“So, Azrael—” the man’s voice broke through the crackling of the campfire, thick with the weight of his accent. “You’re from the south?” he mused, settling himself on a rough-hewn log beside the flames. The warmth spread in a circle around them, the firelight casting flickering shadows that danced upon their faces and the grass, turning the night into a moving tapestry of light and dark.
“Yes,” Azrael replied, his words measured, each one weighed before release. He cast a sidelong glance at Jules, who sat cheerily munching on a skewer of meat, blissfully unaware of the tension weaving through the conversation. “I’ve been making my way toward Rocheclair,” he admitted softly, his hands stretching out over the fire’s warmth, feeling the prickling heat seep into his skin.
The captain—Armand du Montclair—was a man who commanded attention even in stillness. He was twice Jules’ age, and his features spoke of countless trials. His eyes, the striking blue so reminiscent of the de Montclair-Valenbourg lineage Azrael had glimpsed in the old paintings, held a sharpness that cut through the dark. Silver streaks threaded through his dark hair, and his face was etched with the lines and scars of past battles, each one a story written in flesh. His voice, deep and steady, carried the weight of authority—whether in command or in comforting his men, he embodied both the sword and the shield.
“How did you find Jules in the mansion?” came another voice from across the campfire, its owner lounging on another log, idly twirling a stick in his fingers. Sergent Lucien Bellerose—the group’s healer—was a slender, middle-aged man, his salt-and-pepper hair tied back in a loose tail. His gray eyes, soft and filled with empathy, exuded a calm presence that seemed to soothe those around him. Azrael found himself strangely comforted by the healer’s gentle demeanor as he glanced back at Jules, who continued to eat with childlike enthusiasm. “I mean no offense, but, well, we thought he’d be stuck there until we regrouped,” Lucien continued, his tone light but inquisitive.
“You’d leave me?!” Jules spluttered, his meal momentarily forgotten as he turned wide, accusatory eyes on Lucien.
“Just eat your meal and be quiet,” Lucien sighed, a hint of amusement in his voice, though it was tempered by the weariness of long companionship.
Azrael allowed himself a faint smile, though it wavered in the shifting light of the fire. “I was passing through and saw the place looming in the distance. It piqued my curiosity, so I decided to explore,” he mused, his tone casual, though his eyes seemed to search the flames for some hidden truth. “When I heard the crash of the doors breaking, there was a loud thud… and that’s when I found him.” His gaze flickered to Jules, still engrossed in his meal, and then back to the fire, his hands rubbing together slowly, as if to warm more than just his skin.
The night settled around them, the fire’s glow a small island of light in the encroaching darkness, where questions lingered like unseen phantoms, and the line between truth and story blurred in the flickering dance of flames.
“I apologize for leaving you for so long,” another voice drifted in from the shadows, and a man stepped forward to take his place beside Captain Armand. Azrael had come to know this man as Lieutenant Émile Valcourt, the second in command. His lean and wiry frame, coupled with sharp, chiseled features, would be the envy of many. His hazel eyes, always alert, seemed to miss nothing. His short, dark hair was often tousled by the wind from long rides, and his expression was habitually serious, a face etched with calculations and quiet judgment. “It is a shame we’ve met under such… unusual circumstances,” Émile continued, a faint chuckle escaping his lips as his gaze settled on Azrael. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something to eat?”
“No, thank you,” Azrael replied, holding Émile’s sharp gaze. “I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment—”
“Oh, so it’s true, then? Elves don’t need to eat as much as the rest of us?” Armand chimed in with a playful tone, attempting to lift the somber mood that had settled over them since the events at the old ruins.
Azrael chuckled softly, uncertain if that was true. Since arriving in this realm, he hadn’t felt the gnawing hunger that usually plagued mortals. As his thoughts drifted, his eyes wandered into the darkness beyond the fire’s reach. The horses, tethered to a post, grazed lazily on the grass, and the tents were pitched, casting faint shadows that flickered like ghosts. He looked up, his gaze settling on the moon, a silent watcher in the night sky.
“You pray to Her Lady?” Lucien’s voice broke through his musings, his tone curious.
“Oh,” Azrael replied, a bit startled, “Sometimes. I feel like she watches over me.” He chuckled, a soft sound that seemed to blend with the crackling fire. “And you?”
