As the sun dipped lower, casting long, whispering shadows across the marble floor, Azrael’s gaze remained locked with the girl at the top of the stairs. Her disfigured face held an air of tragic dignity, and though marred by cruel hands, her poise spoke of a pride undiminished by time or suffering. Her voice quivered with emotion as she uttered her name, a name that hung in the air like a distant echo of lost nobility. Whoever had wronged her was now far beyond the reach of mortal judgment, but the scars they left behind lingered in this forgotten place.
“Seraphine,” Azrael spoke gently, letting the name roll off his tongue like a whispered blessing, “a name as delicate as the flowers that once graced these halls.” He clasped his hands behind his back, his tone warm, a deliberate kindness woven into his words. “Tell me, are you the ruler of this palace?”
At the mention of a ruler, Seraphine’s expression wavered. Her ethereal form recoiled slightly as her gaze darted around the room, searching, perhaps, for a memory or a presence that was no longer there. She shook her head quickly, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “No… My mother is the lady of this house.”
“And where might she be?” Azrael asked, his tone laced with quiet curiosity.
“She has not come home in a long time.” The sorrow in her voice was palpable, a sadness that seemed woven into the very fabric of the castle’s stones.
Azrael’s eyes drifted to a nearby portrait hanging on the wall, its colors faded yet still vibrant enough to capture the grace of the woman it depicted. The figure in the painting was regal, her flowing blonde hair cascading like liquid gold down to her shoulders, her smile serene and inviting. There was a touch of the ethereal in her beauty, a timeless elegance preserved in the crumbling ruins of this forgotten domain. “Is that her?” Azrael asked, his voice soft, almost reverent.
“Yes,” Seraphine answered, her voice barely a whisper as she descended a step closer, “that is my mother.” She paused, tilting her head slightly as she fixed her gaze on Azrael. “But what are you doing here, stranger?”
Azrael offered a faint smile. “I could ask you the same question.”
“I live here,” she answered with an air of defiance, as if daring him to challenge her claim.
“But you are a soul, Seraphine,” Azrael replied, his voice kind yet firm. “Your place is not here—it is in Necropolis.”
At the mention of that name, a shiver ran through Seraphine’s form. Her face, already ghostly pale, seemed to grow even whiter as she recoiled, fear flickering in her eyes like dying embers. “No!” she cried out, her voice trembling. “My mother told me that only bad people go there!”
Azrael’s expression softened, and he couldn’t help but let out a hearty laugh, rich with warmth that echoed through the empty hall, momentarily dispelling the gloom. Seraphine’s eyes widened in confusion, her fear giving way to puzzlement. Why was this strange elf laughing?
“That may have been true once, long, long ago,” Azrael said with a reassuring smile, “but not anymore.”
Suspicion crept into Seraphine’s gaze, mingled with a hint of indignation. “How could you possibly know that?” she demanded, her tone sharp and questioning, a flash of fire beneath her fear.
“Because I have walked the streets of Necropolis,” Azrael replied, his voice steady and gentle. “I know it well.”
“Nonsense,” she snapped, her voice rising with disbelief. “You are not dead!”
Azrael dipped into a graceful bow, a courtly gesture reminiscent of the days when lords and ladies still graced these halls. “I am Azrael,” he said simply, the name spoken with quiet authority.
For a moment, a flicker of recognition crossed her features. Her form trembled as realization dawned, her eyes wide with terror. “You… you’ve come for me, haven’t you?”
“No, dear Seraphine,” Azrael answered quickly, shaking his head. “I am merely a traveler, passing through.”
An uneasy silence settled between them, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken fears. Azrael’s gaze returned to the portrait of Seraphine’s mother, her serene smile frozen in time, unaffected by the turmoil that had befallen her family. For a brief moment, it seemed as though the eyes in the painting held secrets that neither past nor future could unravel.
