Azrail now understood the psychological root of this faction, and the realisation chilled him far more than any display of brute force ever could. The power here was not built on war, on legions, or on devastating planetary weaponry. It was built entirely on the knowledge of war, on an archival, relentless, and all-consuming awareness. It was the absolute weaponisation of memory and foresight.
As this profound truth settled over him, a woman in deep, midnight-navy robes glided past them. Her movement was less a walk and more a flawless translation through space. She was one of the Recorders, and a chill of professional detachment emanated from her. She had no visible wings; her hair pulled back into a severely tight, almost painful knot at the nape of her neck. Most unsettling of all, her pupils were not circles, but perfect, miniature, horizontally-oriented hourglasses.
