After half a year, the order finally arrived and they left the Ice Spire Fortress. At the tower, Vesaria shook hands with the other commander, and they set off into the deep snow.?
The journey was peaceful; Rendil walked alongside his loyal friend Elion.
“Aaaah, the air! Finally, we won’t be freezing everywhere and can enjoy the warmth of the city! What do you think?”
“Indeed,” Rendil said, walking on the snowy road, watching the cold scenery. I wonder where we end up next time.
He did like snow, but after so many years in that land he was ready for a change. New plans awaited him in the city.
When they passed the main gate and stepped into the broad courtyard, Rendil heard a beautiful chorale drifting down from the towers above. Sunlight gleamed on white stone and silver roofs, and marble statues stood before the gate as if to welcome them in.
“What’s that?” He turned to Elion.
Elion listened too, then said in surprise, “Right, you wouldn’t remember. This is Archangel Jophiel. She used to play often; her music was always breathtaking! But after the fall of the Fifth Gate and the capture of Archangel Sandalphon, no one had heard her in a long time. Hearing it again brings back hope. Though Sandalphon’s harp is truly missed.”
The melody was soothing and gave the city a harmonious atmosphere. He felt calm, as if a quiet peace were drifting through the air. Rendil took a deep breath and admired the majesty of this exceptional place. Clear water ran through stone channels, reflecting the sun’s glow.
They were quartered in the old barracks, but this time Rendil received his own lieutenant’s residence. His aim was clear: to get everyone settled as soon as possible and carve out time to visit the Great Library. He knew exactly what he wanted to study, and after years in the fortress, he was eager to begin.
In the morning, he treated himself to a training session in the courtyard, honing his archery as arrows thudded into the targets. When the others went for lunch, he had other plans.
“Come on, join us!” Carlos teased. “We’ve got a few hours free; we can shoot some hoops! Hit the library another day.”
“No, no,” Rendil shook his head. “I’ve been waiting for this a very long time,” already turning toward the heart of the city.
The main square pulsed with life, people strolling, talking, and reflecting, just as he remembered. He made straight for the center to look over the Swords of Azazel. He’d seen archangels in action and imagined the devastation those blades could unleash on a battlefield. After a brief reverie, he stepped onto a platform that lifted him. The smell of the old books curled into his nose, carrying the dry warmth of parchment and the sharp tang of ink.
In the middle of one of the bridges, an archangel stood on a raised dais, studying intently. Light from crystal?bright stained?glass windows washed the open shelves in color and brushed his calm face and white, mid?length hair. Rendil approached and caught his attention with a soft “ahem.”
The angel looked up, a gentle smile lighting his face. “Welcome, Rendil, I’ve been expecting you for some time. Last time you were quite lost, not even certain what you sought in my library. Now I see someone with a clear purpose. Tell me, what is your wish, lieutenant I’ve heard so much about?”
“You’ve heard of me? And you remember me, too?”
“Of course. My name is Metatron. Remembering and recording is my charge; I keep this heavenly chronicle and am known as the Archangel of wisdom.”
As he finished speaking, he set down his quill and closed the massive book. The two thick covers slammed together with a deep thud that carried through the quiet library.
Rendil could only stare for a moment; speaking with archangels was always extraordinary. He gathered himself and spoke: “I want to study demons and angels, and this war, in detail. So far, I know only what others have taught me, but I want a deeper understanding: who they are, their abilities, their weaknesses, and everything connected to them.”
Metatron accepted his words in silence. “Follow me. I’ll show you the sections where you can begin. Remember, books may not be taken from here. When you finish, return them to their places, and come back whenever you need.”
He moved at a measured pace along the bridge, his back straight and his hands lightly clasped before his stomach, fingers interlaced.
Rendil accepted without complaint, but couldn’t help asking: “Why can’t we take them at least to our quarters?”
“Unlike what you’re used to, we have no database we can restore at will. The only backup is me, and I prefer to keep everything under my eye.”
Again, he marveled at how these beings knew so much about the living world and even modern concepts.
“Here it is,” Metatron indicated. “You’ll find the history of the fallen archangels of the Rebellion, a list of the Princes of Hell, and enemies you’ve likely already encountered. I’ve been following your progress very closely, and I must say,” he paused a moment, “you have caught even my attention.” His heavenly gaze measured him.
Rendil swallowed and bowed with respect.
