Azrael raised his sword.
The blade caught the fracture's light and held it, dark metal drinking the pale glow. His followers raised theirs. A dozen. Two dozen. The broken sector filled with the sound of wings spreading, blades singing, breath held.
Zeus didn't move.
He stood at the edge of the light, arms at his sides, face calm. The chaos in his chest pulsed once—slow, deliberate—then stilled. He had been holding back for weeks. Letting others fight. Letting others die. He was done holding back.
"You had your chance," Zeus said.
Azrael's eyes burned.
"I don't want your chances."
He attacked.
Fast. Desperate. The kind of speed that came from believing you had nothing left to lose. His blade cut through the grey light, aimed at Zeus's throat.
Zeus moved.
Not fast. Just early. He stepped inside Azrael's reach before the blade could fully extend. His forearm caught the angel's wrist. His other hand slammed into Azrael's chest.
