Uriel spent long minutes reassuring Ayah.
Her worry was warranted; she'd seen him dead and skewered just moments ago. For the both of them, such brutality was supposed to be entirely novel, traumatising experiences that would define them.
But it was hard to explain to her that such gory methods of torture weren't necessarily new to him.
His grandmother was quite creative, and had somehow been able to tear and stitch him back together more times than he dared count even before the apocalypse, before any supernatural ability.
It was a miracle he wasn't a canvas of scars and leathery skin.
…
Enoch was fine, already used to the gore and suffering associated with battle, while Ayah was more restless than she'd ever been, her thirst for power pouring out of her in waves.
But Uriel still seemed dazed, for some reason.
