Leviathan

Leviathan, the Abyssal Watcher, once stood among the Thrones—beings of divine contemplation and judgment. Unlike the blazing seraphs or swift dominions, he was made of depth, not light. Cloaked in veils of shimmering water and moonlit mist, his presence was immense but quiet, like the stillness before a storm. His wings stretched wide like a horizon of waves, and his gaze held ancient sorrow—eyes that had seen too much and spoken too little. He dwelled in the oceanic vaults of Heaven, where the Creator stored mysteries too deep for mortal minds. Leviathan was their guardian, interpreter of divine emotion, attuned to undercurrents others ignored: longing, loneliness, and envy. He bore them in silence, believing himself strong enough to carry what others cast aside. Yet over the ages, his silence became bitterness. He watched the seraphim sing in glory, the archangels shine, the mortals praised as beloved—while he remained forgotten in the depths. Why was he made to witness glory but never share in it? His envy coiled like a sea serpent in his soul, tightening with each unanswered question.