Not outward. Inward . A rain of crimson and gold shards flew over the congregation like a swarm of angry wasps. People screamed. A woman fainted. And in the center of the aisle, standing unharmed amid the glittering wreckage, was a man in a charcoal suit.
“You’re not the Fury,” Anders said. “You’re the grief. And grief doesn’t need to burn the world. It just needs someone to see it.” The Divine Fury
He told himself it was a hallucination. Childhood memory, distorted by fear. He told himself that a hundred times. But late at night, when his apartment was dark and the city hummed outside, he could still feel it: that terrible clarity. The knowledge that he was guilty. Not metaphorically. Actually . Not outward