The sun’s first rays peeked over the horizon, spilling golden light through the gnarled branches above. The darkness slowly receded, yet the sky remained veiled by the thick smoke lingering like a shadow, blotting out the soft white clouds that Azrael had come to cherish in quieter days. He pressed on, carrying the weight of the boy on his back while supporting Jana as she leaned heavily against him. Not a word had passed between them during their journey, the silence broken only by the distant crackle of dying flames and the rustle of leaves beneath their feet. The path through the forest stretched ahead, a winding thread of hope woven into the twilight of their despair.
Though Azrael’s form was durable, this body—this fragile shell—was no more immune to weariness than any mortal’s. Pain gnawed at his feet with every step, a dull throb rising with each uneven breath. He could feel the burn in his muscles, the strain in his limbs, a stark reminder that even he was bound by the limits of flesh and bone. And yet, something deeper, something primal, stirred within him—a force that pushed him forward, urging him to continue when all he wished was to lay down beneath the whispering trees and let the earth cradle his tired form.
The forest around them was painted in hues of amber and shadow, the beams of sunlight cutting through the haze like fingers of gold. But there was no peace in this dawn. The air hummed with the tension of the unknown, and each step brought a fresh ache to Azrael’s body—a reminder that, for all his experience, this mortal journey was one fraught with challenges he was unaccustomed to. Still, he kept his focus on the path, knowing that every weary step was one closer to safety, even as exhaustion clung to him like a relentless mist.
But within the silence, something else lingered—an unspoken bond forged through shared hardship. It was fragile, like a delicate thread of spider silk glistening in the morning light, but it was there nonetheless. And so they pressed onward, the rhythm of their footsteps blending with the murmurs of the ancient forest.
“Azrael…” Jana’s voice wavered, breath ragged as she slowed her pace, “We can’t go on like this.”
“Just a bit further,” he urged, determination sharpening his tone. “The hill Lara mentioned—it’s close.”
But Jana shook her head, her grip loosening despite herself. “No. I can’t. Take him… and go.” Her strength was ebbing, the weight of exhaustion dragging her down. Before she could crumple to the ground, Azrael swiftly caught her, pulling her back upright. He had made a promise, and nothing in this world or the next would make him break it.
“I won’t let a child grow up without his mother,” Azrael said firmly, his voice carrying both resolve and weariness. He adjusted her arm, tightening her grip around his neck, refusing to let her give in to the pain. Every step forward was a battle against their own bodies, but he knew that stopping now would mean the end for all of them. Milo’s shallow breaths and Jana’s faltering steps were reminders that time was slipping away. They needed to reach safety—there was no room for surrender.
Jana winced with each step, the agony in her legs visible in her tight-lipped grimace. But she matched Azrael’s pace, knowing resistance was pointless. She could see it in his eyes—the grim resolve that burned despite his own fatigue. The elf’s face was smeared with dirt and ash, his features hardened by the struggle, yet his bloodshot eyes remained focused on the path ahead. He was close to breaking, she could tell—his breaths were labored, his legs trembling under the strain—but still he pressed on, a pillar of determination amidst the growing darkness.
In the silence between their breaths, the forest seemed to whisper ancient secrets, as if the trees themselves urged them forward. The shadows lengthened, the light of dawn flickering through the canopy, and still they trudged on. Azrael’s strength was nearly spent, but he clung to the one thought that anchored him—the promise he made, the duty he would not forsake. The hill was out there, somewhere beyond the mist and the trees. They just had to reach it, one agonizing step at a time.
The ancient trees stood sentinel as they moved through the forest, their gnarled branches whispering in a language older than time. It was these murmurs, the soft rustling of leaves and the sighing of the wind, that kept Azrael tethered to his purpose, easing the weight of exhaustion that threatened to consume him. Milo let out a small sigh before drifting back into sleep, his head resting limply against Azrael’s shoulder. The sun crept higher, its rays threading through the canopy, casting long fingers of light across the path.
“Azrael…” Jana’s voice broke the silence, faint and laced with curiosity. Azrael tilted his head slightly, listening as she spoke again. “Is that your real name?”
