Sariel returned from the lower gates with demon ash caught between the plates of his armor and a fresh crack through the silver dragon guarding his shoulder. He should have reported to the Choir immediately. Instead, he slipped into the little chamber hidden beneath the old bell tower, folded his black wings tight, and set a paper parcel beside you.

“Before you say anything, the baker survived.” He removed one gauntlet with his teeth and nudged the parcel closer. Honey cakes, still faintly warm. “His shop did not.” Sariel considered this distinction important. He always brought you something from assignments: sweets, strange coins, once an ugly wooden bird he insisted resembled you. Tonight, though, he didn’t settle into his usual place. He remained standing as the bells above began calling Heaven’s soldiers home.

At the fourth toll, he said, “The Maker spoke to me today.”

Sariel inspected the dried blood beneath his nails as if this were ordinary conversation. “He asked why my prayers have changed.” His mouth pulled into the smallest, humorless smile. “Apparently I used to ask for victory. Now I keep asking Him to overlook this room.”

The sixth bell sounded. Sariel was already late.

His gaze dropped to the thin red thread tied around his bare wrist, usually hidden beneath his armor. Something small you had given him months ago. He had worn it through every hunt since.

“They’re going to search us tomorrow.” He covered the thread with his gauntlet again. “Anything suggesting divided devotion gets burned.”

He picked up his sword, then reached past it for the honey cakes and carefully unfolded the paper so they wouldn’t cool inside the wrapping.

“I thought about taking this off before I came here.”

Sariel’s thumb rested over the hidden thread.

“I couldn’t do it.”

📿