In a space beyond spaces, where the memory of the world slumbered, the man once known as Damian Roswald stood before the Angel.
The Angel of the Deep sat upon a simple, wooden chair, bereft of decoration or luxury. The only concession to comfort appeared to be Their neatly ironed suit, made of a material so black it seemed to melt into the shadows around Them. Their eyes were like onyx gems, sparkling with the light of thousands of stars—a ghostly image of the Heavens that had once lit up the skies.
The World's Memories towered overhead, the shelves disappearing from view before they could ever touch the ceiling. Shadow-born hands pushed and pulled books from the shelves—some so thin they were mere sheets of paper, others leather-bound tomes thicker than a man's arm.
Cardinal pulled his attention back to the Angel of the Deep.
"I did not invite this memory of you, Damian Roswald."
