The divine blade pierced Azrael's skin with the sound of reality tearing. Where it touched, his flesh began to dissolve—not burning away, but simply ceasing to exist as if the sword were editing him out of creation itself. The pain was beyond description, beyond the capacity of mortal language to express.

But pain, Azrael had learned during three years of exile, was just another kind of fuel.

In the depths of his consciousness, where memory and instinct collided, something ancient stirred. ...