The hooded men vanished into the forest, leaving Lara and the villagers tending to Jana’s wounds from the strike, while Azrael watched from a distance. He pondered, debating whether to depart before the battle, at dawn or perhaps closer to midday. Leaning against the stone walls of the doctor’s house, he peeked through the slightly open window to see Jana in pain, her leg badly bruised from before, now worsened by the fall. Without a healer in the village, they could only treat her injuries with medicine, not magic. He quickly pulled back, hiding before she could spot him. The village was eerily silent, more so than usual, as if time had come to a standstill.
“Are you not going to come in?” a young boy’s voice broke the silence. Azrael looked up to see Milo, his face still bright with a pained smile.
“No, I do not think your mother wishes to see someone like me at such a time,” Azrael replied, stepping aside to let the boy enter. He noticed the boy carried a bag, likely filled with herbs and medicinal flowers from the forest edge and gardens. “Are those herbs for the doctor?”
“Yes!” Milo beamed. “The doctor’s going to show me how to make medicine from them!”
“Wow,” Azrael mused. “Are you going to become his apprentice?”
“I’m too young, and Mom still needs me, so that’s a no,” Milo replied. “I want to visit L’Herboristerie Lumineuse in the city, but I haven’t yet.”
“L’Herboristerie Lumineuse? Where is that?”
Milo’s eyes lit up with excitement. “You don’t know? It’s the largest institute for pharmacists and doctors in the Kingdom! It’s about a week’s horse ride from here!”
“Wow,” Azrael continued to muse, but Milo kept talking.
“They have large botanical gardens with flowers from the southern edge to the plants from the north! Celestine Lefleur has been its director for the past 30 years!”
“Interesting, I didn’t know that,” Azrael chuckled. “Your arms are probably getting tired. Why don’t you take these in and we’ll talk later, okay?”
“Ah, right!” Milo replied, hurrying into the house with a final, “Nice talking to you!” leaving Azrael alone once more.
As Azrael found himself alone once again, he observed the villagers. They were not young; most were farmers and elderly, none were capable of military defense. He pondered for a moment: was it truly worth it to defend this place? His gaze lingered towards the street that led to the library, its small tower peeking above the red rooftops.
Her comment about the men on the horses intrigued him, and it was an odd thing to say. How did she know they weren’t working for the local lord? He stared into the distance as he took a step toward the city’s fountain, its water flowing incessantly, indifferent to whoever was in charge.
These men were nothing but bandits, scoundrels, vile people looking to pillage a small village for their war trophy. He observed the mountains surrounding the village; they were too far to be considered an obstacle, but the forest was dark and gloomy, damp and mysterious. It was surprising that a village existed so deep within the forest. More importantly, why was there a village so deep in the forest?
As he studied the fountain, Eldon emerged from one of the houses behind it, his face gloomy, the forecast for tomorrow’s battle grim.
“Mr. Eldon!” Azrael shouted, waving his hand and breaking through Eldon’s thoughts. As he approached, Eldon’s expression quickly changed from one of worry to a more welcoming demeanor, a soft smile painting his face as he greeted Azrael.
“Ah, Azrael, you’re… here!”
“Yes, thank you for noticing,” Azrael replied, trying to lift the old man’s spirits. “I wanted to ask you something if you have the time?”
“Of course, anything.”
“Does the town have any defenses?”
“Defenses?”
“Yes, like towers, guard posts—”
“I know what defenses are, Azrael. I may be old, but I am not stupid,” the old man chuckled, cutting him off. “No, we never had issues with bandits. We’re so far in, most of the armies that pass through ignore us. Bandits don’t venture this far.”
“I see…”
Beneath the ancient canopy of whispering trees, where moonlight cast ethereal glows upon the dew-kissed leaves, Eldon halted and turned his weary gaze upon Azrael. “Why?” he murmured, the weight of years bending his frame more visibly. “We cannot defend ourselves, young one,” he added, his voice a hoarse whisper marred by a cough.
