He wasn't in a place. He was inside a will.
"Cain."
The voice wasn't a sound. It pressed straight into him, bypassing ears and language. It felt ancient, immense, and disturbingly familiar—like someone calling him by a childhood nickname he didn't remember giving away.
He squared his shoulders. "You dragged me here. Start talking."
A figure formed from the haze. Not an angel—not even close. Angels were messengers shaped for speech and distance. This was the root. The source. A human outline cut from light, shifting between silhouettes: old, young, neither, everything. A face Cain couldn't quite grasp.
"You step where mortals cannot endure," the presence said. "Yet you stand."
"I don't care about standing," Cain said. "My team's trapped in a collapsing sanctuary because of you and the Fallen fighting over me. Fix it."
A ripple of something—approval?—passed through the space.
"You speak as one unafraid," the presence said. "That is why you survived their making."
