Seraphine’s laughter echoed through the chamber, light and airy, like the tinkling of wind chimes in a distant breeze. She moved gracefully around the slumped form of Jules, her steps more a dance than a walk, teasing the unconscious man with playful twirls and gentle hums. Azrael watched her with a soft, almost melancholic expression. The souls of children had always been delicate, fragile like spun glass, and he never quite knew how to approach them without causing further sorrow. His gaze drifted from the ghostly girl to the brittle bones that lay forgotten on the cold stone floor, remnants of a life unjustly cut short.
“Seraphine…” Azrael’s voice was gentle, carrying the warmth of a lullaby. He turned back to the spectral figure, who now spun in lazy circles, her white dress trailing like mist. “How long have you lingered in this place?”
Seraphine paused mid-spin, tilting her head with a soft smile, her expression wistful. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice sweet but distant, like a melody lost to time. “I think it’s been a very long time!”
“Have others remained behind with you?” Azrael’s question hung in the air, tender yet probing, seeking the truth beneath her childlike facade.
For a fleeting moment, her dance slowed, and her eyes darkened, holding a hint of sorrow. Then, with a forced cheerfulness, she resumed her twirls. “No, just me!” Her voice sang with forced innocence, but Azrael sensed the lie beneath her words. She feared Necropolis, and the truth of her situation lay buried beneath layers of denial. She was not some ancient ghost lingering for centuries—she was still a child, clinging to fragments of innocence in the face of unimaginable loss. Azrael’s heart ached for her, and he chose not to strip away the comfort of her illusion.
As Seraphine turned her back, skipping away with a feigned lightness, Azrael’s expression grew resolute. With a sharp snap of his fingers, the illusion of his mortal guise shattered, revealing his true form. The delicate elf features dissolved into something more otherworldly, and his dark wings unfurled from his back, stretching wide as if awakening from a deep, forgotten slumber. The feathers rustled softly in the air, catching the faint light like the gleam of moonlit silk. Azrael exhaled deeply, his breath carrying the relief of shedding a burden, like slipping into garments that fit more naturally.
Seraphine turned back, her wide eyes sparkling with awe as she beheld his true form, a mix of reverence and curiosity dancing in her gaze. But the sadness lingered too, a child’s understanding that the world was not as simple as it seemed, even in death. Azrael watched her, his expression softening once more, knowing that the road ahead held more shadows than light—for both of them. Yet for now, he let her dance in the illusion she had crafted, in this twilight realm where innocence and sorrow intertwined.
“You look different!” Seraphine gasped, her ethereal form twirling in a graceful arc before she danced closer to Azrael. “I didn’t know elves could have wings—” she teased, her tone light and curious. Her small hand reached out, fingers brushing against the smoky, dark feathers that rippled with a life of their own. Azrael watched her with a mix of patience and sorrow as she marveled at the sensation, her eyes widening in awe. “It feels… amazing!” she whispered, a hint of wonder in her voice.
“Thank you,” Azrael replied, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he knelt, bringing himself eye-level with the ghostly child. The warmth in his voice held the weight of an ageless compassion, but also the firmness of a truth that could not be avoided. “Seraphine, listen to me…”
“I know,” she interrupted, her voice taking on a solemn tone as she gently caressed his wing, her once playful demeanor giving way to the heavy realization of what he was. “You’re the God of Death.” The words were spoken not with fear, but with a quiet resignation. Her fingers lingered on the dark feathers as she looked up at him, her gaze pleading. “Can’t you let me stay here? I promise I won’t cause any trouble…”
“Seraphine.” Azrael’s voice took on a more serious edge, the weight of his role settling into his words. “You are a soul out of time. Your place is no longer here—”
“No!” she cried out, her childlike innocence breaking through in the rawness of her protest. Tears welled up in her eyes, shimmering like stardust as they clung to the edges of her lashes. “I don’t want to go!” Her voice cracked, full of desperation and fear—a child’s refusal to let go of the only existence she’s known, no matter how lonely or painful.
Azrael’s heart ached with a depth that few could understand. For all his power, this was the one task he never found easy. Guiding souls—especially young, frightened ones—toward the unknown was a duty that gnawed at him, reminding him of the fragility of life, even in death. He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself as he took a slow, deep breath. How could he explain to this lost child that what awaited her was peace, not oblivion? How could he soothe a soul that had clung so fiercely to the remnants of a world that had long since forgotten her?
Opening his eyes, he met Seraphine’s tearful gaze, his voice softening once more. “It’s not goodbye, little one. It’s just a new beginning, a place where there’s no more fear, no more loneliness.”
But Seraphine shook her head, her tears spilling over, her ghostly form trembling. She was still a child, terrified of what she could not see, clinging to the familiar shadows even though they offered her no solace. Azrael reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek as if he could wipe away the tears that slipped through the veil of reality.
