Metatron's blade didn't fall immediately.

The high seraph stood in the compound's shattered courtyard, radiating power that made reality bend around him. His six wings spread wide enough to cast shadows across the entire eastern section. Divine fire wreathed his armor, and the blade in his hand blazed with concentrated essence that made Azrael's recovered fragments feel like dying embers.

"You remember me," Metatron observed, his voice carrying harmonics that suggested multiple speakers. "I ...