The world was restless the next morning.
A silence hung heavy over Blackthorn Mansion, like the hush before a storm that even the wind feared to disturb. The sky had dimmed to a bruised gray, though no cloud had yet formed. The servants whispered in the halls, sensing something stirring beyond mortal reach.
Especially now they knew what they were dealing with.
Kael stood at the highest balcony, cloak drawn tight around his shoulders. His gaze cut toward the horizon where the veil shimmered faintly — that fragile barrier between realms. His jaw was set. He could already feel it weakening.
Behind him, Azaziel waited in stillness, his silver eyes reflecting the storm's unborn light. "It begins," he said quietly. "Azrael is no longer waiting."
Kael's hand tightened on the railing. "Then we make sure he never crosses."