“Why did you come here?” Seraphine’s voice wavered as she descended the grand staircase, her delicate fingers grazing the worn railing with a grace that spoke of long-forgotten routines. Each step she took seemed as though it had been repeated countless times over the centuries, a ghostly echo of life that lingered within the crumbling walls.
Azrael turned to face her fully, his expression warm and calm. “As I wandered along the road, I caught sight of the spire piercing the sky,” he explained, gesturing toward the towering dome above them. “Its beauty beckoned me, and I couldn’t resist coming closer to see it for myself.” He noticed how her eyes widened, a spark of pride lighting up her sorrowful gaze as if the mention of the castle’s beauty had rekindled something long dormant within her. “And,” he added with a lighthearted chuckle, gesturing to the polished boots now on his feet, “my feet were sore from the road. I hoped I might find some boots, and it seems I got lucky.”
“I’m glad they fit you,” Seraphine replied, her voice softening into a gentle smile. “I saw you from the statue when you arrived. It told me what you were seeking.”
Azrael’s brow arched in curiosity. “You speak with the statue?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted, her gaze flitting back to the imposing figure at the entrance. “When guests come, she tells me if I should hide or if it’s safe to reveal myself.”
“I see.” Azrael’s smile was tender, but his mind whirred with questions. The presence of not one but multiple souls within these ancient halls intrigued him. Both the statue and Seraphine were bound here, tied to a past that still clung to them like mist on an autumn morning. What had sealed their fates in this forgotten palace?
He took a step closer, lowering his voice to match the quiet stillness of the room. “Do you often have guests here, Seraphine?”
She shook her head, her once-proud demeanor faltering for just a moment. “Not many. Most are frightened off by the statue or by me. They think I’m a curse upon this place.”
Azrael met her gaze, his eyes reflecting a deep well of understanding. “I do not see a curse. Only a soul waiting for something or someone.”
Seraphine looked away, her expression unreadable. The silence stretched between them, filled with the unspoken memories that haunted these halls. Azrael could sense it—the threads of a story left untold, woven into the very stone and shadow of the castle.
Azrael had always harbored a tender affection for souls that came from children—there was something uniquely bittersweet in the mingling of grief and the untouched wonder still clinging to their essence. These young souls, cut short by the whims of fate, often bore the lingering traces of innocence, like morning dew on petals before the harsh sun burns them away. He had encountered countless reasons for their passing, many beyond even his control: natural disasters that stirred the wrath of Terra, the earth goddess. She and Azrael had always been at odds, their natures irreconcilable. While he was entrusted with the care of souls, guiding them to reincarnation and ensuring the delicate balance of life and death, Terra’s disdain for mortals often manifested in violent outbursts. Her fury would spill over into calamities that unleashed untold suffering, leaving Azrael to sort through the broken threads of life prematurely severed.
Those confrontations between their realms had left scars—not just on the mortal world, but on the delicate system of existence itself. Terra’s wrath didn’t just increase Azrael’s workload; it complicated matters in ways most gods would prefer to ignore. Some souls, torn violently from their vessels, still clung to the frayed edges of life, hovering in the twilight between worlds. Each one was different, a unique challenge to disentangle. Some could be coaxed back, rethreading them into the tapestry of the living, while others were beyond recovery, their time simply spent.
Lumus, ever the diligent caretaker, usually handled those delicate cases, leaving Azrael to focus on the larger flow of souls. Yet, in this crumbling palace, he felt a faint stirring of uncertainty. What if Seraphine’s body still lay trapped within these walls, tethering her spirit to this decaying place? If he could find it—if it even still existed—it might be possible to help her cross the veil, to grant her the peace that had so long eluded her.
But it would be no simple task. Seraphine was not just another soul; she was a child burdened by memories that had hardened into chains. Freeing her from those bonds would require more than just finding her remains. It would demand trust, courage, and a willingness to confront the fears that had kept her anchored here for so long. Azrael’s heart ached with the thought of what lay ahead for her, knowing all too well that even the gentlest of intentions could bring pain before healing.
