The newly oath-marked exiles stood in the courtyard as the first rays of true sunlight broke over the eastern wall. Twenty-two souls now bore Azrael's fire beneath their skin—marks that pulsed faintly with each heartbeat, visible as dark spirals of ash and ember against flesh.

Azrael swayed on his feet, Maya's hand still steady at his elbow. The binding had drained him more than any battle, but he couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not with so many eyes watching.

Sariel ...