Muriel

The Unfallen Melody of Shamayim

In the earliest movements of creation, before rebellion fractured harmony and before allegiance became a test of the heart, Shamayim was governed not by force but by resonance. Every thought, every motion, and every expression of life moved in rhythm with Ahavah’s glory. At the centre of this divine harmony stood Mizbeach-Halal, the altar of praise, where sound itself was a sacred language. It was here that the clan of Selaphiel, the greatest musicians of Shamayim, fulfilled their eternal calling.

From this exalted clan came Muriel—a Princess angel, born not of ambition or power, but of melody, balance, and peace.

Selaphiel, known among the archangels as “The King of Music,” was entrusted with a sacred responsibility: to oversee the soundscape of Shamayim. Music was not entertainment alone; it was order, healing, alignment, and communion. The Selaphiels played divinely designed instruments—harps that shaped atmosphere, strings that regulated emotion, winds that carried wisdom, and percussions that established divine timing. At Mizbeach-Halal, these instruments did not merely accompany worship; they were worship.

Muriel emerged among them as something rare even in Shamayim: a melody that could not be corrupted.

She was called a Princess not only because of political rank, but because of purity of resonance. Her essence aligned effortlessly with Ahavah’s breath. Where others mastered music through discipline, Muriel was music—her presence alone softened tension and restored equilibrium. When she sang, sound did not move outward only; it moved inward, settling restless thoughts and quieting turbulent spirits.

In those days, before the fractures, Muriel’s music often flowed through Mizbeach-Halal during the great cycles of praise. Angels paused in their duties to listen—not in distraction, but in renewal. Even Boqer’s descendants, keepers of order and movement, would subtly adjust their rhythms when her melodies filled the space. Her songs did not command; they invited. They reminded creation of why it existed.

Yet peace, as history reveals, is often tested not in silence but in choice.

Then came the first and far more violent fracture: Lucifer’s rebellion.

This was not a philosophical departure but a confrontation—a collision of wills between Lucifer’s clans and the forces led by Michael. Shamayim trembled as authority was challenged, and loyalty became a line that could no longer be blurred. Sound itself changed. Where once praise flowed freely, tension distorted resonance. Even music felt the strain.

When Lucifer fell and was cast to Olam-Chuphshah, the heavens mourned—not merely the loss of beings, but the rupture of unity. In that aftermath, Muriel’s role deepened. She did not sing songs of triumph or lament alone; she composed songs of healing. Her melodies helped stabilize wounded realms, soothe angels shaken by conflict, and restore focus to Mizbeach-Halal as the heart of Shamayim.

It is said that during the immediate silence after Lucifer’s fall, when many could not find their voices, Muriel sang—not loudly, but clearly. That single act realigned worship and prevented despair from taking root.

The second great fracture came with what would later be known as the Peace Fall—the departure of the Ten Kings. It was not war. There were no clashing forces or violent upheavals. It was a quiet deviation, a philosophical separation rooted in disagreement rather than rebellion. Many followed their kings out of loyalty, curiosity, or conviction. Some believed peace could be preserved apart from Ahavah’s direct order.

Muriel did not go.

Not because she could not—but because she would not.

To her, harmony could not exist without its Source. Music detached from Ahavah was noise, no matter how beautiful. While others debated authority and structure, Muriel listened—to the underlying tone of the universe—and she heard dissonance forming. She remained at Mizbeach-Halal, continuing her service without protest or judgment, her melodies quietly reinforcing stability during a time of subtle loss.

Muriel’s music is unique in Shamayim for one defining reason: it carries no ambition. She does not seek elevation, recognition, or authority. Her power lies in selflessness. Where others shape sound to influence, Muriel allows sound to serve. This is why even the most troubled spirits find peace in her presence. Her melodies do not confront darkness; they dissolve it.

Within Mizbeach-Halal, Muriel often plays instruments that respond only to intention, not skill. These instruments resonate with emotional truth, making falsehood impossible. Because of this, she is sometimes called The Mirror of Sound—for no being can stand within her music and remain divided within themselves.

Though she is a Princess angel, Muriel is not bound to a throne or seat. She moves freely across the territories of Shamayim, but always returns to Mizbeach-Halal. There, her music continues to serve as a stabilizing force—a reminder of what Shamayim was, what it endured, and what it is destined to remain.

In the grand narrative of creation, Muriel stands as proof that not all strength is loud, and not all loyalty is tested by battle. Some beings remain faithful simply by staying aligned—by refusing to let their inner harmony be rewritten by chaos.

When Ahavah’s glory fills Shamayim and worship rises through Qadosh-Nabab, Muriel’s melodies are often woven invisibly within the sound—not dominant, not absent, but essential. She does not lead the song; she sustains it.

And when the Son returns, when all things are restored to their fullest order, Muriel will still be there—not changed, not exalted beyond measure—but perfectly in tune, as she has always been.

For in a universe marked by rebellion and restoration, Muriel is the melody that never fell.