The chamber was still when she came.
A whisper of air, softer than breath, preceded her. Then wings. Vast, pale, scarred from centuries of exile, they blotted the dim firelight from the balcony.
Uriel alighted like a falcon returning to a forgotten aerie, but instead of pride, she folded herself into abasement.
Atlas had seen many warriors bow, but never like this. She lowered herself until her forehead touched the cold black stone, wings flaring and then dropping open—exposing the roots of her feathers, the vulnerable junction where tendon met bone.
The gesture was no ordinary fealty. It was the gesture of the Fallen when they offered the last of their strength to a master, the gesture reserved for one who could kill them with a thought.
Her voice trembled. "Prophet. My Prophet."
For a moment Atlas almost laughed at the absurdity. Him—Atlas, who once swore to break prophets and gods alike—now seated in silence while an archangel laid her neck before him.
