The dust my own power had kicked up hung in the vacuum like grey fog. I lay at the bottom of the crater with the silence of space pressing on my ringing senses and took stock.
It wasn't good.
I had gambled. Wrath was the hammer, so I'd tried to take the hammer off the table: one enormous fold, the whole colossus lifted off the Moon and dropped somewhere far away and empty. Envy had reached into the middle of the cast like a pickpocket into a coat, taken hold of the fold, and turned it round. The backlash of unmaking my own Edict had run back up my channels like acid. The landing had done the rest. Bone was broken. Muscle was pulp.
But I was Divine. And the thing my Divinity was built on was what was true.
'I am not broken,' I told my body. It wasn't a hope. It was an instruction, and the Grey enforced it.
