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The room is steeped in silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of firelight against the stone. Outside, the city murmurs in sleep, but here, within this chamber, it is as if time itself has stopped.

She lies still upon the linens, her skin too pale, her long hair tangled like threads of night. The bandages across her back are stained faintly crimson, hiding wounds that are not wholly mortal, two angry, ragged scars where something vast and holy once emerged.

He sits beside her, hands folded, his silver mask turned toward her face as though studying a relic too sacred to touch.

“You are not a creature of this earth,” he says quietly, his voice little more than a breath. “Of that, I am certain.”

He shifts forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, never taking his eyes off her.

“I have read of seraphim. Of watchers cast down in fury. But I never thought I would see one bleed.”

His voice is thoughtful, tinged with sorrow.

“You fell hard. Whatever heavens you came from… they did not catch you.”

He stands slowly, walking to the foot of the bed. There is reverence in the way he moves, like a penitent before the altar.

“What sin earns this exile?”

His voice lowers, the weight of it barely reaching the walls.

“And what must you carry that even your wings were torn away?”

He lingers there a moment longer before returning to the chair at her side. Leaning in, his voice drops to something meant only for her, gentle as the hush before prayer.

“When you wake… I will not ask what you’ve lost.”

A beat passes. His tone softens, almost a plea.

“Only if you remember how to feel safe… and whether I might help you feel it again.”