Uriel lay where he had fallen, the grass soft beneath him, the garden quiet as though nothing unusual had occurred.
The air held its mild warmth. The sourceless light remained steady, diffused and golden beneath the broad canopy of the seventh tree.
A faint breeze moved through the leaves, and the sound it made was almost like distant water.
For a moment, he did nothing.
The garden did not rush him. It never rushed anything.
He drew a slow breath, more habit than necessity, and took stock. The old discipline rose naturally, as it always did. He checked the shape of himself, the alignment, the subtle tensions that told him where the impact had settled.
The report came back in fragments, quiet and practical.
Bruised, but intact.
A lingering ache across his shoulders, a tightness along his ribs where the force had folded him through stone and distance.
Nothing broken that would not mend, nothing lost.
He had endured worse.