Metatron gestured to a quiet alcove tucked between the shelves. Wooden benches with tall backrests lined the space, angled to catch the light from the stained-glass windows. “Sit. Read. Take your time.”
Rendil settled onto one of the benches, the wood smooth and cool beneath him. He pulled the first book toward him. A very old tome, its cover traced with gold tooling. The pages were frayed and timeworn, crackling softly with each turn, exhaling an almost sweet scent of ink. He unrolled the parchment. At the top, elegant script read the history’s title. It told how, as the universe awakened, all angels first lived in harmony. They brought forth Light and enriched the Father’s creation. Eons later...
Rendil leaned back and settled more comfortably on the bench, the cold wood pressing against his back as he let his head fall and lay there with his eyes closed. He didn’t know what to make of it all. It was entirely different than he had imagined, and he had more questions than answers. Metatron approached quietly and sat across from him. “Did you learn what you wanted? Or did something surprise you?”
Rendil looked at him and nodded, confusion visible in his eyes. “The Father hasn’t condemned us to damnation; He isn’t trying to reject us, but to save us,” he said, staring up at the ceiling of white stone and dark wooden planks.
The angel received his words in silence and placed his hands on the table, palms resting together. “It was a beautiful place, the Paradise and the cosmos He made for us. Reflection of it can be seen here, in this very city.”
“Must have been beautiful,” Rendil said quietly.
Metatron nodded, his expression peaceful. “It embodies purity. Yet none of us expected that, alongside it, its precise opposite would arise.” Metatron's gaze grew distant. “We were fortunate that most of us saw through the lie and remained faithful to the Father. Otherwise, our fate would have been very different.”
“So all of this?” Rendil asked.
“Yes. For some souls, it is simply another chance to be made clean.”
“There are billions of people in the world, how is it there are only half a million guardians here?” he asked, giving a small head gesture toward the people around them.
Metatron looked at him with mild surprise. “Isn't it obvious? The criteria for entry are very strict, and only a few meet them and pass the test in the Valley of Shadows.”
“So those were tests?” Rendil asked, the memory stirring.
“Yes.” Metatron's starry eyes held his. "If you had failed, your only option would have been Purgatory. Tell me what you remember.” He touched his white beard.
“I remember lying in the garden. I couldn't get past the shock. The grass was freshly cut, but it had no scent. The ground under my bare feet should have been damp and cold. I felt neither. The porch light lit the area. I'd seen CPR before, but I'd never expected to see it performed on myself, like a twisted home movie. Then the scream...”
“Viktor!” Sara screamed, pressing his chest in rhythm. "One, two, three, four. Tom! Sam! Someone help!”
He watched from the garden, unable to move, unable to call out. His own body lay there on the porch, lifeless.
Is this a dream? No. The pain. I totally felt that one. This is for real!
Alcohol. Stress. Skipped medications. The woman in black.
Piece by piece, the puzzle clicked into place.
I am dead. I actually died. And somehow this isn't the end.
Then death took me. A tunnel of light opened. I stepped through...
Viktor stood in the middle of a barren waste with not a breath of wind, as if someone had set him down on the floor of a burned-out land. The last thing he remembered was clear, too clear. It hadn’t been a bad dream. I have died. I really died!
When it hit him, his hand went to his chest and for a moment he doubled over in despair. He ran his hands over himself. He felt nothing distinct, no scent; he was strangely light. He realized he had no body; he was spirit.
“Hello!” he called. “Hello, is anyone there?”
Only his own voice answered; no echo, as if the air swallowed sound. Panic edged in.
Am I trapped here? How do I get out?
Sheer walls rose on both sides, smooth and unclimbable. Overhead, only a grayish glow. No stars, no source. The only option was forward. After a while, he realized he’d lost all sense of time. He had no idea how long he’d been walking. His legs didn’t tire; no wind moved his hair, and yet the path kept branching again.
Which way do I go? Is this my fate? Trapped in this valley forever? And the kids... how will they manage without me?
He grabbed his hair.
No. I have to keep going. Sara is strong. The kids will be all right. I'll wait for them on the other side, however long it takes. I owe them at least that.
He might meet his grandparents here, and others he’d known who had passed on. “There has to be a right way,” he said aloud. At the next fork, he chose the left branch, the one that hugged the higher wall, and went on, sunk in his thoughts.
