The being stood silent, its wings spread wide, glowing white against the dark, cracked sky. Its veil of silver glyphs rippled faintly in the cold wind as ash drifted around it like dead snow. Its eyes were hidden behind the veil, but Mob felt their weight pressing into his chest like a quiet blade.
"I… is it you…?" Mob whispered, his voice trembling as tears slipped down his cheeks. "Father…?"
The being tilted its head slightly. The glyphs shifted across its hidden face, forming silent, flickering patterns that pulsed with faint white light.
"I am not your father," it said softly.
Mob's breath caught. His eyes widened further as his knees weakened under him, trembling against the broken stone.
"Then… who…?"
"I am a Herald of the Throne," the being said. Its voice carried no anger, no warmth, only calm, absolute finality. "I was sent here by the Archangel Michael."
