Saeren had been one of Kryor's twelve since before the chronicle of Celesterra began. He had served, the order's record reads, well — competently, dutifully, with the small careful manners his office required. He had begun, in his last age, to trade prayers for influence in the small kingdoms of Celesterra's southern coast. The eleven of his order had wanted execution. The law of the order permitted it. Kryor refused to execute.
Kryor unbound him at East Rim, on a cliff above a village he had bent. The ceremony was quiet. The Archangel did not break the bond; he opened it, took out the thread that made Saeren of the twelve, and set it on the air. Saeren staggered half a step. He did not fall. His wings dimmed.
The instruction Kryor gave him was the only further instruction: walk anywhere. None of it is barred to you. None of it is open to you, either. Do not return to the courts you bent. Do not approach the cathedral at Darklume. The unbinding does not end. It is not a sentence with a year on it. It is a sentence with a life on it.
He walked. The chronicle does not record where. He is, by the chronicler's reading, alive somewhere on Celesterra in any of its working seasons — kept alive specifically so that he can hold the question of what he did and what it cost. The mortals whose habit of prayer he stole will continue not-praying for the rest of their lives, and Saeren will be somewhere in the world while they do it. That is the sentence.