“What if we… try?”
“And risk the annihilation of half our kin?” Eldon’s words hung heavy in the twilight air, a foreboding echo among the shadows.
From the mist, Lara emerged, her presence startling Eldon and drawing a sharp gaze from Azrael. “Eldon, I think cowering like cowards betrays our spirit,” she declared, her eyes ablaze with a fierce defiance that seemed to kindle the night around her.
“I cannot…” Eldon faltered, “They’re an army; we are but villagers.” His protest was a quiet surrender, smothered by Lara’s indomitable will.
Lara’s voice lowered, weaving a tale of ancient secrets and hidden powers. “In the ruins, guarded by time and shadow, there lies a device,” she intoned, “said to shield this island from marauders.”
Azrael, drawn to the veiled mysteries, inquired, “What manner of device?”
“This island, crafted not by nature but by forgotten hands, hosts a temple amidst its ruins—a temple I have painstakingly restored.” Lara paused, perhaps awaiting accolades, before clearing her throat to continue. “Beneath it lies a machine, crafted to protect us.”
“And what is this device?” Eldon asked, his aged voice trembling slightly with a mix of fear and hope.
“That is the enigma,” Lara confessed with a theatrical sweep of her hand toward the distant library. “It is entombed behind a gate that no light can pierce, rumored to be a staff of sorts, perhaps a forcefield.”
“Can it be awakened?” Eldon pressed, a flicker of optimism in his voice.
“No, I have tried everything from blood offerings to sacred prayers—”
“Blood offerings?!” Eldon exclaimed, aghast.
“Not as you think!” Lara hastily corrected, her cheeks flushed with the heat of her fervor. “I used my own blood in an attempt to breach its seal, yet it remains closed to us.”
Their voices, laden with the ancient rhythm of the forest and the whisper of destiny, wove through the air, carrying the weight of their fears and the faint glimmer of hope. As the dialogue unfolded, the eternal dance of light and shadow played upon their faces, reflecting the timeless struggle between mortal courage and the enigmatic forces of their enchanted realm.
Under the shadow-draped canopy where whispers of ancient magic lingered in the air, Azrael’s gaze bore into her with the intensity of a storm yet to break. “What were you even thinking?” he demanded, his voice a blend of incredulity and feigned ignorance that belied his true origins. “Who knows what that tome might unleash? Offering blood to Azrael, of all deities?!” The words hung between them like a specter in the twilight.
Lara, cloaked in a veneer of politeness as delicate as spider silk, responded with a slight tilt of her head. “I believed it might awaken the relic, yet it remained silent and unyielding,” she confessed, her tone tinged with the disappointment of a spell uncast.
Eldon, his figure stooped like an ancient bough weighed down by time, shook his head slowly. “I hold no faith in relics from a god such as Azrael,” he sighed, the sound a mournful echo through the moss-clad trees. Azrael’s lips parted to mount his defense, a retort poised on the brink of thought, but he halted, catching Lara’s knowing glance.
“There is naught we may do but entrust our fates to the winds of fortune,” Eldon concluded, his words fading into the ethereal hum of the enchanted forest around them. Each phrase, each pause carried the weight of unspoken fears and the delicate hope of a people perched on the edge of myth and reality.
“You’re just going to let them raze the village?” Azrael’s voice cut through the silence like a sword through the mist, his disbelief palpable in the cool evening air.
“We will rebuild, as we have before. No king has cared for us, and that truth has not wavered for decades,” Eldon responded with a resigned stoicism, his voice echoing the hard-earned resolve of the village’s past.
Azrael was momentarily silenced as Lara interjected, her voice carrying a hint of determination. “I will see if there is anything in my trove that might aid in defending our town.”
“You do that, and I’ll check on Jana,” Eldon replied, his tone softening. Turning towards Azrael, he added, “Azrael, might you join me in visiting the poor woman?”
