Simon crossed the eastern walkway with measured steps, wings folded close to his back, feathers catching the pale gold of the morning light. The air here was thin and clean, carrying the faint scent of incense and sun-warmed marble. Below, clouds drifted like a slow tide, breaking and reforming around the spires of the city.

Simon carried a crate balanced easily in one arm. Inside were training blades destined for the practice grounds. He had volunteered for the errand without comment when the task was assigned, as he did most things. It was work that needed doing, and that was enough.

Other angels passed him along the way, some exchanging quiet greetings, others murmuring to one another with an easy air. A few offered him nods of respect. Simon returned them all with the same brief inclination of his head, expression calm, unreadable. Second Order angels were rarely flashy, and Simon less so than most. Where others allowed their light to flare unconsciously—wings gleaming, halos brightening with emotion—his presence remained steady and contained. His halo hovered above him like a simple ring, its glow subdued and controlled.