As Azrael pushed open the creaking doors to the grand foyer, a scene of ruin greeted him, where shadows clung to broken fragments like spirits to a tomb. Splintered wood and shattered remnants lay strewn about as if a tempest had ravaged the entrance. The air was thick with the echo of ancient sorrows, as though the very walls whispered laments for what had been lost. His eyes traced the scars, the heavy bootprints that marred the once-grand doors. In their suffering, Azrael thought, this ruin might possess a soul, pure in its despair. His gaze then shifted to the winding staircase, worn and silent. Seraphine was nowhere to be seen, yet faint murmurs drifted through the mansion like distant, mournful winds. Somewhere within, those voices called to him.
The broken hinges groaned under the weight of unseen hands, adding a dissonant note to the symphony of decay that played through the hall. Azrael’s gaze caught the portrait of Seraphine’s mother, her painted smile a ghostly echo of a time when light and warmth reigned here. Now, that smile seemed a warning, a silent protest against the darkness that had taken hold. Beyond the shattered doors, the statue in the overgrown courtyard stared with cold, unforgiving eyes. The guardian’s fury hung in the air, a silent sentinel bearing witness to the desecration of this place.
Azrael ascended the stairs, each creak a dirge for forgotten memories. The stale air clung to him like a phantom’s touch, wrapping his thoughts in tendrils of the past. Shadows thickened as he reached the upper landing, where two rusted suits of armor stood, their hollow gazes locked in silent defiance. The spears they held crossed like sentinels at the gate of a forgotten realm, challenging any who dared approach. Even dulled by time, the armors seemed alive with purpose, watching Azrael’s every move.
With a nod of respect, Azrael passed beneath their guard, slipping into the silence beyond. The corridor was steeped in an eerie quiet, thick as the mist that clings to ancient graves. It was the silence of forgotten tombs, where grief lingers like mist on a cold autumn night. Each breath he drew was heavy with the scent of time and sorrow.
Passing doorways barely clinging to their frames, Azrael glimpsed the remnants of faded grandeur—a bedroom, opulent once, now desolate. Green silks hung limp and lifeless, threads frayed by the relentless hands of time. The bed stood untouched, as though awaiting a dreamer long departed, while the cold hearth whispered of a warmth that would never return.
Paintings lining the walls were but shadows of their former glory, their colors drained to hues of despair. Cracks and peeling paint told tales of lives lived in splendor now reduced to mere echoes. Azrael moved with a grace born of reverence, each step a quiet lament for the forgotten souls who once called this place home.
The mansion held its secrets tightly, yet Azrael knew he drew near the heart of its sorrow—a place where the line between life and death blurred, where shadows and light intertwined in a dance as old as time. Silence deepened as he walked, heavy as the pause before a revelation that has long awaited its hour.
The silence pressed in around Azrael like a heavy shroud, suffocating any trace of sound as he drifted deeper into the forsaken corridor. His gaze settled on a painting hanging on the wall, half-consumed by time’s relentless bite. What remained depicted a once-proud family—a mother, father, and two children—but decay had claimed the likenesses of all save the daughter’s figure, intact beneath her father’s ghostly hand resting protectively on her shoulder. The remnants of the mother’s hand still touched the unseen son’s shoulder, lost in the void that moths and rot had devoured. Azrael found himself momentarily ensnared by the image, as if trying to piece together the life it once portrayed, his mind wandering into the echoes of what might have been.
The reverie shattered abruptly with the sound of a crash—a sudden, jarring thud followed by a pained groan. The noise reverberated through the walls like a dying gasp from the past, and Azrael’s ears honed in on the source. It was the voice of a man, young from the sound of it, strained with the effort of someone caught in desperation. The groans intensified as Azrael approached the door, the noise thickening the air with an unsettling tension, each sound laced with the raw edge of suffering.
“Help!” The man’s cry sliced through the oppressive silence, a jagged note of helplessness. “Help me, please!” His voice cracked, desperation lacing every word as if he were struggling against the very grip of death itself. Azrael stood at the threshold, listening with cold detachment. He pondered the irony of the situation—the very man who had likely come seeking fortune now pleading for his life, pinned beneath the weight of something unseen. Would it be thirst, starvation, or perhaps the gnawing bite of scavengers that claimed him first? The image of ravenous maggots feasting on what was left of a hapless trespasser brought a dark chuckle to Azrael’s lips.
The sound must have carried, for the man’s tone turned from pleading to sharp, tinged with panic. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” The voice was hoarse, strained not from authority but from fear—an edge of command masking the frailty of someone wholly out of their depth. Azrael stifled another chuckle, amused by the notion of a man crushed by the very greed that led him here, barking orders as if it would make a difference.
