Heaven
The camp had never been quiet. Not really. There was always movement—healers rushing between tents, gods arguing over anchor points, Hermes appearing and disappearing in blinks of light. But after the council, the noise changed. Became sharper. Edges where there used to be exhaustion.
Azrael noticed.
He noticed everything.
The way Michael's hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. The way Gabriel's light flickered at the edges, dimmer than it had been before the war. The way the younger angels looked at the gods' camp—not with hatred, not yet, but with something that could become hatred if it was fed.
Azrael had been feeding it for days.
Not loudly. It was not even obvious. He didn't preach. Didn't rally. Didn't stand on pillars and call for vengeance. He simply existed in the spaces between conversations. A look here. A word there. A quiet nod when someone voiced the anger they were too afraid to name.
He was scarred.
