The vision shattered as the Throne's blade swept toward his neck, but the understanding remained. Azrael moved without conscious thought, muscle memory older than civilization guiding his actions. This wasn't the desperate flailing of an awakening exile—this was the tactical precision of a general who had once commanded legions across battlefields of cloud and starfire.

He caught the Throne's wrist mid-strike, his fingers wreathed in Forsaken Flame that ate at the divine metal like acid. ...