The sanctuary space existed in perpetual twilight—neither day nor night, neither light nor shadow. Just the in-between. The liminal space where reality hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.

Azrael lay in the center of it, the conversion fire still eating through his chest. The priestess had been working for what felt like hours or maybe minutes—time didn't flow normally here. Her forbidden rites were more effective in sanctuary, but the celestial fire was stubborn. Designed by Metatron ...