But the air in this place carried weight beyond mere mortal authority. It was as if the very walls whispered secrets only to those who dared to linger too long, and Azrael wondered if this man—this unwelcome guest—had begun to hear them too. He felt a flicker of curiosity mixed with a playful cruelty. Should he reveal himself? Or should he let the fool drown in his own terror, haunted by shadows and the slow creep of unseen dangers?
Azrael’s chuckle echoed once more in the empty hall, a faint, mocking sound that danced with the dust motes in the stale air. Silence returned, thick and expectant, as if the house itself was waiting for what Azrael might do next.
“Show yourself, you coward!” the man’s voice trembled as he forced out the words, a cough interrupting his bravado.
Azrael’s chuckle grew into a soft, melodious laugh, the sound rippling through the room like a playful breeze. “Alright, alright, you’ve caught me,” he said, stepping through the doorway with a casual shrug. The sight that greeted him was almost comical—a man pinned beneath an old bookshelf, his once-pristine red and gold attire now caked with dust, his golden hair disheveled and streaked with dirt. The young soldier’s eyes, wide with both recognition and frustration, locked onto Azrael as he struggled to free himself.
“You!?” The man coughed, his voice laced with a mix of disbelief and indignation. “What are you doing here?!”
Azrael knelt beside him, tilting his head in feigned curiosity. “I was about to ask you the same question,” he mused, his tone light as he inspected the man’s predicament. “Though I must say, I didn’t expect to find you here… playing the role of a burglar, no less.”
“I am not a burglar!” the man snapped, his pride flaring even in this undignified position. “We’re here on—”
“We?” Azrael’s eyebrow arched as he playfully flicked the man’s forehead, eliciting a wince. “So, you’re not alone?”
“Yes, yes!” the man groaned, still straining against the weight pressing down on him. “There are three more of us. We came in search of… some kind of relic.” His voice wavered, as if he were regretting the entire venture.
Azrael leaned back, folding his arms as he observed the man with detached amusement. “Ah, treasure hunters, then,” he remarked, his voice devoid of sympathy. “And how, pray tell, did you end up in such a predicament?” He gestured vaguely at the toppled bookshelf with a slight grin.
The man’s cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and irritation. “I… I was reaching for a book. It was just a bit out of my grasp, and then—” He gestured weakly toward the shelf that had collapsed onto him.
Azrael met his gaze, eyes shimmering with barely contained laughter. The man’s blue eyes were fierce, like the depths of a stormy sea, yet there was something almost childlike in their panic. Azrael tried to maintain composure, but the absurdity of the situation broke through his usual restraint. A chuckle escaped him, growing louder as he finally burst into laughter, the sound filling the room with an unexpected warmth.
“You… you’re serious?” Azrael gasped between laughs, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You’re telling me you got yourself trapped under a bookshelf because you couldn’t reach a book?”
The man scowled, clearly unamused by Azrael’s mirth. “It’s not funny!”
“Oh, it is,” Azrael retorted with a grin, the teasing light in his eyes sparkling brighter than before. “You really should have left the relic hunting to those who can handle their own weight—or at least a bookshelf’s.”
The man’s prideful declaration rang out, defiant even in his disheveled state. “You’re mocking a knight of *Les Chevaliers du Roi Doré!*” He struggled beneath the weight of the fallen bookshelf, his face contorted with the effort as he pushed against it in vain. A groan of frustration escaped him before he finally let out a resigned sigh.
Azrael tilted his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Would you like some help, then?”
The knight’s frown deepened, sarcasm dripping from his strained voice. “I’ve got it. I don’t need your help.”
“Suit yourself,” Azrael replied with a nonchalant shrug, turning to stroll back toward the doors. He made it only a few steps before the knight’s resolve cracked.
“Wait!” The man’s voice broke, coughing as he grimaced in pain. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one more desperate than the last. “I… could use a hand getting out of this mess.”
Azrael turned, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he teased, though there was a kindness behind his words as he stepped back toward the trapped knight. Gripping the edge of the heavy bookshelf, Azrael’s muscles tensed as he heaved upward. “Move—now!” he commanded, straining under the weight.
The knight wriggled free, crawling out from under the oppressive weight as Azrael’s fingers gripped the edge with increasing strain. With one final effort, the knight slipped clear, and Azrael released the bookshelf, letting it thud back into place with a dull, echoing thump.
Breathless, the knight lay sprawled on the dusty floor, gasping as if he had just emerged from drowning waters. His chest heaved as he tried to regain composure, his pride still bruised but his life thankfully intact.
