, holding two glowing shards together like a child trying to fix a toy. They sparked and hissed in his hands. “Ow! Okay, maybe not.”
Carmilla snatched the fragments from him before he could make it worse. “You’re going to end up setting yourself on fire.”
Lucifer frowned. “You two never let me experiment.”
“Because your ‘experiments’ usually end with fire, explosions, or screaming,” Carmilla reminded him.
Silence fell for a moment, only broken by the faint hum of the broken vase.
"Look,” Carmilla finally said, inspecting a fragment under the light, “there’s no glue that can hold this together…the pieces are literally made of stars. We’d need the Solar Forge from father's workshop.”
Lucifer blinked. “The what?”
“The Solar Forge,” Sera explained, lowering her voice. “Father uses it to shape suns and repair relics that hold divine energy.
“Absolutely not!” Sera hissed. “What part of "forbidden" you don't get?”
“But we’re already doomed if we don’t fix this,” Carmilla reasoned, crossing her arms. “So either we risk sneaking in—or we stand here waiting for Mother to end us.”
Then Sera exhaled, resigned. “Fine. We go in, fix the vase, and get out before he notices.”
And so, the three of them made their way toward the forbidden workshop—each praying their parents wouldn’t find out.
___________________________________________
To their surprise, the golden doors of Yahweh's workshop opened without resistance, for they recognized their father's essence in their veins. A wave of warm light greeted them as they entered. The air shimmered faintly, imbued with an inexplicable yet pleasant aroma.
Above, a wide skylight cast a steady beam of light upon a sculptor's table. All the celestial tools hung neatly on the wall: hammers that glowed with solar fire, chisels made of frozen lightning, and brushes woven from comet tails. On the table lay a radiant lump of clay, half-formed, a creature in the making, or perhaps a world awaiting its name.
The rest of the room was shrouded in shadows, but not the kind that frighten. These shadows shimmered faintly, revealing glimpses of hidden beauty: galaxies, trails, tiny universes floating alongside their stars.
"Don't touch anything," Sera said, quite distressed, though still excited to see what this place held.
"Understood," Lucifer said automatically, reaching for something.
Carmilla turned just in time to see him pick up a small, shimmering, bluish sphere. It pulsed gently in his hands, a miniature star.
"Lucifer, put that back where it was."
He smiled, tossing it lightly into the air. "Relax! Nothing will happen."
"Leave it alone," Carmilla warned.
But Lucifer continued playing, tossing it higher and higher. The little star spun in the air like a living ball of light, changing color the more he spun it.
When he ignored her, she lunged to snatch it away…and that's when everything went wrong. The star slipped from their grasp, rising with a sharp hiss before bouncing off the walls. It ricocheted from tool to tool, sending sparks flying across the vast chamber. The room seemed endless now, the star's wild light flickering over flasks and half-formed constellations.
They could only watch as the bright sphere vanished into darkness, its trail of light fading behind it. Carmilla's face paled.
Sera didn't even reply. Her wings drooped, her eyes wide. "We're dead, dead."
"KIDS!!!" The roar shook the heavens themselves. In an instant, the color drained from their faces, and their wings puffed up like startled doves.
Lucifer tried to laugh. “Heh… maybe that wasn’t Dad dad. Could be, uh, some other—”
“Lucifer,” Sera hissed, “there is only one voice that sounds like the sky splitting in half.”
Footsteps echoed in the light. Not ordinary footsteps—each one felt like the shifting of mountains, the rhythm of creation itself taking form. A figure approached from the far end of the workshop, too radiant to look at directly.
Yahweh didn’t need a crown to look like a king. The light around him bent in reverence.
“What,” he said slowly, each word shaking the air, “did you three do?”
Yahweh sighed — and when He sighed, the galaxies seemed to dim for a moment. “Why is it that every time I look away for a single moment, you find new ways to test the limits of divine patience?"
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