on the brink.

Damian dreamed of the Angel.

They were shockingly plain, a being of reserved power and humble form. To even look upon Them was to invite complacency and confusion; yet here, in Damian's dreams, he knew They were a true Heavenly being of indomitable strength.

The Angel of the Deep sat upon a simple, wooden chair, bereft of decoration or luxury. The only concession to comfort appeared to be Their neatly ironed suit, made of a material so black it seemed to melt into the shadows around Them.

Bookshelves towered over Damian, stretching upwards from the floor, reaching so far above him that the shelves disappeared from view before ever touching the ceiling. There were no ladders, but as he stood there, shadowy hands reached out from the darkness and grabbed books by their leather-bound spines. The hands pushed and pulled books from the shelves, continuously sorting the enormous library.

"Welcome, Damian Roswald."