The dead numbered thirty-seven.

Azrael stood in the compound's courtyard as the first light of full dawn broke over the ruined barriers, watching the Forsaken lay bodies in rows. Mortals mostly—their fragile forms hadn't withstood the violence as well as angelic or demonic flesh. But there were exiles too. A fallen angel whose wings had been torn away. Two demons who'd died shielding mortal defenders. Even one of the original Forsaken guards, her throat crushed by a celestial blade.

They'd ...