Azrael lingered on the outskirts of the Holy City, moving through the forests, roads, and winding paths that led to its gates. He kept himself hidden, his presence no more than a whisper.
Marcellus had wanted more from him. A greater role. A heavier hand.
Azrael refused.
He was still the headmaster of a prestigious academy. He wanted to help, but his involvement in all this had to remain limited. Anything more would invite questions he wasn't prepared to answer.
This was enough.
Every traveler trying to reach the Holy City for the pilgrimage found the road blocked. Walls of ice rose without warning. Bitter winter storms swallowed every route. One by one, they turned back, their hopes of witnessing a miracle crushed by the cold.
The Holy City was now completely cut off from the rest of the world.
THUD.