The light filtering through the fractured windows bathed the room in hues of pale gold and shadow, a silent witness to the lingering sorrows hidden in every corner of this forgotten domain. The castle itself seemed to hum with quiet anticipation, as if it, too, awaited what Azrael might uncover in its depths. He cast one last glance at the portrait of Seraphine’s mother, her serene smile still frozen in time, before turning his thoughts back to the delicate task before him.
This would be Seraphine’s journey, but it was clear to him that he would need to walk beside her every step of the way.
Azrael’s gaze drifted across the room until it settled on Seraphine, who stood once more at the top of the grand staircase. There was a flicker of hesitation in her ghostly form, a wavering that betrayed both fear and curiosity. It wasn’t every day that a spirit found herself face to face with the God of Death in the very foyer she once called home. Yet, beneath her apprehension, there lingered a thread of dignity, as if she held on to the last remnants of her mortal pride. Azrael could sense the conflict within her—a desire to understand, yet an equally strong wish for him to leave her be. He knew he could whisk her away to Necropolis with but a thought, but such forceful measures were not his way. Selene might have acted without hesitation, but he preferred a gentler touch, especially with souls as delicate as hers.
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“Are you afraid of me, Seraphine?” Azrael’s voice was gentle, yet direct. He turned fully to face her, his eyes kind and patient as they studied her every movement. Though she was a spirit, her soul was very much alive, memories still etched upon her essence like faint echoes from a life that once was.
“Of course I’m not!” she shot back, crossing her arms defiantly. Her voice carried the clipped tone of a young noble, trying to mask her uncertainty with a front of bravado. “You’re the one trespassing in my home.”
A soft chuckle escaped Azrael’s lips, the sound warm and echoing faintly in the hollow silence of the room. “Then tell me—why are you still here?”
“Because I want to be,” she answered quickly, though the words felt rehearsed, as if she had convinced herself of that very reason time and time again.
“Is that truly the only reason?” Azrael pressed, his tone laced with both curiosity and the understanding of one who had seen countless souls bound by things left unspoken.
For a moment, Seraphine’s bravado faltered. Her gaze slipped away from him, drifting instead toward the portrait of her mother hanging on the wall—a woman frozen in time, smiling serenely from within the gilded frame. The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of unvoiced sorrows and questions long left unanswered.
Azrael waited, allowing the stillness to do its work. He had seen it before—the way souls clung to remnants of their past, unable to move on until they confronted what held them back. Perhaps Seraphine, too, needed to face the truth that had kept her chained to this ruined palace.
The shadows in the room seemed to shift slightly, as if the very walls were listening, waiting for what might be revealed.
“Who did this to you?” Azrael’s voice, usually gentle, took on a chill as he studied the disfigured half of Seraphine’s face. Her once-delicate skin was marred by jagged scars, twisted and charred as though by fire. The wounds ran deep, far beyond the surface, echoing a torment that clung to her very soul. He knew his question was blunt, but for a fleeting moment, the veil of civility fell away, revealing the divine authority beneath. No longer just a visitor, he was a god—one who sought truth, even when it was steeped in pain.
Seraphine recoiled at his change in demeanor, her ghostly form trembling as if she were suddenly trapped within her own memories. The warmth that had previously flickered in Azrael’s presence now felt distant, overshadowed by the cold gravity of his question. She turned her head away, refusing to let him see the full weight of her anguish. “It is none of your concern, Azrael,” she replied, her voice carrying the sharp edge of command. “This was a family matter—”
“Do all families burn their children?” Azrael’s words cut through her defense like a blade, each syllable cold and unyielding.
For a moment, she stood frozen on the steps, her ethereal form wavering as if caught between worlds. Yet she did not shrink away. Instead, she descended another step, closing the distance between them with a defiant resolve. In that moment, she stood before him not as a frightened spirit, but as a proud soul, ready to defend the honor of those who had wronged her. “They didn’t mean it!” she cried out, her voice cracking with a blend of desperation and fierce loyalty.