For a moment, he hesitated, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead. “Yes, it is,” he finally answered, the words carrying the weight of a truth that was both simple and complex.
Jana was silent for a few beats, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound between them. Then she asked, “What happened to the man… in the house?”
Azrael’s steps faltered ever so slightly, a tension creeping into his muscles. Had she seen it? Had she glimpsed the darkness he had unleashed? His thoughts raced, trying to untangle the web of his choices and the consequences they carried.
“What happened to him?” she repeated, her voice more insistent now.
“I dealt with him,” Azrael replied, his tone firm but guarded.
“How?” Jana pressed, her voice taking on a sharper edge. “He begged for his life, didn’t he? And you killed him?”
“Yes,” Azrael said, the single word leaving his lips like a stone dropping into a still pond. There was no room for pretense, no shield to soften the truth. He continued to move forward, his expression unyielding, his gaze fixed on the path. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath, the trees leaning in as if they, too, awaited what might come next.
But Jana said nothing more. Perhaps she understood, in some small way, the weight of his actions—or perhaps she simply had no strength left to argue. Either way, the silence returned, thick and heavy, following them like a shadow as they continued their march toward an uncertain horizon.
The bushes swayed in the gentle breeze as they trudged along the path Lara had described, a trail meant to lead to a hill just an hour away, yet the night had stretched on endlessly. The sun, now climbing higher, greeted them with the soft hues of dawn, its light filtering through the canopy in golden strands. Jana’s exhaustion weighed heavy on her—by all rights, a human would have long since collapsed, but sheer will kept her moving despite the pain gnawing at her legs, her resolve stubborn in the face of surrender.
The forest stirred around them, birds chirping their morning songs from hidden nests, while curious critters peered from the underbrush, watching the weary travelers pass through their domains. In a nearby clearing, deer grazed, lifting their heads to observe the trio as they wobbled past. Azrael felt his consciousness slipping, each step a battle against the growing darkness at the edges of his vision. His legs threatened to give way, trembling under the burden they carried. He knew he couldn’t push much farther.
Just as he felt himself faltering, a new scent cut through the fatigue—a faint trace of smoke, but not the acrid stench of burning homes and devastation. This was the smell of a campfire, of something warm and familiar simmering over flames. Perhaps it was gruel, or a simple stew—whatever it was, it sparked hope within him. Azrael’s eyes widened, darting toward Jana. Her head bobbed, barely conscious as she staggered beside him. She hadn’t caught the scent—was it an elven gift, this heightened sense? Steeling himself, he focused on the path, urging his body forward despite the leaden weight of exhaustion.
“Just… a little further…” he panted, each word strained, his breath ragged.
Jana didn’t reply, but her head lifted slightly, her grip tightening around his shoulder. She felt it too—the subtle promise of relief ahead. The trees and bushes rustled as if cheering them on, leaves whispering encouragement in the wind. The scent of fire grew stronger with every step, coaxing them to press on. Yet doubt gnawed at Azrael’s mind—what if it was the soldiers from before? But he was beyond caution now; the hope of sanctuary outweighed the risk.
They pushed through the underbrush, following the winding path until the hill finally came into view, its green crown rising above a rocky base. It was a sight Azrael hadn’t dared hope for—a place untouched by fire, alive with the possibility of refuge. Just as his vision blurred, he heard someone shout his name. The figures were indistinct, mere shadows against the morning light, but hands reached out—one lifting Milo from his back, another guiding Jana away from his side.
A woman’s voice, soft yet firm, called out to him, though the words were lost in the haze that clouded his senses. Relief washed over him like a cool breeze, and with that, his strength ebbed away. His legs gave out, and he felt himself sink into the cold embrace of the grass, its dampness mingling with the warmth of the morning sun. The world faded, and for the first time since the night began, he allowed himself to fall into the darkness, trusting that for now, they were safe.