Is it because I had to lay those people off? Or some other sin? Yes, I’ve got plenty, like anyone. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but...
A shadow moved behind him.
A wolf. Black as the hollow under stone, thick-furred, bared teeth, eyes glowing like coals.
Only one thing went through his mind. Run! He sprinted, feet moving in eerie silence, no breath coming out of him. The wolf paced him. Why hasn’t it gotten me yet? It should have caught me by now. He didn’t see the jut of rock ahead and stumbled. Hands to grit, a sharp turn. He was face-to-face with the beast. He would not run anymore.
What is there to lose if I’m dead already?
He drew breath, shouted, and leaped. In the instant their bodies should have met, he passed through, as if through smoke pretending to be hide and teeth. The wolf’s shape scattered into dust at his feet. Sand sifted through his fingers.
Where did I read about this? A tunnel. Light. Stories of return. If he had truly died, then this wasn’t the land of the living, but the emptiness between worlds, the Valley of Shadows. The wolf wasn’t real. Then what was it? My Fear? Despair? A test? Faith? The word rose in his mind so plain that his resistance to it felt foolish. I didn’t go to church regularly, but I believed there’s an order above us. I tried to do good. That’s how I raised the kids. He admitted his faults, some large, many small. But to remain here forever? No.
“I have to believe I will find the way. I won’t give up,” he said, and this time the words didn’t sink into dust. He clenched his fists and stepped forward.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
As he gained more resolve, the valley began to change. The walls sank lower, the path straightened, and the forks thinned out. Ahead, light. At first a point that breathed. Then a slow pulse, widening and narrowing, as if it approved of his choice. Viktor smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me here,” he said calmly, and walked toward it. “Thank you,” he whispered.
He followed the light to the valley’s end and stopped. An immense chasm gaped before him, bottomless to the eye. It ran so wide it vanished into dusk on either side; no leap could span it. On the far slope, beyond the void, the familiar Door of Light burned. Panic rose within him.
“How am I supposed to cross? I’ve found the glow, and yet... there’s no way through.” He talked to himself.
Then dropped to his knees, stared into the dark, and steadied himself. It’s another test. Believe. Go on.
He closed his eyes and stepped, not with muscle, with will. He moved; he couldn’t tell for how long, and by all rights he should have been falling. He wasn’t. No sweat pricked his face, no chill touched his skin; only a quiet sense of forward motion. He opened his eyes. Air underfoot, nothing to stand on, yet he didn’t sink. A brief, incredulous laugh escaped him. Standing in midair felt wrong, so he quickened his pace and crossed.
Solid ground rose beneath him, and joy with it. If not for the fresh weight of death, he might have leaped. He didn’t linger. He followed the glow on, and the darkness thinned.
In the dim glow, forms emerged. Outlines of other figures, people, just like him, wandering, not yet ready to move on. The light led him to another Door of Light.
After passing through that final Door, I knew I wouldn't remain in the Valley of Shadows. I stepped through. A flash of light filled my vision, and I found myself in Purgatory.
Metatron was watching him, hands folded. “The wolf. The chasm. The leap of faith. You passed all without guidance. Your courage and faith were measured multiple times. You failed neither.”
Rendil stayed silent, but Metatron casually continued. “The power of this Light is also limited. We keep the numbers here relatively precise. You must be inwardly balanced, brave, and at heart a good person who perhaps simply lacked fortune in life, took the wrong path, and made enough mistakes for the other side to pull you down. Here we can catch you somewhere in the middle and bind you not to the High Heavens, but to the Light of the Silver City, and you already have the chance...”
In mid-thought he glanced at Rendil in surprise, considered, and fell silent.
“Those above, are they there forever?” Rendil met his stary eyes.
“Yes. No one can touch them. There the Father is truly almighty. Their bodies are renewed by the Light, much as they are here. But it's important you understand that on the other side there are ways to raise bodies again, not through Light, but by perverse methods that draw power from the darkness of their own world. There, resurrection is only a means to endless suffering. Souls are subjected to unimaginable torment and are granted no rest.” Metatron shook his head sadly.
It began to make sense. Since his arrival, everyone had been kind, and he hadn't seen a single conflict. He'd thought it was fear of the angels. He looked around at the harmony as if he wanted to confirm his assessment.
Rendil frowned and asked, “Why do we even need the body resurrected? Can’t we remain as spirits?”