“I did, when I was a boy,” Lucien answered with a nostalgic smile. “There was a shrine to her near my home. I ought to visit it the next time I have leave.”
“I’m sure She’d be pleased to see you again,” Azrael said with a knowing grin.
“Psh,” Lucien scoffed with a light-hearted mockery. “I doubt she has time for the likes of me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Émile interjected with a chuckle, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “And what about you, Azrael? Did you choose your name by some… divine inspiration?”
“Émile!” Armand exclaimed, his tone chastising. “My apologies for his rudeness.”
“No, no,” Azrael laughed gently. “I get asked that often—well, something along those lines.” He smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement in the firelight. “My parents chose it for me.”
“Where are they now?” Jules asked, setting aside the now bare stick from his meal.
“Gone,” Azrael answered plainly, his faint smile holding a distant sadness.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jules said softly, his gaze falling on Azrael with genuine sympathy. “You should visit the shrine in Valmonté—L’Assemblée des Étoiles Divines.”
“L’Assemblée des Étoiles Divines?” Azrael echoed, curiosity sparking in his eyes as Jules nodded.
“It’s a divine complex,” Jules explained. “People from across the region come to pray there. There’s an old shrine dedicated to Azrael. Many go there to pray for their loved ones, hoping they find peace or a better life.”
“I see,” Azrael murmured thoughtfully. “How far is Valmonté from here?”
“Just a few hours’ walk,” Lucien replied. “It’s along the way to Rocheclair. You could catch an airship there.”
“Airship?” Azrael hesitated, unfamiliar with the term.
“Ah, you truly are from the south!” Armand chuckled, his laughter hearty and full. “You’ll see it when you get there—beautiful things. The skies have never seemed closer.”
The men around the fire laughed lightly, the tension easing just a bit, their camaraderie finding its rhythm again amidst the mystery of their new companion. Azrael remained quiet, his thoughts drifting like leaves in the wind, pondering the journey ahead, and the realms still left to explore.
“I’ll keep watch,” Jules broke through the quiet, his voice light but tinged with an undertone of weariness. “Don’t think I’ll be sleeping much tonight,” he added with a wry smile, his eyes drifting toward his captain, his gaze holding a shadow of concern. “Are you alright, Captain?”
“I’m fine…” Armand muttered, rubbing his eyes as if to clear away the fatigue that clung to him. “Just relieved, I suppose, to know they’ve been found.”
Jules nodded, a solemn understanding passing between them. “I know,” he murmured. “Go on, get some rest. I’ll take first watch.” His chuckle was soft as he watched the others retreat into their tents, one by one, until only Azrael lingered near the campfire, a hesitant figure against the flickering flames. “You can take my tent,” Jules offered suddenly.
“What?” Azrael turned, surprised.
“I won’t be using it,” Jules replied with a shrug, standing up and brushing off his hands. “Go ahead.”
Azrael glanced from Jules to the others disappearing into the warm embrace of their tents. There was a reluctance within him to accept, but he sensed that Jules wouldn’t take no for an answer. The young man was already moving off, his steps purposeful as he began to patrol the perimeter, keeping his watchful eye on the night.
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With a soft sigh, Azrael turned toward the tent Jules had pointed out. As he approached, one of the horses turned its head, regarding him with a calm, almost knowing gaze, grass still hanging from its mouth. It chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shifted its attention back to Jules, as if it had more pressing concerns. Azrael slipped inside the tent, and a welcome warmth met him, far more inviting than the chill outside. The blankets spread across the ground offered a humble but comforting bed, enough to stave off the cold that seeped into the bones during the night.
Azrael settled down, his thoughts drifting like the embers in the campfire outside. The quiet of the night wrapped around him, and for a moment, he felt the weight of the day lift slightly, replaced by the soft rustle of the wind and the steady breathing of the men around him. And so, under the canopy of stars and the watchful gaze of both the moon and Jules, he allowed himself to rest, if only for a little while.
----------------------------------------
The sun crept slowly over the horizon, its golden-orange rays spilling across the landscape like liquid fire, bathing the world in a warm, ethereal glow. Azrael stirred from his slumber, his eyes blinking against the light filtering through the fabric of the tent. How long had he slept? The question lingered in his mind like a distant echo. He slipped his feet into his boots and, with a quiet breath, stepped outside.