“Me?” For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Azrael’s features, a subtle crack in his otherwise stoic facade. He glanced at Lara, seeking an unspoken alliance, before his eyes settled back on Eldon. “I do not wish to be a burden, nor do I believe she would appreciate my presence.”
“Nonsense,” Eldon countered, his voice firm yet not without warmth as he clapped a reassuring hand onto Azrael’s shoulder. “I believe Milo would be delighted to see you.”
Azrael managed a nervous chuckle, but in the blink of an eye, Lara had disappeared into the veil of twilight, leaving him to contend with Eldon’s unwavering hospitality. His gaze drifted towards the doctor’s house, its solemn facade looming ominously as he found himself being gently steered towards the entrance. Wrapped in the cloak of dusk, the path they took was lined with whispers of fate and the silent watch of ancient trees.
The old man had entered the house first, he could hear a soft and silent cough coming from the room inside as Azrael awaited at the doors, he felt a string pull his heart as he listened to the murmurs from inside the room. Hushed whispers of applause and worry echoed from Eldon’s voice, as strained and proud chuckles from Jana embrace the room in a warm hug.
Azrael was an unknown being to this world, but he knew he was not welcome to enter this room, this room where the woman who has lost so much is resting from her wounds inflicted by those men. Another man she did not know isn’t needed. As he stood at the edge of the doors, he was slowly lost in his own thoughts, worries and mortal problems that look insignificant to a being like Azrael.
Azrael’s presence was a necessity, yet his worries grew more palpable with each step into the chamber. The murmurs of the gathered souls ceased, replaced by a heavy silence as Jana fixed her gaze upon him. Though her body was frail, her mind remained formidable. Beside her, Milo stood quietly, his eyes momentarily brightening upon Azrael’s entrance.
“May your recovery be swift,” Azrael murmured, inclining his head in a respectful greeting. He held his bow for a moment, observing as the others began to leave the room, Jana’s subtle gesture urging them out. Once they were alone, he straightened, meeting her stern eyes.
“You knife ears bring naught but trouble to my doorstep, and yet I am expected to care for you?” Jana’s voice, though strained and cold, carried the weight of her disdain, followed by a soft, weary cough.
“It was not my intention to bring—” Azrael began, but Jana swiftly interrupted him.
“It was never your intention, yet here we are,” she snapped, her breath catching as she glared at him. The fire of a warrior still burned fiercely in her eyes, though her body was frail. “You’ve done enough damage. Pack your things and go.”
Azrael hesitated, choosing silence over words. He moved towards the chair beside her bed, his presence both calm and imposing. “What seems to be bothering you? You took quite a fall.”
“Do not touch me with your filthy hands!” Jana’s voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Azrael kept his hands to himself, feeling a brief pang of hurt, though he quickly dismissed it. He felt nothing for the woman—perhaps a twinge of pity. Whatever emotion it was, it hung in the air like a silent poison. His gaze drifted to the bandages on her leg, evidence of her fall. Jana noticed and swiftly covered her leg.
“That includes your eyes!” she snapped.
“I apologize.”
“All you do is apologize. Is there anything else you can do? Like leave?”
Azrael chuckled at her remark. “I do, I…” He trailed off, unsure how to respond.
“I don’t need an elf named after a demon to comfort me at my worst!”
“Demon?” Azrael was taken aback. “I am a—” He caught himself just in time. “Azrael is a God of the Dead, not some demon!”
“What good is a God of Death?” Jana rebuked, her voice biting. “Without him, there would be no pain and suffering.”
Azrael was taken aback by her words, momentarily considering their truth. But he quickly realized her logic was fueled by anger and was misguided. “If there were no God of Death, there would be endless suffering,” he replied calmly.
She stared at him, her eyes blazing. “What, are you a priest of Azrael? Here to convert this poor dying soul?” Her anger simmered in the air between them. “Tell your God he can piss off to wherever he resides!”
“Necropolis.”
“A necropolis?”