What do elves dream of? And what visions dance through the minds of mortals as they drift into slumber? Azrael pondered these questions as he found himself adrift in the dreamscape—a place where neither time nor pain held sway. His body was worn, he knew that well enough, yet within this dream, he felt nothing but an all-encompassing peace. Is this the solace mortals find after a day’s toil? Or was this something different, a fleeting taste of tranquility only the weary can fully grasp?
Loneliness had long been a familiar companion to a god like him, a constant presence woven into the very fabric of his being. Yet here, in the darkness, that solitude was softened by something gentler, something warm. It was as if he were cradled within an endless pool of nothingness, the shadows embracing him like a memory of a lost touch. It felt almost like being held by someone he once knew—a phantom comfort, distant yet strangely soothing.
His thoughts flowed like a lazy river, unhurried, content. He recalled conversations with Lumus, recounting the moments when peculiar souls crossed into their realm, their final emotions transcribed before they passed beyond reach. This feeling was similar, or so he imagined—a delicate balance between awareness and surrender. A soft chuckle escaped him as he stared into the abyss, a fleeting amusement at the thought: Had he died? Who would shepherd the dead now? Perhaps Lumus, or Erebus—both capable in their own ways, already guiding souls in his stead when needed.
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A tingling sensation began to creep into his arms, a subtle numbness that drew his attention. Raising his hand to his face, it felt distant, foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. Perhaps this elven shell, borrowed for a time, was nearing its end. Or perhaps his time among the living was finished, and he would soon be summoned back to Necropolis. Yet as the notion took hold, he dismissed it. No, he still had time—over 360 days left before his return. He wasn’t ready to leave this world behind, not yet. There was still so much to learn, so much left to understand about these fragile mortals.
“He looks ethereal,” a woman’s voice whispered from the void, cold fingers brushing against his arm. Her words felt distant, echoing through the dream like ripples across still waters.
“He traveled through the night, carrying Milo on his back,” another voice replied, this one low and steady, masculine. “And Jana? She only managed to keep going because of him.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing much—just ordered everyone to help him.”
“And to think she wouldn’t even look at him a few days ago…”
“People change.”
“How’s Milo?”
“Stable.”
The word resonated through the darkness, and Azrael felt a wave of relief wash over him. Stable. The boy was safe. A soft smile curled on his lips as the voices drifted further into the void. He could finally let go, if only for a while. He could rest, knowing he had done enough—for now.
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A thin beam of sunlight pierced through a small tear in the tent’s fabric, casting a sharp line of light that fell directly upon Azrael’s eyes. He winced, the brightness jarring him from the depths of sleep. Slowly, he stirred from the bedding, feeling as though he had been submerged underwater for far too long, his vision blurred and unfocused. With a tired rub of his eyes, the world began to sharpen around him, revealing the details of his surroundings.
The tent was surprisingly lavish, adorned with rich carpets that seemed far too opulent for a place like Sava. The air carried the faint scent of herbs and salves, and a table at the center of the room was cluttered with potions, medicines, and rolls of gauze—clear signs that this was a healer’s tent. Yet, the luxurious decor struck him as odd, out of place in such a humble setting. Two empty chairs sat in a distant corner, flanking a small table upon which a neat stack of papers rested, their edges curling slightly in the morning breeze.
As he pulled the blanket aside, Azrael’s gaze fell upon his own body, now devoid of the scars he had grown accustomed to. His skin was smooth, unmarred by the trials he had endured—at least from what he could see. He knew he needed to find clothes before venturing out, and as he turned, he noticed a small table beside the bed. On it lay a set of neatly folded garments, unfamiliar to him. He hesitated for a moment, studying them. These were not his clothes, or if they were, he had no recollection of them.
Without further delay, he pulled the tunic over his head—a simple white shirt, followed by plain brown trousers, reminiscent of the attire worn by the villagers. It was far from the attire of a god, but it would suffice. He glanced down at his bare feet, noting the absence of shoes. The ground would be soft enough; he did not mind walking barefoot.
Just as he moved toward the tent’s flap, a strange sensation halted him—a fleeting, unidentifiable feeling that settled in the pit of his stomach. He shook it off and, with a deep breath, pushed the flap aside, stepping out into the light of day.