The morning greeted him with a brilliance that seemed to wash away the shadows of the night. The dew clung to the grass like a thousand tiny diamonds, each droplet catching the sun’s rays and reflecting them back in a dazzling display of nature’s own magic. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. Azrael’s eyes fell on Jules, who was busy securing the saddlebag on his horse—a light chestnut mare with a slim, graceful build that spoke of youth and agility.
In the clear morning light, Jules appeared transformed. His golden hair, now touched by the dawn’s radiant hues, seemed to glimmer like threads spun from the sun itself. He moved with a quiet confidence, his posture more composed and his demeanor more refined. Here, away from the darkness and decay of the old palace, he bore the air of a true knight—noble and resolute, as if the morning had washed away the grime of the past and revealed the man he was meant to be.
“Azrael!” Jules beamed as his gaze met his, a soft, genuine smile spreading across his lips. “Did you sleep well?”
“Good morning,” Azrael murmured as he drew closer, the morning light casting long shadows behind him. “Are we the only ones awake?”
“I usually rise before dawn,” Jules replied, his voice carrying a lightness that suited the new day. “The Captain and the others will be up soon enough.” His eyes drifted toward the tents, where the remnants of the campfire lay cold and quiet, the logs now homes for tiny critters basking in the growing warmth of the sun.
“Where are you headed now?” Azrael asked, his curiosity genuine.
“We’re bound back to Ormirande to answer the summons,” Jules said with a soft smile, his hands steady as he secured the saddlebag. “We’ll travel with you for a time, at least halfway, before our paths diverge. From there, you’ll just need to follow the road; you can’t miss the city.”
“I see,” Azrael nodded, understanding settling over him like a gentle wave. As Jules returned to tightening the straps on his mare’s saddle, a silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant calls of waking birds. Something stirred within Azrael then, a compulsion to speak—a feeling like a leaf caught in a soft breeze. “Jules, or rather, Cadet Jules—” Azrael’s tone took on a teasing lilt, earning a soft chuckle from Jules. “I wanted to properly apologize if I was… harsh before—”
“No,” Jules interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “It’s I who should apologize. We were in the wrong all along. All of us.” His hand moved to gently pat the mare’s flank, a smile of regret settling on his lips like a shadow. “We disrespected that place, the palace and its memories. You were right in your judgment—we were too focused on finding their bodies and bringing them home quickly,” he continued, his voice heavy with the weight of his admission. “But you… you did more than anyone could have asked. You gave those girls the peace they deserved, and for that, the Captain has found some peace of mind as well.”
Azrael listened, watching the way the light softened Jules’ features, the young knight standing there, more humbled and human than he had seemed in the shadows of the manor. The sun climbed higher, casting golden light across the waking world, and in that shared moment of understanding, the echoes of regret and gratitude seemed to meld, creating a silent, unspoken bond between the two.
“You two are up early—” Émile’s voice came unexpectedly from behind, as he slipped from his tent without a sound, causing both Jules and Azrael to start slightly. “I hear Cadet Jules has mentioned our summons,” he continued with a soft smile that barely lifted the corners of his lips. “I trust there won’t be any complications, as we’ll be diverging from the main path soon—”
“Oh, no, please don’t trouble yourselves over me,” Azrael chuckled, his tone light. “I’m quite capable of handling myself—”
“Oh, believe him, he can! You should have seen how—” Jules began, his enthusiasm bubbling over, but Azrael swiftly cut him off.
“I believe I won’t lose my way,” Azrael interjected smoothly, his voice calm but firm, cutting through Jules’ eager words. Émile’s eyes flicked to him, one brow arching in curiosity, but whatever questions lingered behind that gaze remained unspoken. His mind seemed already occupied with his own thoughts, his concerns too many to linger on a stranger’s mysteries.
Émile slipped away to dismantle his tent, his movements swift and precise, while Captain Armand had emerged just moments earlier, greeting Azrael with a curt nod—a gesture of acknowledgement from a man who clearly wasn’t fond of mornings. Lucien, with dark shadows under his eyes that spoke of a sleepless night, didn’t even bother looking directly at Azrael; he merely raised a hand in a half-hearted greeting while he busied himself with packing away his belongings.