“No, just Necropolis.”
She winced as she adjusted the pillow behind her. Azrael instinctively reached out to help but quickly withdrew his hand, recalling her earlier words. “Why have you come here? And don’t lie to me,” she demanded.
“Would you believe me if I told you I was just a traveler?” Azrael replied, a sheepish smile playing on his lips.
“Are you making a fool out of me?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then answer the question.”
“I’m a traveler from the South, as I said. I have no ties to this land nor its people.”
For a moment, it seemed she believed him. Her gaze softened briefly as she clutched her blanket, a flicker of sympathy—or perhaps jealousy—in her eyes. The drab blanket in her hands felt like the only thing protecting her, a cage, or maybe a sanctuary.
Stolen story; please report.
“I do not trust you, Azrael. In fact, I hate you and your people,” she declared, tightening her grip on the blanket. “Every time I was with your kind, you tortured me mentally. You took everything from me. All I had was my family, and you took that too.” She hesitated, then continued, “I moved to Sava, the furthest place from an elven settlement, and now you come here. Not a day has passed, and there is trouble. Please, leave.”
Azrael shifted in his seat, feeling the weight of her words, but knowing there was nothing more he could do. He rose slowly from the chair and bowed his head. The woman did not respond; her gaze remained fixed ahead, cold and distant, as if she had accepted defeat. Azrael turned and stepped out into the hallway.
In the old doctor’s corridor, opposite the doors, stood Milo, his hands clasped behind his back. As Azrael entered the hallway, Milo looked up.
“Thank you for visiting,” Milo greeted him with a soft smile. “Eldon said that they prepared some defenses and are waiting for you.”
Azrael returned the smile and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Thank you, I’ll go see him now.” He watched Milo smile in gratitude and bow his head. “Oh, and please get your mother some tea if you can.”
“I was about to ask her if she wished for some. I made a batch of chamomile.”
“Perfect,” Azrael chuckled. “And tonight, please stay inside, next to your mother. Make sure you’re both safe.”
“Of course. I’m not a foolish kid!” Milo chuckled and beamed, then disappeared deeper into the house, leaving Azrael alone in the hallway once again. Silence reigned, broken only by the soft thud of the doors closing behind him.
The town was eerily empty, save for a small group gathered near the entrance. The assembly consisted mostly of young kids barely able to hold a sword and shield, and older men too stubborn to lay down their arms. They surrounded what appeared to be an abandoned house, long fallen into disrepair. The small opening in its roof allowed for two archers to be positioned, though it was nowhere near enough to defend against a horde of several hundred trained men. Among the archers stood a man clad in dark robes, paying no mind to the others as he moved about the rooftop. He resembled a scholar, a wizard of sorts, yet Azrael had no recollection of ever meeting him.
The man’s robes were dark and flowing, elegant yet imposing, blending with the night that slowly swallowed the town. In his hands was a book, a tome of some kind. Its cover appeared to be leather, but Azrael’s mortal sight could discern no further details.
“Azrael!” Eldon emerged from the crowd, his old frame still spirited. “Look at this! We can use the old house for defenses when they come!” His ambition was palpable, but behind that fiery gaze, Azrael knew Eldon understood their efforts would not be enough to fend off the attackers. Eldon’s smile beamed. “But I know what you might say, that won’t be enough,” he continued, preempting Azrael’s interjection. “Dorian is our scholar. He’s here for his break, son of Dariel and Lljubica, both tragically passed a while back,” he hesitated briefly. “He knows a spell that could multiply our arrows!”
“Multiply?” Azrael questioned, intrigued.
“Yes!” Eldon’s smile widened. “It works for a select few items. I don’t get the magic mumbo jumbo, but he said we could make up to 400 arrows being fired from one archer. That’s 800 arrows!”
“Wow, that is impressive!” Azrael tried to match the enthusiasm. “How does it work?”
