The smell of charred wood and flesh hung heavy over Azrael as he ran through the ruin that was once their home along with the survivors.
Smoke curled into the sky, like vengeful god fingers clawing at the heavens. Behind them, the stronghold of the Sisterhood buckled and finally collapsed, sacred halls laid to ruin.
Azrael didn't look back. He couldn't.
He'd turn to ice if he did; his sorrow would eat him whole if he did.
"We need to move, keep moving," Eliza said, her quivering voice supporting a wounded girl.
Azrael nodded, clenching tighter on his sword, though the useless feel of it in his hands made him relax his grip. His system-his only real advantage in this world-was gone. He had tried calling upon it, summoning its power. Nothing.
Why now? Why had it abandoned him now, at such a bad time?