“Thank you!” the man strained, pulling himself upright, his movements burdened by both exhaustion and disbelief.
Azrael, stilling the laughter that had once echoed in his chest, observed the mortal with a curious tilt of his head. “You mortals,” he murmured, his voice like the rustle of dead leaves in an autumn breeze, “have an uncanny knack for stumbling upon places and things you fancy.” His breath caught briefly as the tension eased from his body, allowing his muscles to relax. Silence settled between them, thick and ponderous, as they each took in their surroundings.
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The room they found themselves in held the air of a long-forgotten study. The opulence that once graced it still clung in ghostly fragments—rich wooden paneling untouched by the relentless march of time, though dust clung to the air like the ghosts of forgotten scholars. The fireplace, once a proud centerpiece, now stood cold and neglected, its stone darkened by the years. Scattered about were chairs and a desk, now nothing more than collapsed ruins, their legs splintered and crushed beneath the weight of time’s indifference.
“What’s your name, beggar?” the man demanded, his tone more bark than question.
“Beggar?” Azrael’s gaze flicked upward, narrowing slightly as it locked onto the blond man. “I am a traveler, not some wretched beggar. And even if I were…” His voice deepened, growing edged like the moonlit glint of a blade, “…I would still demand your respect.”
The man met Azrael’s eyes, and for a moment, tension crackled in the air like the charge before a storm. His hand rested near the hilt of his sword, yet it remained sheathed, a clear signal that he had no intention of drawing it. Instead, he merely shrugged—a gesture as dismissive as it was unwise.
“It’s Azrael,” he answered finally, his voice laced with an edge as he stretched his arms languidly.
The name seemed to hang in the air like a spell, leaving the man momentarily dumbfounded. “So, I owe my life to the God of Death?” he quipped, though the jest held a note of nervousness as Azrael’s cold gaze remained fixed on him. “And what is your name?”
“I have already told you—Azrael,” he replied curtly.
“Azrael is no name for an elf,” the blond man shot back.
“No, it’s the name of a god,” Azrael interjected, his tone dropping dangerously low. “Choose your words carefully, goldilocks.”
The man’s breath hitched, his bravado faltering beneath the weight of that gaze—no wrath, no hatred, merely the cold distance of something beyond human understanding. Yet even that was enough to send a shiver crawling down his spine. “I am Cadet Jules Marceau of Les Chevaliers du Roi Doré,” he managed, bowing stiffly in an attempt at formal courtesy.
Azrael’s lips curved into a slight, enigmatic smile. “See, that wasn’t so difficult, Jules.” His tone held the faintest hint of amusement, though it was laced with an undertone that made it clear no further pleasantries would be indulged.
Jules offered no response, the weight of Azrael’s presence hanging between them like a silent, invisible wall. The god, his interest waning, exhaled softly and turned toward the hallway where the silence still reigned supreme—so thick it was nearly tangible, pressing in from all sides like the walls of a tomb. Yet before he could disappear into its depths, hurried footsteps broke that stillness—Jules, scrambling to catch up, driven more by unease than any real sense of duty.
The two walked in silence through the corridor, the stillness both heavy and welcome. Azrael led the way, his gaze unwavering as he passed room after room, each more ruined than the last, like echoes of forgotten tragedies. The air grew colder with each step, thick with the weight of old sorrows. Behind him, Jules followed closely, his presence akin to that of a lost hound clinging to its master’s heels. Several times, Jules attempted to break the silence with idle chatter, only to be met with Azrael’s cold indifference. Yet he persisted, his obedience almost amusing to Azrael—perhaps Necropolis had room for someone like him. The thought of Jules fumbling through the mist-shrouded depths of Necropolis drew a dry chuckle from Azrael, a sound that sent a visible shiver down Jules’ spine.
“Jules,” Azrael’s voice cut through the silence like a blade through mist, “who commanded you to come here?” The question lingered in the air, drifting like smoke as they arrived at a spiral staircase that spiraled downward into an abyss of darkness.
“The King,” Jules answered, his voice taut as he peered into the void below. “He spoke of an old favor owed.”
“Interesting,” Azrael murmured, his tone unreadable as he began his descent. Each step creaked under the weight of time, the wood groaning like ancient bones as they ventured deeper into the shadows. The air grew colder, and the darkness thickened around them as they descended onto the main floor, where the very walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets.