“Sooner or later, either the Light or the darkness will pull you.” Metatron's tone softened. “You surely remember those first moments when you were a spirit, when you focused on it, you couldn’t truly feel anything, though there were moments when, without thinking about it, you felt as if you could.”
Rendil looked to the side, then back at Metatron. “I remember breathing at some moments, but when I focused on it, nothing. But I also remember tears on my face at one moment.”
“Exactly.” Metatron leaned forward slightly. “That's only the spirit's memory telling you how you ought to react. You can mimic emotions, even create tears, but it has limits. The soul always needs a body.”
"What happens if you're there too long?” Rendil asked.
Metatron stood and paced in front of him. “In time, the soul loses those remnants of inner memory. It forgets its form. You become little more than a cloud, a vapor that cannot take shape until the body is raised again.”
Yes, the loss of my body. I will never forget that lightness, and the numb, almost frightening lack of feeling.
“Why not just destroy us completely, if we’re being pulled down? Wouldn’t nothingness be better than eternal suffering?”
“Because of the most basic principle,” Metatron rose and rummaged through the scrolls on the table. “I thought you'd already seen this one.” He set it before Rendil and traced a line with his finger.
Rendil stared at the writing. It clearly stated: “Once a soul is created, it is immortal.”
“You can destroy the body. But never the soul.” Metatron tapped the parchment. “Each side tries to get as many souls as possible, and every soul is permanent.”
“And the demons? How are there so many of them?” Rendil tried to make sense of it.
“Most are nothing but empty shells. Only a few are made of pure darkness and can be reborn from it, but it's still not the same as the Father's creation.” Metatron's expression softened. “Most souls are saved by the Heavens. The Light is still stronger than darkness.”
He suddenly stood up. “I believe I’ll see you here again tomorrow,” he said with a smile. The wooden bench clacked against the stone as he pushed himself away from the table. Rendil left for the barracks, his gaze fixed somewhere past the horizon. Rebellion. Tests. Valley. The pieces were starting to fit together, but the picture was much bigger. Many things had become clear today, yet he knew much more was still hidden.
In the evening, Artur nudged him more than once, noticing how unusually quiet he was. Nearby, Vincent only shook his head, watching, while voices spoke around them. But Rendil was already thinking about future studies. There were so many secrets here, he wanted to clear away as much mist as possible and bring as much Light as he could to the unknown... His morning flew by again. He got up and ran through his routine and training. Sword met axe, and soon he fell to the ground. ‘You are not concentrating, brother,’ came the remark from the man with the ginger moustache.
Before lunch he flew to the Great Library. There, already waiting for him at the same table with scrolls tacked beside him and with a smile beneath white hair and a bearded face, was Metatron. “So, are you hungry for more knowledge?”
Rendil grinned. “Yes, I want to know more.”
“Come, I’ve already prepared more scrolls,” Metatron said
Rendil sat down. Before leaving, the angel said, “Everything is updated, so you can read freely.”
He rummaged through the pile of scrolls and pulled one free. The tightly wound parchment gave a soft crackle as he unwound the blue cord and slowly unrolled it. The pungent scent of ink and old paper caught in his nose, making him sneeze. At the top of the scroll, elegant script read:
Rendil was studying the hierarchy chart when a name caught his eye. Zadkiel. The second archangel he'd met without even realizing it. Something stirred in his memory. A voice, quick and melodramatic, guiding him through his very first moments here.
He recalled meeting with his boy, all those years ago when he'd first arrived. After the memory faded, he sat back and looked up to see curious eyes full of stars watching him from across the table.
“You seem lost in thought,” Metatron said.
Rendil held his gaze and nodded, then spoke. “I remember meeting Zadkiel. I had no clue who he was at the time.”
Metatron's expression warmed. “Yes, mysterious and... alive, my brother is. Sorry, our brother truly is.” He smiled gently. “He enjoys easing souls through their transition very much, but the work might have...” He paused for a moment, looking for the right words. "Changed him a little.”
“Did you find the answers you were looking for?” Metatron asked softly.
“Not quite. The scroll says twenty archangels, but only nineteen are listed here.” He looked back down, scanning the scrolls and tapping the one where the count didn’t match.
“You’re thinking correctly. The twentieth is absent because he lost his title after the Rebellion, when he decided to join his fate with the forces of darkness. This Archangel was the bearer of the swords you’ll find today in the very heart of this tower. These blades, once symbols of honor and service, became artifacts of his fall.”