“Told you, I have no idea. You could ask him, he’s right over—” Eldon pointed towards the open roof, now vacant save for the two archers. “There.” He sighed in disappointment. “He most likely went home already. Try finding him in the morning!”
“Okay, I will do that—”
“But before you hit the haystack, my good friend,” Eldon intertwined his arm around Azrael’s, “Why don’t you help an old man with something?”
----------------------------------------
The moon traced its path across the velvet sky, its silver light mingling with the distant glow of stars, painting the night with a serene luminescence. Eldon had departed for his dwelling, leaving the village steeped in a tranquil slumber, their dreams untouched by the wakefulness that clung to Azrael. Unlike mortals, sleep was a distant notion to him, a phantom he neither sought nor needed. He moved with deliberate grace through the heart of the village square, where the gentle murmur of water in the fountain and the symphony of crickets in the bushes were the only voices to accompany the silence of the night.
As he approached the fountain, the rippling waters reflected his form, though the image that met his gaze was unfamiliar. In this mortal guise, he was no longer the god he once was. The realization settled heavily within him, perhaps a moment too late, as his eyes lingered on the reflection—a stranger stared back, an elf garbed in clothing from lands unknown, standing in a town fated to fall by the morrow. He chuckled softly at the absurdity of his journey, brief though it had been.
He dipped a finger into the water, and the chill shot through him, a stark reminder of his temporary flesh. Whispering softly under his breath, he traced his finger through the water, watching as a shadow, a void, followed in its wake. The darkness consumed the fountain’s waters, leaving only an inky abyss where the liquid once shimmered. As he withdrew his hand, the void quivered, and slowly, as if the night itself bled into it, the image of Erebus materialized upon the water’s surface.
“Good evening, my Lord,” Erebus greeted, his voice as calm as the night, his form shimmering within the enchanted waters. “Is there something you require?”
“Oh, no,” Azrael replied with a quiet chuckle, his voice barely above a whisper. “I simply wished to see how things are faring in my absence.”
Erebus blinked, his form wavering for a brief moment before he cleared his throat. “All has been smooth, my Lord. The Veil continues its task far below full capacity,” he reported, his tone briefly tinged with concern. “Forgive me, but have we erred in some way? You have not been gone long—how might we improve?”
“Goodness, no!” Azrael interrupted gently, a soft laugh escaping him. “It’s nothing like that. I merely wished to check on things, nothing more.”
“As I mentioned, my Lord, your plans have been executed flawlessly. We are monitoring the cycle with utmost care, and thus far, there have been no disruptions.”
“Have any souls been claimed by other realms?”
“None, my Lord. No gods have shown interest in the recently deceased.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure, sir. Is there anything else you require?”
Under the star-strewn sky, Azrael lingered by the fountain, his hesitance briefly shadowing his features before dissipating like mist. The mechanisms of Necropolis, especially the veil, continued their relentless duty, ensuring peace and order in his domain. Lifting his gaze to the heavens, he caught sight of the moon—a celestial companion weaving luminously amongst the constellations. In this moment, cloaked in his elven guise, he embraced the identity wholly bestowed upon him.
“No, thank you, that is all. Please ensure Lumus is also faring well,” he spoke into the shimmering void reflecting upon the fountain’s surface.
“Very well, sir,” Erebus responded, his form dissolving into the darkness, the waters reclaiming their rightful place with a gentle ripple.
Azrael remained by the water’s edge, his hands grasping the cool stone, feeling the fountain’s spray mingle with the night air. The sensation was foreign, the stark, vivid reality of mortality pressing upon him with a weight he had never known. What does it mean to be mortal? The question echoed in his heart, a blend of trepidation and wonder knitting together within his soul. His reflection, now that of an elf, stared back at him—a stark reminder of his new, fragile existence.
