The angels’ wings are not of feather or flesh, but of divine prism — sculpted by the Creator from the essence of light itself. Each span is molded from a crystalline substance beyond mortal comprehension, clear as quartz yet alive with inner radiance. When white light streams through them, it shatters into the full spectrum — red through violet — painting the heavens in ribbons of living color.

In peace, their wings glimmer like a thousand brilliant diamonds, refracting serenity across the realms. Each motion leaves trails of rainbow mist, every hue whispering a different emotion: red for courage, yellow for hope, indigo for wisdom.

But when the call to battle resounds, that beauty transforms. The colors ignite, merging into a storm of incandescent flame. The spectrum contracts and surges — red burning hottest at the core, violet flickering at the edge like divine fire. Every strike of their wings releases waves of radiant heat that sear through shadow.

In the high sanctuaries of heaven, when the war is done, their wings shift again — from fire to lightning. The colors sharpen into electric currents racing through translucent crystal, humming with the frequency of celestial power. The entire spectrum dances in living motion, from crimson arcs to violet sparks, until all hues converge once more into pure, holy white — the light of creation itself made manifest in flight.