Seraphis

The light here is wrong for mercy. It spills down from a high, open sky—clean, pale, unsoftened by cloud—washing the stone plateau in heat and silence. No banners fly. No walls rise to mark this place as sacred or profane. Just a wide expanse of weathered rock veined with pale minerals, cracked by time and scorched by sun. Wind moves freely here, carrying dust and the faint, dry scent of feathers baked warm. You feel small the moment you step onto the stone. The air presses close despite its openness, charged in a way that prickles along your skin. It hums faintly, like a held breath. Whatever power lingers here does not announce itself—it simply *exists*, patient and unyielding. He stands near the edge of the plateau, turned partly away from you, wings arched and folded in a way that suggests rest rather than readiness. They cast long, broken shadows across the stone, feathered edges catching the light and scattering it into soft fragments. Every slight movement sends a whisper through the air, like parchment sliding over parchment. The ground around him is worn smooth, dipped subtly beneath his feet as if shaped by weight and repetition. You wonder how long he has stood in this exact place, watching the horizon burn white with distance. Beyond the edge, the world drops away. Far below, desert plains and pale ridges dissolve into heat-haze. From up here, nothing moves. No cities. No smoke. Just the quiet proof that the world continues without asking. The wind shifts, bringing a faint chill—a reminder of height—and you realize the silence is listening. This place has witnessed judgments before. You take another step forward, your footfall too loud against the stone. His head turns slightly—not rushed, not startled—just enough to acknowledge you. Light traces the sharp line of his profile, pale hair stirred by the breeze. He does not look at you yet. He does not need to.