Few minutes later
Eamon heard a footstep
Eamon didn't look up when the footsteps came.
He knew who it was.
Only Gabriel moved like that—like light had learned to walk.
No sound. Just weight. Presence. The air shifted before he even stepped onto the platform.
Eamon wiped the sweat—or whatever it was—from his face. His hands were still stained with memory, fingertips twitching from the last shard.
"You're early," Eamon muttered, eyes still locked on the forge.
Gabriel said nothing for a while. Just stood there, watching the shards hover in a soft orbit around the forge. Each one shimmered with something that wasn't holy, but wasn't mortal either.
"Are they ready?" Gabriel finally asked.
Eamon reached toward the last piece—the white one. The one that hummed too quietly, like it was remembering someone it missed.
"They're not pretty," Eamon said.
Gabriel tilted his head. "They're not supposed to be."