“Azazel?” Rendil asked. Metatron only confirmed his guess with a look. “Why did he join them?”
“No one knows exactly, but I have some suspicions.”
Rendil waited impatiently for the answer.
“Your desire for knowledge is truly inspiring. Very well,” he continued in a calm voice, stroking his white beard as he spoke. “The forces of Hell can kill anyone in battle, you know that.”
Rendil silently accepted his words.
“But if someone falls in battle, they don’t die forever. Their soul is bound to the Light, so their next encounter is only delayed until they are resurrected.”
“So they need a way to get them out of the equation permanently.” Rendil interrupted.
“Your thinking is correct.” Metatron confirmed. “We don’t know how the forces of Hell can immobilize and drag an Archangel into their realm. But they can’t torture them there, that is for certain.”
“Yes, I know that much.” Rendil said. “Others spoke of some kind of protection.”
“Every guardian has one from the Father. During torture, the body crystallizes, and you fall into a deep sleep. You exist in your own world. In other words, they can’t hurt you.
“Does this apply to all of us, or just some?”
“All guardians and angels are equipped with this mechanism. If they were to torture you in this world, you wouldn’t remember it, so you suffer no lasting harm.”
That's why we don't suffer from any trauma. We all remember only our quick deaths.
Ordinary guardians are almost never captured; they pose little threat to the enemy. Our numbers were not affected, because a new soul always replaced fallen guardians before the Fifth Gate fell. When we die in battle, hellspawn try to corrupt and consume the Light our bodies are made of before it fades and rejoins the Light of the Tree. Captains, lieutenants, and guardians can only be captured if a Gate falls, since only strong beings can make the return passage through a rift.”
“High angels and archangels?” Rendil leaned forward.
Metatron nodded briefly. “That's not their main goal. It would be a very slow strategy, especially now, when they’re so close and only the last three Gates are left to conquer.”
“Can any of the captured archangels still be saved?”
“It’s another dimension, and even angels fear to tread there. I’m afraid they’re lost forever,” Metatron said, his expression growing noticeably sadder.
Nearby, one of the guardians dropped an armful of scrolls and hurried to pick them up; a few others immediately joined in, running after the scattered knowledge across the floor.
“How did the Gates fall?” Rendil turned back to Metatron.
The Archangel looked to the wooden ceiling and after a long breath began. “I don’t know exactly how; I only know when each fell, which Gate it was, and what it represented from the world of the living. There are Nine Gates in total; the first is at the center of the city.”
“What’s it for?” Rendil interrupted. Metatron looked surprised and didn’t answer, just shook his head and gave him a stern look that told him not to interrupt. Rendil swallowed and let him continue.
“We start counting at the upper northeast of the city, where the Second Gate stands. It opens the way to lagoons, seas, and exotic places. A magical realm, still under our control.
The Third Gate lies below it on the lower northeast, leading to realm that resembles human villages and towns. Its fortresses and architecture change with the world. We lost this Gate second, more than fifteen hundred years ago, along with the mighty Gabriel.
The Fourth Gate is on the upper southeast of the city, leading to forests, lakes, and rivers, still held by us.
The Fifth Gate fell, ironically, as the fifth, and lies below the Fourth in the southeast, leading to the world of mountains, hills, and rocks. You witnessed its fall with your own eyes; Sandalphon left with it, along with his harp.
The Sixth begins at the lower southwest. It’s a tangled world of caverns and the underdeep. It fell third, seven hundred years ago, along with the just Raguel.
The Seventh lies in the upper southwest, leading to volcanic lands, the hottest of all. With its loss, the gallant Barachiel disappeared, more than three hundred years before the fall of the Fifth Gate. You know the Eighth Gate well. It’s the world of ice, snow, and winter, still under our influence, on the lower northwest.
The Ninth Gate fell first, about two and a half millennia ago, along with the proud Azazel. It leads to desert and empty lands, at the upper northwest. The Gates are arrayed exactly like a clock: one, two, four, five to the right; seven, eight, ten, eleven to the left, encircling the city.”
He handed Rendil a scroll. “This might help you visualize it.”
Rendil took it and studied the image, tracing the ring of Gates with his eyes.
“Do you understand now?”
“Yes, I understand,” he answered. He greatly appreciated the time Metatron spent with him. He wanted to take it for further study, but a stern look made him realize it was not meant for him alone.
