She returned to the Hall on wings heavy with silence.
The light did not welcome her this time. It did not turn away—the Source's light never turned away from its own—but a weight pressed the radiance, a listening hush, as though creation's marrow had already tasted the question she carried and now gathered itself to answer.
Seraphiel knelt.
Golden hair pooled around her in golden rivers. Wings folded. Palms upturned on her thighs. The ancient posture she had held for eons without breaking.
Her voice, when she spoke, was barely louder than the hum of the light itself.
"Holy One. I am returned."
"Speak."
