They huddled together with their backs against the cold rock walls, keeping one another warm.
Although the heart of Africa was scorching like a furnace during the day, the depths of the cave were cold and damp. Those angels who had lost most of their strength could no longer regulate their body temperatures automatically.
Some were shivering, some curled into balls, and some stared at the beam of sunlight, lost in thought.
All their wings were gone, leaving only two charred scars on their backs. Some of those scars still seeped pale golden fluid—the remnants of grace, slowly draining away.
Isla stood at the deepest part of the cave with his back to everyone.
He was one of the two angelic vice-lords. He had once commanded a legion of three thousand angels, but now fewer than a hundred remained under him.
His wings were gone too, yet his back was ramrod straight, like a spear planted there.
Mel stood beside him, a head shorter, his back slightly hunched.
His injuries were worse than Isla's. A wound deep enough to expose bone ran along his left ribs, wrapped in bandages stolen from a human village, though blood still seeped through.
"Has Metatron responded?" Isla asked. His voice was hoarse, as if he had not had water in a long time.
Mel shook his head.
"No. Heaven has closed all channels. We were cast out into this filthy human world long ago, weren't we?"
The cave fell deathly silent.
Some of the angels huddled in the corners lowered their heads, some closed their eyes, and some buried their faces in their knees.
No one spoke. No one cried. Crying had become meaningless.
Isla remained silent for a long time.
"Gather energy," he finally said.
Mel looked up at him.
"What?"
"The grace