“So every Archangel has a unique weapon?” he asked thoughtfully. Metatron continued willingly, “It’s not just about weapons. Every Archangel has their own abilities and strengths; their fighting style, way of thinking, and personality make them unique.”
“Thank you for your guidance,” Rendil said sincerely.
Metatron kept smiling. “I do it gladly. I’m truly happy that someone with your passion and potential has come along, with whom I can share these moments. Here, you are my brother. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come to me.”
They both bowed politely, and Metatron walked away. Rendil stayed in the Library a while longer, committing as much of the new knowledge to memory as he could. When he finished, he returned to the barracks, where his friends were already waiting for him.
At dinner, he sat with the lieutenants. Elion was gnawing on ribs, washing them down with beer. The smell of food and chatter surrounded them. “Hey, did you learn anything interesting?”
“Many things,” Rendil replied excitedly.
“Like w..at?” Elion asked chewing.
“Details about the Gates, archangels, their legendary weapons ...”
“If you read anything about the enemy, let us know any intel,” Elion said, pointing at him with the rib he’d been gnawing on.
“I finally understood a lot about this war, the conflict in the Father’s creation. Until now, I thought that when we’re bad, they judge us and send us to Hell, but judgment isn’t about sending you there; it’s about deciding if they can save you and keep you somewhere else, either here in Purgatory, or who knows what other ways. We can never die permanently. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense to me.”
He stayed silent watching foam in his beer slowly decreasing. Then a thought struck him, something he'd been too embarrassed to ask Metatron. He leaned closer, murmured, glancing to either side to see if anyone was listening. “Uh... There is one thing I was wondering about. How is it that noone falls here for temptations and, well, sex? There are so many men and women here. Does everyone keep their oath?”
Both Lorian and Elion smiled wryly, sat on the bench across from him, and leaned back.
“Weeell I'll skip this one I think," Elion said with a grin, waving his hand. “Lorian's better at explaining that.”
With his dark hair falling across his forehead, Lorian leaned back comfortably on the bench and folded his arms. Rendil lowered his head and spread his palms upward, waiting silently.
Then Lorian took a deep breath and began his explanation. “Many guardians arrive here knowing that desire is precisely why they're here in the first place.” He gestured toward the tavern's occupants. “Down in the world, lust wins easily. I lived in ancient Rome, and trust me, I know what I'm talking about...” He raised one eyebrow meaningfully. “Here, everyone knows after judgment what they did wrong. And no one after seeing the other side wants to join them.”
Rendil interrupted. "So it's harder to act freely? Everything's deliberate, not spontaneous?”
Lorian nodded. “Exactly.”
Then Elion jumped in. “Everyone knows the terror of the other side, and they deliberately want to reach the Heavens. They don't willfully repeat old mistakes. So everyone keeps themselves in check long enough that it doesn't become an issue.” Elion, frowning, looked at Rendil and added, “I bet you're included!” He slapped his leg, laughing loudly.
Rendil smiled. “Yes, I truly don't feel the need here the way I did on Earth. I thought something was influencing us, but are we actually abstaining by choice?”
Lorian put one elbow on the table. “Guardians take the Oath very seriously here. You also have to account for the fact that there's no temptation here. Like the ones you had in your time. Internet, magazines full of pornography, all that.”
“So it's just easier to focus?”
“Yes." Elion's expression grew thoughtful. "We don't know if there were people who broke their vow and had to return to Purgatory.”
“If anyone did it in secret, how would anyone know?” Rendil pressed, leaning forward.
“In a world of Light, where would you hide from it?” Lorian nodded toward a guardian's Lumion floating undimmed in the distance above him.
So it isn’t just something to store my armor, it seems.
“Just keep at it,” Lorian said, breaking the awkward silence. “The thirst for knowledge. I’ve heard Metatron likes that! Who knows, maybe he’ll notice you and you’ll get to talk to him.”
Rendil just nodded, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. He already felt he was too much at the center of things. “Today I’d rather go to bed.” Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to study the other side. He got up, said goodbye, and walked off to his room.
What is going on? Is it really rare to talk to him? Well, I guess he really just likes my thirst for knowledge. And he's right. I need every edge I can get in the coming war.
With that thought, he lay on the bed and drifted off. Tomorrow, he would study his enemies and learn their weaknesses.