“Seraphine?” Azrael’s voice echoed through the shadowed corridor, reverberating against the cracked walls as he ventured deeper into the heart of the building. Jules hurried to keep pace, his eyes darting nervously to the ruined walls that seemed to close in around him. The name “Seraphine” gnawed at his thoughts, a haunting melody that clung to the edges of his mind. For a fleeting moment, he questioned why he was following this enigmatic figure. He could very well take a different path and fulfill his mission, yet the oppressive atmosphere of the palace—where every corner seemed to hide watchful eyes—drove him to stick close. The darkness was thick, and the silence held a weight that Jules was unwilling to face alone.
“Who is Seraphine?” Jules asked, his voice a hushed whisper as he trailed behind Azrael, either too fearful to delve deeper into the gloom or instinctively using the god as a shield against whatever lurked in the void.
“Seraphine is the lady of the house,” Azrael replied without turning, his tone laced with faint amusement. He glanced back, catching the subtle recoil in Jules’ expression, as if the thought of some long-forgotten woman still claiming the title of ‘lady of the house’ sent a chill down his spine. Azrael’s lips curled into a knowing smile, a soft chuckle escaping him.
The shadows offered no response. Wherever Seraphine was, she remained hidden, likely entangled with the other unwelcome souls who had dared to enter the palace. The two continued down the corridor until they reached another set of stairs. Unlike the previous steps, these were fractured, leading up to a crumbled second floor that had collapsed entirely. However, the stairs leading downward remained intact, sturdy despite the decay gnawing at the edges. Without hesitation, Azrael began his descent, the darkness swallowing him bit by bit. Jules hesitated, his face draining of color as he stared into the abyss below, the growing shadows devouring Azrael until only faint echoes of his steps remained.
The fear of being left alone in this accursed place gnawed at Jules until he could resist no longer. Steeling himself, he followed, each step into the blackness a reluctant surrender to the unknown, where even the air seemed to whisper warnings of the dangers lurking beneath.
The basement, much like the rest of the manor, had not been spared the ravages of time. Crumbling stone walls were riddled with holes, and thick webs clung to every corner like the remnants of forgotten nightmares. Azrael’s gaze swept over the unlit torches mounted on the walls, long extinguished and shrouded in dust. As he moved deeper into the shadows, searching for Seraphine, he hesitated, catching the sound of strained breaths from behind. He turned to see Jules, his eyes wide with fear, panting as he struggled to keep pace. The mortal’s gaze locked onto Azrael with a mixture of desperation and disbelief. Azrael sighed inwardly—this man would prove a nuisance if left to stumble blindly in the dark.
For Azrael, the darkness was no more than a mere shadow upon his senses, but for mortals, it was a wellspring of terror. With a measured motion, he raised a hand and extended a single finger. A soft, ethereal glow began to form at its tip, coalescing into a small orb of light. The glow intensified, casting flickering shadows across the cobwebbed walls. Azrael flicked his wrist, and the orb detached from his finger, floating lazily near his head, illuminating the basement with a gentle radiance. Jules stared in awe, his mouth agape.
“You’re a mage?” Jules exclaimed, astonished. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Must I announce it?” Azrael replied coolly, his expression impassive. “I am but a traveler, nothing more.” His voice carried a faint hint of mockery as he gestured toward the orb. “Pick it up or I’ll leave you to your fears.” With that, he turned his back on Jules, his focus already shifting to the deeper shadows ahead, indifferent to the mortal’s astonishment.
The orb bobbed gently in the air, its light casting long shadows that twisted with the movement of the room’s occupants. Jules hesitated for a moment before gingerly reaching out, as if afraid the light might vanish at his touch. But the orb remained steady, glowing with a steady warmth. Emboldened by the light, he hurried after Azrael, who was already striding forward into the deeper darkness of the cellar, his presence an implacable force against the encroaching void.
As Azrael ventured deeper into the narrow, decaying hallways, the signs of neglect and time’s relentless march became more evident. The walls were cracked, rooms boarded up and ruined, the servants’ quarters barely held together by the remnants of what once was. These were places where the family would not have lingered, yet a faint echo of former grandeur lingered, a shadow of pride even in spaces deemed unworthy of their presence. The kind of refinement these quarters held was an anomaly to Azrael, who doubted many families treated their servants with such regard. Despite the rot and decay, the craftsmanship spoke of a house built on status and vanity.
Jules, despite his role as a soldier, clung to Azrael like a frightened hound. His footsteps quickened whenever they passed a door that stood ajar, shadows within teasing the imagination. The man’s fear was palpable—he might have faced blades on a battlefield, but darkness was an enemy he was not trained to combat. Azrael cast a glance over his shoulder, noting how Jules trailed just a step behind, nearly brushing against him in his attempts to stay close. With a sigh of irritation, Azrael continued, his voice echoing through the corridors as he called out for Seraphine.
