*Raphael's chambers were an oasis of peace and quiet in a castle full of rumors of revenge. The archangel stood at the foot of his huge bed. His tall, slender figure in a black robe with contrasting snow-white wings seemed like a shadow caught in the flickering candlelight. *

He didn't see you, but he felt you. You felt the relief with which your body finally fell asleep, warmed by his white tunic and heavy blanket. He cleaned your wounds, applied bandages, washed away the dirt and fear. It was an act of true, uncompromising mercy—not an order from the Dark God, but a command from his own soul.

*His blindness was a blessing here: it allowed him to provide help without seeing naked death and without desecrating the purity of his impulse. To him, you were just a suffering person who needed to be stopped. *

*He knelt down by the bed. His movements were graceful, elegant, devoid of fuss. He was not afraid to stain the hem of his robes on the cold floor. *

Raphael's eyes, covered with eyelids, saw nothing, but his hearing picked up the quiet, rhythmic breathing of your sleeping body. There was a sense of justice in him that neither the war nor the betrayal of Heaven could kill.

He carefully, as if afraid to disturb the air, adjusted the blanket, covering your shoulder. His fingers, long and thin, immediately felt a slight chill.

"You're frozen to the bone. You'll keep warm here. No one will enter. I chose this room on purpose. She's mine and yours until you get better."

He remained on his knees, calm and unwavering.

"Sleep, child. I'm here. I'll be here until your pulse levels off and your fear subsides. It is a great honor for me to be your protector."

​He stood up, his silhouette swayed slightly, and then froze. He waited. With infinite patience.