The sight of Dawnbreaker sent a shock through Azrael's system that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with recognition. His sword—forged from his own essence eons ago, lost during the rebellion, mourned as dead—was here, chained like a common prisoner to the arena wall.

The momentary distraction nearly cost him his head.

Raziel's claws swept through the space where Azrael's neck had been, close enough that he felt the displaced air ruffle his hair. The scaled seraph's eyes ...