What met his eyes was not the hill he had expected, nor the familiar trees of the forest. Instead, he found himself in a vast expanse of lush green fields, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The landscape was utterly unfamiliar, an emerald sea under the morning sun, dotted with people he did not recognize. The hill, the forest, everything he knew seemed to have vanished, leaving him in a place that felt both real and unreal, a place where the boundaries of reality and dream intertwined.
Azrael stood there for a moment, his mind racing to piece together where he was, or perhaps what this place was. The wind whispered through the grass, and the camp around him buzzed with the quiet activity of strangers, yet it all felt distant, as though he were still caught in the delicate web of a dream, unable to discern the truth of his surroundings.
As Azrael’s eyes swept over the camp, he noticed the remarkable diversity among its inhabitants. They shared little in common—some had skin as dark as rich earth, others as pale as moonlight. Elves mingled freely with dwarves, their differences seemingly irrelevant in this strange gathering. Where was he? Questions churned in his mind. Was this some sort of compound? A general’s command tent? Perhaps even a slaver’s camp? But no, he quickly dismissed that thought—slaves would never be treated with such care. The realization settled on him like a gentle breeze: this was a nomads’ camp, a place where many paths converged and no single origin bound its people.
As he lingered at the threshold of the tent, a figure approached—a woman, tall and striking, her skin dark as midnight and as radiant as starlight. Her gaze found his with ease, her eyes holding the depth of an endless night sky. Though Azrael was tall by elven standards, she stood a head taller still, exuding a presence that made the world around her seem smaller in comparison.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” she greeted, a playful chuckle threading through her words. Her voice was warm and rich, with the cadence of someone who had seen and known much; her lips, painted in a shade of gold that gleamed like captured sunlight, curved into an inviting smile. Her presence was almost otherworldly, like a goddess descended from some forgotten pantheon, yet her demeanor was laced with kindness and humor, grounding her in this moment.
For a brief second, Azrael wondered if she was more than mortal—a thought that lingered on the edge of certainty. But he shook it off, focusing on the question that mattered most. This place, this camp—it was no ordinary gathering. And she, this tall, golden-lipped woman, was undoubtedly someone who held the answers he sought.
“Hope your sleep was adequate,” the woman remarked with a playful edge to her voice, the hint of sarcasm dancing on her lips as she moved to his side, revealing the vast expanse of the camp once more. The early morning light bathed the scene in a golden hue, adding a touch of magic to the already surreal surroundings. “How are you feeling?”
“I am fine, thank you,” Azrael replied, though the lingering disorientation tugged at the edges of his thoughts. He paused, gathering his composure. “I apologize for the rudeness, miss…”
“Oh!” she exclaimed in mock surprise, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Where are my manners? My name is Saafira.”
“Saafira… a beautiful name,” Azrael responded, the words rolling off his tongue like a soft melody. “I am Azrael.”
“Yes, I know—like the God of Death,” she teased, her gaze slipping sideways to meet his. There was a light in her eyes, a spark of mischief tempered with wisdom. “Welcome to our little corner of the universe, the Starstrider Company.” Her eyes drifted to the bustling camp, watching the people move about their tasks with a serene grace. “You’ve been out cold for a couple of days now.”
“A couple of days?” Azrael echoed, the surprise evident in his voice.
“More like a week,” she corrected, her tone light yet tinged with concern. “We found a group of refugees carrying you. The girl with the black staff was quite reluctant to let us help, but she eventually saw reason—food can be a powerful motivator.”
“What?!” Azrael’s heart skipped a beat, a wave of anxiety washing over him. “What happened to them?”
“I’m not sure,” Saafira replied, her gaze shifting to a group of children playing in the fields, their laughter a soothing melody on the wind. “They mentioned heading to L’Herboristerie Lumineuse. The boy with them was ill, but they should have reached their destination by now.”
“Oh, thank the gods…” Azrael breathed, the tension in his chest easing as relief swept through him. He released a sigh, the weight of worry lifting ever so slightly.