In this quaint village under the vast expanse of the cosmos, he was no longer Azrael, the god and sovereign of Necropolis, the Shepherd of Souls. He was merely Azrael, an elf with roads yet to travel and experiences yet to taste. This newfound simplicity was both daunting and exhilarating. As the cold droplets from the fountain kissed his skin, a subtle smile tugged at his lips—was it the thrill of anticipation or the whisper of fear? Only time would reveal the depths of his journey as a mortal, as he stood at the threshold of a life redefined, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon.
The sun began its slow ascent, gently urging the moon to retreat, though the celestial orb lingered, a pale echo of its nocturnal glory. Azrael sat quietly upon a weathered bench in the town square, his gaze fixed on the horizon where dawn’s first light pierced the veil of night, transforming the darkness into the soft glow of daybreak. The moon, though diminished, still held its place in the sky, a silent guardian of the fading night.
From the corner of his eye, Azrael noticed movement. Young Milo emerged from the doctor’s house, his red shirt and brown trousers slightly askew, and his hair tousled from sleep. He clutched two buckets in his small hands, the morning’s task clearly familiar to him. Azrael’s eyes met Milo’s, and he offered a gentle smile.
“You’re awake early,” Azrael spoke in a voice as soft as the dawn, careful not to disturb the stillness. “Do you require assistance?”
“Good morning, Mr. Azrael!” Milo replied, his face lighting up with a bright, enthusiastic smile. “No, thank you! I do this every morning.”
“And where might you be taking those buckets?”
“Down to the river for water,” Milo answered, his tone cheerful.
“Are you quite sure you don’t need help?” Azrael asked again, his voice carrying a note of gentle concern.
“Of course not!” Milo chuckled, his laughter like the trill of a bird at daybreak. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Stay safe, and be back before noon,” Azrael advised, his words imbued with quiet care.
“Yes, sir!” Milo called back before disappearing down the narrow streets, his small form soon swallowed by the shadows cast by the waking sun.
Azrael lingered for a moment outside the doctor’s house, feeling a brief hesitation before he turned away. The familiar ache of not belonging nudged at him, but he pushed it aside and made his way towards the library. Perhaps Lara had made some progress with the mysterious book. The warmth of the sun kissed his skin, and the breeze that whispered through the streets wrapped around him like the embrace of an old friend. Lost in thought, he soon found himself standing before the ancient ruins, the remnants of forgotten times holding their silent vigil under the morning light.
Standing before the timeworn ruin that now served as the village library, Azrael hesitated, his gaze lingering on the heavy wooden doors. The ancient structure, repurposed yet still echoing with remnants of its past, seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for a secret to be unearthed. Could this woman truly decipher the device or unravel its mysteries? With a quiet exhale, he turned the worn brass knob and stepped inside.
The air within was thick and stale, clinging to him like the dust of forgotten years. The silence was profound, deeper than the usual hushed whispers of the library. He moved toward the counter where Lara typically resided, only to find it abandoned, the guest log lying open and unattended.
“Lara?” His voice carried through the shadowed rows of bookshelves, but no answer returned. Frowning, he ventured further, passing through a narrow doorway that led into the back—a space more suited to living than study. The small nook within the ruins had been cleverly transformed into a cozy kitchen. The remnants of recent activity were still present: a pot of soup resting on the stove, the solitary plate and spoon left abandoned, remnants of a long-finished meal clinging to them.
The patched walls bore the marks of makeshift repairs—wooden planks and stones wedged together to stave off the elements. Despite its rough-hewn appearance, the shelter held a quiet charm. His eyes traced the small details of the room—the threadbare cloth draped over the table, the half-open door revealing a bedroom with an unmade bed, and the framed pictures hung on the walls, showcasing faded scenes of Sava captured in time. Dried herbs and wildflowers added a touch of life to the otherwise still space, their colors muted by age.
Returning to the dimly lit lobby, Azrael’s gaze drifted toward the aged doors leading to the stairwell that spiraled into the depths below. The ancient wood stood slightly ajar, inviting shadows slipping through the gap, carrying with them a faint, almost imperceptible pull—a call from the darkness beneath. Without hesitation, he pushed the doors wide, allowing the cold, damp air to wash over him, chilling the warmth of the day from his skin. The scent of earth and decay mingled with the draft, thickening the air as he stepped forward.