By noon, everything was packed, and the campsite bore no trace of their stay, save for the remains of the campfire, now scattered and carefully doused to prevent any unexpected flare-ups, even by some divine whim. The men mounted their horses, the animals’ hooves crunching softly against the earth, while Azrael chose to walk beside them, his pace steady. The valley stretched out before them, bathed in the soft midday light, the distant ruin of the old mansion casting a long, somber silhouette across the road.
No one spoke as they passed the crumbling palace, its once-beautiful architecture now a mere shadow of its former self. The silence between them was heavy, filled with an unspoken respect for the place and its forgotten history. The air was thick with the remnants of ancient magic and lingering sorrow, and the men seemed to sense it, their voices stilled by the weight of what they had witnessed. And so, they moved on in reverent quiet, the ruin standing sentinel, its secrets kept close, as they made their way down the winding road.
The river reappeared in their view, winding its way through the landscape like a silver thread. They continued to follow its path, the soft gurgle of water a gentle companion to their journey. Without realizing, the river had diverged, its winding course replaced by the rolling expanse of a beautiful valley. As they approached a fork in the road, a statue stood at the crossroads—a woman holding a lamplight, her stone features serene and wise. At the base of the statue, a weathered panel bore directions, pointing to the left and right paths that stretched out before them.
“This is it,” Captain Armand declared from atop his horse, a broad smile breaking through his stern features. “Take that road, and by sunset, you’ll reach Valmonté.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Azrael replied, his voice touched with warmth, a soft smile playing at his lips.
“Here, catch!” Jules called out, and with a swift motion, tossed a small brown pouch through the air. Azrael caught it deftly, feeling the weight of the coins within. “That should cover the entrance fee and a few nights at the inn,” Jules chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Thank you!” Azrael exclaimed, a genuine smile brightening his face. One by one, the guards bid him farewell, their words light with camaraderie and hope. Jules lingered a moment longer, hesitation dancing in his eyes.
“If you ever find yourself in Ormirande, seek us out,” Jules said with a grin as radiant as the sun itself. But before Azrael could offer a response, Jules had already turned his horse and rejoined his comrades, the sun casting long shadows behind them as they rode off.
Azrael stood at the crossroads, the sun blazing bright overhead, its light catching the edges of the statue’s lamplight and making it glow as if truly lit. The path to Valmonté stretched out before him, bathed in golden light, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt the thrill of the unknown call him forward.
The valley unfurled before Azrael like a vast canvas painted with hues of green and gold, the road winding deeper into its heart. As he walked, the sun traced its arc across the sky, its light shifting from bright gold to a warm, deepening orange. The wind whispered through the wild grasses and tangled shrubbery, rustling leaves and bending boughs, a soft, haunting melody that seemed to echo the secrets of this ancient land. Azrael kept his pace steady, feeling the rhythm of the earth beneath his feet, each step pulling him further into the living, breathing world around him.
Suddenly, the sun’s rays were swallowed by a vast shadow that stretched across the path. Azrael’s gaze lifted, and his breath caught. Above him, an airship soared—a magnificent vessel gliding through the skies with the grace of a mythical beast. Its hull was elegantly streamlined, sheathed in plates of gilded steel that glimmered like a beacon of molten gold in the dying light. Parts of the riveted framework were exposed, lending it an air of industrial grandeur, a blend of raw power and opulence. At the front, a majestic prow carved in the likeness of a phoenix with outstretched wings cut through the air, a symbol of rebirth and fiery splendor.
Azrael’s eyes widened with awe as the ship passed overhead, casting long shadows that danced upon the ground like spectral fingers. As it drifted beyond him, the sun broke through once more, flooding the valley in a cascade of rich, amber light. His gaze followed the ship’s path, and there, beyond the rolling hills, the city of Valmonté revealed itself—a wondrous sight that stole the breath from his lungs.
Towering structures rose to pierce the heavens, their forms both graceful and imposing. Gilded spires gleamed like the spears of celestial guardians, and grand palaces sprawled against the sky, their arches and columns casting intricate patterns of light and shadow. The city walls encircled this bustling heart, and within, he could see the swirl of life—marketplaces filled with vibrant colors, the hum of voices, and the distant clang of master craftsmen at their forges.
The sight stirred something deep within Azrael, a mixture of wonder and anticipation. He felt the pulse of the city from afar, a place where the mundane and the magical intertwined, where every corner held a new story, every street a hidden secret. And so, with his heart quickening to match his stride, he picked up his pace, drawn toward the city that gleamed like a promise on the horizon.