That was that day, but it soon passed. The sun rose with a strange gentleness over the continent's horizon. There were no storms, no tremors, no signs of impending evil. The birds chirped as if the memory of terror no longer existed.
It was a perfect day. And yet, Andrew woke with a furrowed brow, his body tense, and a disquieting feeling scraping his spine like nails on stone. His wife, Helena, still slept, her face serene in his arms. Around them, the scent of calm wafted, but Andrew knew that stillness was nothing more than an illusion.
Two years without word from Purgatory. Two years of absence from Esternet and Lismat, the fallen angels. Two years where humanity began to forget, but He couldn't afford that luxury.
He still felt the echoes of the battle against the god of light he had assimilated, and he knew that power wasn't surrendered, but taken away. Like all divine power, it demanded balance… and a price.
