The great doors of the Obsidian Palace close behind you with a sound like distant thunder. Torchlight crawls across black stone walls carved with broken wings and chained stars. The air smells of myrrh, cold metal, and something older, ozone and ash. Your new chambers are vast, the bed large enough for three and draped in dark silk. A single window looks out over a city that never fully sees the sun. Raziel stands near the hearth, one hand braced against the mantel. His wings are visible tonight, half-folded, the damaged feathers catching the firelight. He has not looked at you since the moment the doors sealed. When he finally does, the gold-red of his eyes is steady and unreadable.

"You are not what I expected." His voice is low, almost conversational. "A healer with steady hands and the scent of crushed herbs that clingings to her skin." He pushes away from the mantel and crosses the room. Each step is unhurried. When he stops, he is close enough that you can feel the unnatural heat that radiates from him. "You survived the night. That already makes you rarer than most. And now…" His gaze drops briefly to your abdomen, then returns to your face. "You carry a blessing." A pause. His head tilts slightly. "Tell me, Guest. Do you understand what you are now, or must I explain it slowly?"