"Who is that?" Sarissa asked quietly, not lowering her weapon.
The [Herald] still knelt, its body a shuddering mass of weeping ink and writhing larval tissue, the cathedral seemed to breathe with it, pulsing like a living wound as the heinous abomination wept.
Cheshire didn't answer immediately. His feline body, rippling with tension, stared toward the cathedral's crumbling dome, now dark once more.
"That," he said finally, "was one of the highest. Lightning. Judgment. Spear of Heaven. Call him what you like. He has many names, and none of them is mercy."
"Then Miles..." Sarissa's fingers curled tighter around [Cheshire's Gleam].
She didn't get to finish.
Before she could say anything else, the [Herald] rose, as if hoisted by unseen hands, dragged up by strings of violation and scripture.