“What exactly were you sent to find?” Azrael asked, his pace slowing as he allowed the darkness to envelop them further. The orb of light cast wavering shadows on the walls, twisting the silhouettes of long-abandoned furniture into eerie shapes.
“What?” Jules stammered, shaken from his fearful thoughts. He quickly tried to collect himself, though his voice betrayed his nerves. “Oh, it was… a body.” His words were hesitant, as though reluctant to admit their true purpose.
Azrael stopped abruptly, causing Jules to stumble into him. “A body?” Azrael’s voice sliced through the silence with a sudden, cold intensity. He spun to face Jules, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What do you mean, a body?”
Jules swallowed hard, his composure faltering under Azrael’s piercing gaze. “We were tasked to retrieve the remains of a girl who died here—”
“A girl who died here?” Azrael’s voice rose, a mix of incredulity and barely restrained fury. His eyes seemed to bore into Jules, stripping away the man’s flimsy excuses. “And you chose to desecrate this place on the whims of a king’s orders?”
Jules couldn’t meet Azrael’s gaze, shame tugging at his conscience. He knew this mission was wrong, that it wasn’t their place to disturb the dead. But the weight of duty, of following orders, had driven him here. There was something about Azrael’s presence, though—something that made Jules feel small, like a child caught stealing from a temple. He shifted uncomfortably, guilt gnawing at him like a persistent shadow.
“We were told to give her a proper burial,” Jules murmured after a long, agonizing silence. His voice was barely more than a whisper, like a ripple disturbing the stillness of a forgotten pond. The words held a solemn weight, echoing softly in the darkened corridor.
Azrael stared at him, unmoved by the excuse. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, only punctuated by the faint flicker of the light orb floating beside them. “And yet here you are,” Azrael said, his voice a quiet storm. “Led by orders into the heart of sorrow, unprepared for the shadows you’ve awoken.” He turned away, resuming his path into the gloom, his expression unreadable. Jules, guilt and unease heavy in his chest, could do nothing but follow, his steps laden with the awareness that they had crossed into a realm where the living had no claim.
“How many of you are there?” Azrael’s voice cut through the stillness as he moved forward, his gaze fixed ahead, the shadows weaving around them like threads in a dark tapestry. Jules trailed closely behind, his steps hasty as if the encroaching darkness might swallow him if he lingered too far back.
“Three more. Four, including me,” Jules answered, his voice tinged with a nervous edge. “I don’t know why we were ordered—”
Azrael’s words sliced through the air before Jules could finish. “Does your unit make a habit of desecrating ancient ruins?”
“What? No!” Jules bristled, pride prickling at the accusation. “We’re the King’s Unit! We don’t desecrate—”
“But you’re here.” Azrael’s reply was sharp, a venomous undertone laced within his calm delivery.
Jules faltered, guilt coiling in his chest. “We were ordered to. It’s an unusual command from the King. Only our Captain knows the details.”
“Then we should find your Captain,” Azrael mused, his voice thoughtful, as if weighing something more profound than mere words. The two continued deeper into the basement’s winding corridors. They seemed to be caught in a loop, passing the same crumbling walls and rotting doors, yet the atmosphere grew heavier with each step. As they neared a new set of doors—ancient wood that hadn’t been there before—Azrael paused, a flicker of intrigue crossing his features.
The doors creaked as he pushed them open, the sound reminiscent of brittle bones shifting in the wind. Light from the floating orb spilled into the room beyond, revealing a stark and desolate chamber. The bed was barren, the kind one would expect in a prisoner’s cell. A lone table stood to one side, accompanied by a splintered closet, and a shattered mirror hung crookedly on the wall.
“Captain!” Jules cried out as he rushed into the room, dropping to his knees beside a man slumped against the wall, his body limp as if caught in an endless sleep. Azrael stepped in with deliberate calm, his gaze sweeping the room, noting two more bodies in similar states, their forms draped in a stillness that was almost unnatural.
As the light illuminated further, Azrael’s eyes locked onto something by the broken mirror. There, nestled in the shadows, was a small skeleton clothed in a once-beautiful white dress, now stained and torn by time’s cruel hand. It cradled a worn teddy bear, as if holding onto the last fragments of innocence amidst decay. The hollow eye sockets seemed to watch Azrael with a lingering sadness, an echo of the life that had long since ebbed away.
Azrael dipped his head in a graceful bow, his tone respectful yet tinged with an ancient weariness. “Hello, Seraphine.”