Each creak of the weathered steps beneath his boots resonated like distant echoes in a forgotten cavern, while the spiraling staircase descended deeper into the underground gloom. His fingertips brushed against the moss-covered stones lining the walls, slick with moisture and time’s persistent touch. The damp chill seeped into him, wrapping around his limbs like the clinging grasp of an unseen presence, urging him further into the shadows.
The path twisted downward, winding deeper into the heart of the ruin where the veil between past and present seemed to thin, the air thrumming with the faintest hum of ancient magic. Every step carried him closer to whatever awaited below—a mystery steeped in the darkness, waiting to be unveiled.
Opening the heavy doors to the underground chamber sent a shiver coursing down Azrael’s spine. The air grew colder, almost tangible in its damp chill, as the ancient wood groaned and creaked, resisting his touch before yielding. The chamber lay before him, vast and silent, its walls subtly altered by time yet still bearing the familiar marks of forgotten ages. He stepped forward, each footfall reverberating through the darkened space, the echoes fading into the shadows that clung to the farthest reaches.
“Lara?” he called out, his voice resonating through the hollow chamber, chased by the echoes as they danced along the stone. “Are you in here?”
“In here!” came a distant voice, clear but softened by the layers of stone. “By the obelisk!” The words guided his gaze toward the ancient monolith. He paused, studying it for a brief moment—the once-bright runes now worn and dulled by the relentless passage of time.
He moved past the obelisk, discovering an opening that seemed almost to shift as he approached, the passage narrowing, then widening, leading him into a hidden chamber veiled from casual sight. The room opened wide and cavernous, with shadows lurking in the corners, giving way to a faint, otherworldly glow that emanated from the center.
There, Lara stood, a triumphant gleam in her eyes as she grasped a staff of polished wood as dark as obsidian. The staff seemed to drink in the surrounding light, leaving a halo of darkness around her, as if the very essence of night had been captured and forged into a weapon.
“What is that?” Azrael’s voice was edged with curiosity and caution.
“Our trump card!” Lara’s smile was radiant, the excitement in her tone unmistakable, as the shadows seemed to pulse in rhythm with her words.
For a moment, Azrael stood silent, caught off guard by the surge of enthusiasm radiating from Lara. Uncertainty flickered across his usually composed expression, unsure how to match the fervor in her eyes.
“I was hoping for a more dramatic response, but I suppose that’ll do,” Lara quipped with a playful smirk, her tone light. “Here, hold this,” she said, her smile unwavering as she pressed a worn tome into his hands—the very one that had once been sealed with an unbreakable lock.
“How did you—” Azrael began, his words trailing off in disbelief.
“A woman’s will!” she declared, a hint of mischief lacing her words.
Azrael hesitated, the weight of the tome in his hands suddenly feeling heavier with the realization. If this was the power of a mortal woman’s resolve, he mused inwardly, he had no desire to test the bounds of a mortal woman’s wrath. Whatever she had done, it had worked; the tome was now open, and from it, they had unlocked the secret of the staff she now wielded.
“What is this staff? Do you even know how to wield it?” he asked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and caution.
“I’ve been experimenting with it here,” Lara mused, a gleam of determination in her eyes as she twirled the staff, trails of smoke and shadow swirling in its wake like ethereal tendrils. “But alas, I’ve only managed to summon a small shield, and it’s barely enough to cover two people.”
Azrael watched her for a moment, his attention drifting to the tome cradled in his hands. The leather-bound book thrummed with a quiet, ancient energy, almost beckoning him to open it. As he turned to the first page, the unfamiliar script seemed to twist and reshape itself into words he could understand. Scanning the text, he felt the pull of knowledge unfurl within him—a way to channel the staff’s power, even in her inexperienced hands.
