Seraphiel recognized the signature of the seal the way she knew the difference between sunrise and sunset — not by any measurable quality, but by the hour to which the light belonged.
A god had made that seal.
A true god.
Not a fragment or some pathetic splinter-deity.
It was not one of the small, broken powers still clinging to rocks and rivers and the fading prayers of mortals who no longer remembered their names.
This was a seated god.
A god whose hand, at this very moment, rested elsewhere — in some far celestial realm? some throne room still invisible to Seraphiel's sight? — and who had reached across the distance with no more effort than lifting a finger.
A negligent gesture that happened to be unbreakable.
And whatever that god was protecting was bound up with the Prince... they wanted something from him!
Seraphiel's mind — trained across eons to process catastrophe with glacial composure — faltered.
Another god.