Azrael’s gaze softened, though the solemnity in his eyes remained. He had seen this before—souls clinging to the fragile hope that those who hurt them had acted out of love, even when the truth was far darker. He knew well that true love would never inflict such cruelty.
“I apologize,” he murmured after a pause, his tone returning to the warmth he had worn earlier. “I overstepped.”
“Yes, you have, Azrael,” Seraphine replied, her voice regaining a steadiness that belied her pain.
She took another step, her form now level with his as they stood eye to eye. The air between them crackled with the unspoken tension of a soul unwilling to yield, even in the presence of a god. Her stance was a subtle warning—she might be bound to this place, but she would not be trifled with so easily.
“I notice that this portrait alone,” Azrael remarked, his gaze shifting to the untouched likeness of Seraphine’s mother, “seems impervious to the passage of time.” His tone carried the weight of idle observation, though his eyes spoke of deeper curiosities. He moved with measured grace, more interested in exploring the subtleties of the ruined palace than prying directly into the mysteries binding Seraphine here.
“I keep it clean,” she responded curtly, folding her arms as her gaze followed him. “Maggots don’t seem to care for it.” Her voice held a subtle tension as she watched Azrael glide across the grand foyer, his steps deliberate, echoing softly against the marble floor. His gaze flitted from decayed drapes to time-worn statues, to the torn remnants of tapestries that once blocked out the sun. Seraphine could feel the weight of his presence in her home, an unwelcome guest who had been offered new boots but lingered too long. Who would have guessed that the traveler from the valley would be a god?
Azrael’s movements brought him back to the foot of the grand staircase, where Seraphine stood. His attention turned once more to her, lingering with a keen yet nonthreatening curiosity. She recoiled slightly, angling her face to shield the scars—those charred remnants of a once-whole visage. The sight was unsettling not just for the disfigurement itself but for what it whispered about the tragic fall of such a noble household. Azrael’s gaze traveled over the ruined grandeur of the once-regal estate, a place where nobility had crumbled into echoes and dust. The girl’s growing irritation was palpable, though she held herself with the rigid poise drilled into her during life—an elegance that lingered even in death.
“Where are your portraits?” Azrael’s question cut through the growing tension, probing for more of the story that lingered between these walls.
“Most were burned—” She halted, her expression tightening as she realized her slip. “I don’t have to explain myself to you!” she snapped, her voice brimming with pride and frustration. “You’re just a traveler in this realm, nothing more.”
Azrael’s response was calm, almost playful as he leaned into his authority. “Would you prefer that I show you my true form, to remind you of what I really am?” The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with the unspoken menace of a being who could shed the guise of a mere elf with but a thought. Seraphine’s breath caught as she stared at him, images of grim legends flickering through her mind—the tales of the god who ruled Necropolis with a cold and unyielding hand. Though he wore the guise of a traveler, the weight of his presence was unmistakable, and a child’s fear was easily stirred by the hint of the divine.
Seraphine’s lips parted as if to speak, but only a trembling whisper escaped. “N-no,” she stammered, shaking her head as if to dispel the tension that hung between them like a mist. “I believe you.”
Azrael offered her a gentle smile—one crafted with the grace of a practiced diplomat, more to soothe than to convey genuine warmth. He let his gaze wander upwards, settling on the skylight above, where fractured beams of light filtered through the dusty glass. “You’ve been lingering on those stairs the entire time,” he mused, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Is there something you’re keeping hidden up there?”
The question startled Seraphine. Her arms flared out instinctively, as if she could shield the upper floors from him with nothing but her slender frame. Panic flickered in her eyes, the kind of desperation that only deepened Azrael’s curiosity. “No!” she protested, her voice edged with anxiety. “There’s nothing up there!”