“Repeat after me,” he instructed, his voice low and measured.
“What?” Lara blinked, her excitement momentarily giving way to confusion.
“Qalab Wardina Barzat,” he repeated, the ancient words flowing smoothly from his lips.
For a brief moment, she hesitated, furrowing her brow in concentration. “Q-alab Wardina…” She clutched the staff tightly, feeling its cool weight resonate with her own pulse. “Barzat!” she finally shouted, her voice carrying a spark of command.
As if finally comprehending her intent, the staff responded with a surge of energy. An almost translucent shield, shimmering in hues of deep blue, bloomed into existence around both Azrael and Lara. The protective barrier pulsed with a soft glow, and even Azrael found himself mildly impressed by the result.
Lara’s eyes widened, her mouth agape as she took in the sight. “Oh my Gods!” she cried, her excitement bubbling over as she jumped with joy. “I did it! I actually used magic!” She twirled in place, her laughter filling the chamber, a melody of pure exhilaration.
“Yes, yes,” Azrael murmured, flipping through the pages of the tome, each passage unraveling more about the staff’s hidden powers. Meanwhile, Lara, lost in her own delight, twirled and danced across the chamber, hugging the staff close as if it were a treasured companion. The beaming smile on her face never wavered, a pure expression of joy that radiated through the dim light.
Azrael’s voice cut through her giddiness like a blade of calm amidst a storm. “Try this one,” he said, glancing up from the tome. Lara, catching his tone, straightened and faced him with sudden determination, standing before him as if ready for a test of valor. “Point toward that empty wall,” he instructed, his eyes briefly meeting hers before returning to the ancient script.
She did as told, her grip tightening on the staff. Azrael’s voice flowed like a calm river as he continued, “Now, repeat after me: Zapali Naar, Ognyen Strel.”
Lara drew in a deep breath, her gaze hardening with resolve. The weight of her purpose—the need to protect her town—settled within her, steadying her voice. When she spoke, the words slipped from her lips like a melodic incantation, now more confident than ever: “Zapali Naar, Ognyen Strel.”
The instant the final word escaped her, a brilliant burst of flame erupted from the tip of the staff, streaking across the room with a fierce, fiery grace. The light it cast danced on the stone walls, yet the fire was anything but ordinary. Black and white flames, ethereal and otherworldly, swirled together in a mesmerizing display as the bolt struck the wall. The fire spread from a single point, consuming the surface in a hungry blaze that glowed with the intensity of starlight.
For a heartbeat, the flames devoured the wall, leaving it seemingly lost to the dark and light inferno. But as quickly as it came, the fire sizzled out, leaving the wall untouched, not a single mark or scorch in sight. The room returned to its shadowed stillness, though now charged with the remnants of ancient magic.
“How did you understand it?” Lara’s voice bubbled with excitement as she hurried closer, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. The thrill of discovery danced in her gaze as she eagerly sought answers. “And how is it that I can use magic?”
Azrael met her gaze briefly, sensing the weight of her questions. “I don’t have all the answers,” he admitted, his tone measured, “but what matters is that you can wield it, and that may prove invaluable.”
“Me?” Lara’s eyes widened in disbelief. “But surely you should be the one using this staff—you can actually read the tome!”
Azrael shook his head almost immediately, a quick, dismissive motion. “Goodness, no,” he replied with a light chuckle. “I am no mage, nor am I someone destined to bear such power. The staff is best suited in your hands.”
“But—” Lara began, her words cut short as Azrael swiftly pivoted, his tone shifting.
“Noon is nearly upon us,” he interjected, a touch of urgency in his voice as he moved toward the exit. “We should go.” The abruptness of his reply left little room for further questions, and without waiting for her response, he stepped out of the chamber. Lara, still buzzing with a mixture of excitement and confusion, hastened to follow, the staff clutched tightly in her grasp as they ascended from the hidden depths into the waiting daylight.