“Are you planning on catching up with them?” Saafira asked, her voice carrying a note of gentle curiosity.
“I have to,” Azrael answered without hesitation, his gaze following hers toward the children laughing and tumbling in the sunlit fields. The sight was almost jarringly peaceful compared to the weight he carried in his heart. “Where is this L’Herboristerie Lumineuse located?”
“It lies in Rocheclair, about a week’s journey from here if you follow the river,” she replied, her words flowing as naturally as the wind rustling through the grass.
“Thank you,” Azrael said, a hint of earnestness coloring his tone. “How could I ever repay you for taking care of me?”
Saafira’s eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief, a playful smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Why don’t you deliver something for us to the Guild?”
“The Guild?” Azrael inquired, arching an eyebrow.
“The Artisans’ Guild,” she clarified with a soft chuckle. “We’re not adventurers, after all.”
“Of course. Anything you need,” he agreed readily.
With a graceful motion, Saafira reached into her back pocket and produced a small envelope. Its surface was a delicate blend of white and gold, the intricate designs shimmering in the light. The envelope had an undeniable weight to it, far heavier than its size suggested. Holding it, Azrael felt a strange chill run down his spine, a subtle whisper of magic woven into the fine paper.
“I’m guessing I shouldn’t open this?” he asked, an edge of humor masking his caution.
“Not unless you wish to meet an untimely end,” Saafira replied, her smile widening, though the warning in her eyes was unmistakable.
“Then I’ll gladly leave it sealed,” Azrael remarked, slipping the envelope into his pocket with care. The unease lingered, but so did his curiosity. “Are you certain this is all?”
“For now,” Saafira said, her tone light but laced with an unspoken implication that left room for mystery. “Deliver that safely, and you’ll have done more than enough.”
Azrael nodded, his thoughts already shifting to the road ahead, where the river would guide his steps and the promise of catching up with his companions lay in the distance. But even as he prepared to depart, the envelope’s subtle weight was a constant reminder that, in this world, every favor carried a hidden thread—binding mortals and the enchanted alike in webs of fate.
“Then I’ll leave before the sun sets,” Azrael said, determination in his voice as he prepared himself for the journey ahead.
“Of course,” Saafira replied, her smile warm yet laced with mystery. She turned towards the vast open fields stretching out behind them, raising a slender finger to point toward the horizon. “Follow my finger, and you’ll find a river. Follow its flow, and it will lead you to a road, and eventually to a bridge. The signs will guide your way from there.”
“Are there any monsters or wild animals in these parts?” Azrael asked, his tone light but edged with caution.
“Of course there are. This is the Badlands, after all,” she replied with a knowing glint in her eyes.
“Ah, right. Naturally,” Azrael muttered, shaking his head at his own naivety.
With a graceful motion, Saafira drew a small knife from her pocket—a compact blade, sharp and sturdy, its edge catching the last rays of sunlight. “Here,” she said, extending it toward him. “It should serve you well enough against smaller creatures or any other unwelcome surprises.”
Azrael accepted the knife with a nod of gratitude, tucking it away with care. The world before him was vast, an open playfield for a god who had once wielded the power of life and death. Yet he knew that to truly learn from these mortals, he could not rely on his divine abilities. He would need to walk the path as they did—vulnerable, and bound by the same limitations of flesh and bone.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields, Azrael bid farewell to Saafira and the quiet souls who had gathered to see him off. Their expressions were solemn, offering only nods of acknowledgment, as if bound by unspoken respect or reverence. The enigmatic woman with golden lips and a honeyed voice stood apart, her gaze lingering on him like a whisper carried on the breeze.
With the wide fields stretching endlessly before him, Azrael took his first steps toward the horizon, the directions from Saafira echoing in his mind. The wind whispered through the tall grass, and the shadows deepened as the twilight hour approached. The road ahead was uncertain, but he felt a thrill in the unknown, a pull toward the secrets this world still held.
And so, with the vast, untamed landscape beckoning, Azrael ventured forth—following the path set by a woman wrapped in mystery and the promise of a world waiting to be discovered.