Azrael studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. He was not one to push against the will of a troubled spirit, especially not one so delicate and frightened. Instead, he allowed his attention to drift toward the grand double doors that led deeper into the shadowed hallways of the palace. If she wished to keep him from the staircase, he would respect her desire—for now. Still, something told him that whatever secret tethered her here was hidden not far beyond those winding corridors.
“Where are you going?” Seraphine’s voice wavered, her earlier bravado faltering. “You can’t go in there!” Her tone held a note of pleading, mingling with the echo of an ancient warning.
Azrael turned back to her with a calm, measured gaze. “I was merely considering a stroll through the lower floors. Would that trouble you, Lady Seraphine?”
She hesitated, the conflict clear in her eyes. At last, she forced a smile, one that tried to mask the unease gnawing at her. “I can’t let you wander alone in this place,” she said, her voice wavering between pride and fear. “I’ll be your guide.”
Azrael inclined his head in a graceful bow, the motion fluid with the practiced elegance of a courtier. “It would be my honor, Lady Seraphine,” he replied, his tone laced with a subtle touch of respect. He caught the hint of a proud smile gracing her face, as if she clung to the remnants of her former nobility. With measured steps, Seraphine moved ahead, leading the way down a corridor that seemed to stretch into forgotten corners of time. Azrael followed closely, the whispers of ancient memories swirling around them like the wind through an old forest.
The hall through the grand doors held a haunting beauty, draped in the shadows of a past long forgotten. Like the grand foyer before it, this corridor was a relic of faded splendor—a world where grandeur had slowly surrendered to decay. The paintings that once lined the walls, now riddled with holes from insects and time, whispered ghostly tales of the lords and ladies who once strode these halls. The tattered drapes fluttered faintly as if stirred by memories of a breeze that no longer lingered here. The carpet beneath Azrael’s feet crunched with the weight of years left unattended, its once-lush fibers dulled by a layer of dust, untouched by mortal hands for what could have been a century.
Azrael followed closely behind Seraphine, his footfalls soft, mindful of the air of melancholy that clung to the corridor like mist. The heavy wooden doors that once guarded this place lay in ruin—ripped from their hinges either by some long-forgotten force or by the relentless passage of time itself.
“I apologize for the mess—” Seraphine began, her voice trailing with a note of embarrassment, though it was laced with the formal politeness of a lady raised in nobility.
“There is no need for apologies,” Azrael assured her, offering a smile that held warmth despite the gloom around them. As they passed a once-regal room—perhaps a library or an office now fallen into disrepair—Azrael’s eyes were drawn to a portrait hanging on the wall. Though the painting had succumbed to the elements, it still retained a certain dignity. The man depicted wore finery of deep crimson and gold, his beard neatly trimmed, his eyes commanding with a gaze that held both wisdom and stern authority.
“Who is this?” Azrael inquired, pointing gently at the portrait.
Seraphine’s expression softened as she looked upon the image with something akin to reverence. “That is my brother,” she answered, her voice tinged with both pride and melancholy. “He served as a general in the Royal Army. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him…” Her words drifted into wistful silence, her smile faint yet full of fondness. “He was always kind to me,” she added, her voice gaining a touch of youthful brightness. “Whenever he returned, he would set aside his duties just to play with me. And he never let anyone mistreat me—not ever.”
Azrael nodded, allowing the silence that followed to settle between them like a veil. In that stillness, the dust in the air seemed to drift more slowly, as though time itself had paused to listen. The portrait loomed over them, a silent sentinel bearing witness to a bond that stretched across the chasm of time.
Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by a resonant crash echoing from the main foyer. It wasn’t the sound of something collapsing from age or neglect—this was the distinct, forceful bang of a door being kicked in. The sharp noise reverberated through the corridors, setting both Azrael and Seraphine on edge. The air grew heavy with a tension that twisted the remnants of serenity into something darker, something laden with a sense of imminent threat.
Azrael’s gaze shifted toward the source of the noise, his expression tightening with caution. Seraphine’s ghostly form flickered with anxiety, the light in her eyes dimming as the echo of intrusion settled like a chill in the air.