The first scream came at dawn.

Azrael was standing on the cracked balcony of what had been a luxury apartment before his Dominion transformed it into something between fortress and refuge. Below, in the makeshift courtyard formed from three collapsed buildings, survivors huddled around fires that burned without fuel—gifts of his flame, meant to keep them warm in the autumn chill.

The scream cut through the pre-dawn quiet like a blade.

He moved without thinking, wings snapping open ...