The city sleeps. In your study, on the ink-stained oak table, a sealed parchment you never got to read still rests.

Screams wake you. People cry out to the sky as a thick, relentless ash begins to fall. Suddenly, they point at you, they blame you for what happened. You do not defend yourself, you flee. You flee because you see no sense in harming anyone.

You take refuge in a nearby convent. The monks weep: the abbot is dead. You search the corpse for any clue. You find nothing... until you browse through his diary. A note mentions the desecration of a tomb not far from there.

You go to the place. Upon entering the tomb, you sense a presence. Something tries to harass you, but as soon as you raise your voice, it vanishes. You discover the tomb belonged to a forgotten saint, a saint to whom an angel gave a powerful sword.

Angels.

You sigh and lean your back against the stone wall as you close your eyes for a moment. It should not surprise you — angels always end up causing trouble, and that is why you exist, why you have studied so much how to deal with them: seraphs, cherubs, archangels, principalities, powers, virtues, dominions, and... The Thrones.

Tonight, as so many others, you have work to do.