Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 112287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 561(@200wpm)___ 449(@250wpm)___ 374(@300wpm)
He hadn’t needed to; that the blue-winged angel chose to stand at Raphael’s side rather than his father’s was statement enough. The entire angelic world understood Illium’s unspoken denunciation.
His stance was an unbearable insult to a man like Aegaeon.
“Archangels.” General Atu stopped in front of a pair of closed doors of glossy black. They had slats to allow for airflow, but those slats were at an acute downward angle so that no one could look at what lay beyond. “We are at my sire’s quarters.”
Pushing open the doors, he revealed a spacious living room that looked warm and comforting—and that bore Mele’s imprint. Bright cushions on white rattan furniture, woven rugs that broke up the cool of the golden-gray tiles, it was a place warm and with an innate sense of home.
But the vases the harem would’ve filled with color were barren.
Raphael looked and found not a single sign of Qin’s more than decade-long residence. It didn’t matter that his fellow archangel had come out of Sleep with nothing—he was a member of the Cadre, with access to resources endless. All of Astaad’s wealth would’ve passed to him, for one. Archangel to archangel, that was how succession functioned when it came to the Cadre.
He should’ve acquired something to place inside his private quarters.
Aegaeon picked up a conch shell, held it to his ear. The peace that softened his expression was a thing startling. “This land calls to me always, but I will not take it, not even now.” Putting down the shell with care, he met Raphael’s eyes with those of an intense blue-green. “It would be dishonorable to my short association with Astaad.”
“I think we’re going to have a problem getting anyone to take it,” Raphael said. “His was the most spread out of the territories, and not one easily accessible to an archangel already handling another territory.” Raphael had no idea how they’d divide matters, but it’d involve significant movement. “Several of us may have to take pieces.”
“Not ideal”—shoving a hand through shoulder-length hair the same shade as his eyes, Aegaeon blew out a breath—“but yes, that might be the only viable solution if we’re to stop any further disruption.”
The general stopped again before Raphael could reply, this time in front of a simple white door wide enough for a single angel to pass through. “No one has been inside since I last saw the sire.”
Stepping forward, Raphael put his hand on the door.
A sigil—waves that glowed unexpectedly in the hues of the aurora—lit up the center of the door, confirming the general’s statement.
Sucking in a breath at the sight, that loyal man went to one knee. “Sire,” he said, his voice choked up.
That this hardened general who’d known Qin such a short while would mourn him told Raphael that Qin had been a good leader. But, in the end, he hadn’t been a good archangel.
“You may leave us now,” Aegaeon said to Atu. Then, in another unforeseen burst of complexity, he gave the general the respect of an explanation. “He was your archangel, but this is Cadre business.”
Rising, the general nodded. He sent one last long look at the spot where the sigil had glowed before leaving the suite.
Raphael waited to open the door until after his departure.
He and Aegaeon stepped through, one after the other.
Within was a small study with only a lone narrow window to let in light. And though Raphael had never before been inside Astaad’s private quarters, he knew instinctively that this space was Qin’s. No books on the walls, and only an envelope addressed to the Cadre and a piece of art on the desk—minimalism painful in its clarity.
Yes, that was Qin.
The desk was of glass modern and clear, its legs silvery metal. Behind it sat a chair of an equally modern style. Modern but not severe. The lines of the furniture flowed like the water from which Qin had risen.
That single—striking—piece of art was a sculpture made of an opalescent stone that glowed with the colors of the aurora. A mere handsbreadth in height, it was of a woman laughing, her hair flowing back and her hand outstretched as if to a lover. “It is Cassandra.” The beauty of her captured in jeweled tones.
“I’m surprised he left it here,” Aegaeon murmured, not touching the object, either. “Such is the kind of treasure I would’ve expected him to take into Sleep.”
“Perhaps we will find an answer in this.” Picking up the creamy envelope that sat in the center of the desk, Raphael removed the single sheet of heavy paper within.
The words written across it glowed with the colors of Qin.
Aegaeon sucked in a breath. “I did not know he could do this.”
“Neither did I.” He filed away the memory to share with Elena, even as the colors faded to reveal a letter penned in a script as fine and as otherworldly as Qin himself.