“Sometimes,” he whispered, his voice as gentle as a lullaby, “letting go is the only way to find your way home.”
But Seraphine’s tears continued to fall, splashing soundlessly onto the cold stone floor. Azrael glanced over his shoulder at the skeletal remains curled against the wall, forever clutching its stomach in a pose of anguish, as if bracing for another blow. The sorrow in the air was palpable, thickening with every sob that shook the little ghost’s form. When he turned back to her, she had quieted, her weeping reduced to soft sniffles, though the sorrow still clung to her like mist in a forgotten grove.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Azrael’s voice was tender, his words chosen carefully, each one a bridge to coax her from the depths of her grief.
Seraphine met his gaze, and in that brief connection, Azrael felt the weight of her pain, the echoes of a childhood stolen. There was warmth there, yes, but it was buried beneath layers of turmoil and loss—a child who had never been allowed to simply be a child.
“My mother was a Duchess, and my father… he died when I was really young,” she began, her small voice trembling as she released his wing and moved to sit beside Jules’ slumbering form. Azrael followed her, folding his wings carefully so they wouldn’t touch the filthy floor. “Mother was always kind to me and my sister, but… the other kids…” Her voice wavered as she stared into the distance, tears tracing fresh paths down her already tear-streaked cheeks.
“Other children?” Azrael gently prompted, leaning closer, though he already knew the answer.
“Mhm.” Seraphine nodded, her eyes downcast. “Sometimes Mother invited children from neighboring families, but they would talk about me… say awful things behind my back. My sister—she always defended me, but then they would bully her too. It was awful.” The memory brought a fresh wave of tears, her small hands curling into fists.
“And what was her name?” Azrael asked, shifting slightly as he knelt beside her, mindful of his wings.
“Aveline Margaux,” she said with a glimmer of pride, her voice lifting as if speaking the name brought her comfort. “She had the most beautiful blonde curls, like sunlight captured in silk.” Her eyes shone with a fragile joy as she recalled the image. “And her eyes, blue like the deepest ocean—Mother called them Poseidon’s envy.” She giggled softly, a sound laced with both joy and sorrow.
“Was that her we saw earlier?” Azrael asked gently.
Seraphine nodded, her expression dimming. “When the men came, she protected me… and when…” Her voice broke, and Azrael could see the pain in her eyes deepen as she relived the memory.
“They wore black,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “They killed Mother, and then the guards. Mother told us to go to the basement, to the old room no one used. We were to move the mirror and hide. So we did. We heard the screams, but we didn’t look back…” Her words faltered, and she edged closer to Azrael, seeking comfort in his presence as she recalled the night that shattered her world. “We reached the hidden passage. I went through, but then the men broke down the door, and Aveline… she closed the passage behind me. I heard her scream, and I ran. I ran and ran, but they found me.”
She buried her face in her hands, her ghostly body trembling as she wept. “They called me a monster. They hit me, over and over. I begged them to stop, but they just kept hitting me.” Her sobs grew louder as she leaned into Azrael, her small form crumpling in on itself. “I wanted them to stop… I wanted to be with Aveline…”
“It’s okay,” Azrael murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he wrapped his wings around her in a protective cocoon. He fought to keep his own emotions in check, his heart aching with an ancient sorrow for the suffering of this fragile soul. Seraphine buried herself deeper into his embrace, weeping without restraint. Azrael gently stroked her ghostly hair, offering what comfort he could, though he knew that the pain she carried ran deeper than words could ever heal.
For a while, the only sounds were the soft cries of a child lost to time, and the rustle of Azrael’s wings as they enfolded her in a warmth she had long been denied. In that moment, the shadows, the damp stones, and the horrors of the past faded, leaving only a brief, fragile peace.
“Have you seen your mother since then?” Azrael’s voice slipped through the quiet like a whisper carried on a twilight breeze, the question tender, meant to nudge the child from her lingering sorrow. Seraphine only shook her head in response, her small form still pressed close to him. Azrael’s gaze drifted to Jules’ slumped figure, a mere shadow in the corner. “I see,” he murmured, though the weight of her loss was clear even without her saying more.
“I knew she was gone,” Seraphine murmured into his chest, her voice muffled and filled with the innocence of a child who had known far too much pain. “I never saw her again. It was just… me.” She clung to him, rubbing her tear-streaked face against his chest, seeking comfort as any lost child would. They sat in silence, wrapped in the stillness of the forgotten hall, until Azrael’s eyes suddenly brightened, as if a long-forgotten piece of a puzzle had clicked into place.
“What if I told you…” Azrael began, gently pushing Seraphine back so he could meet her gaze, “that you could see your mother again?”
“What?” Seraphine’s eyes lit up, her gaze wide and hopeful, brimming with an innocent joy she hadn’t felt in what must have been an eternity. “Where? How?”
Azrael’s smile was soft, a rare warmth touching his usually somber features as he brushed a strand of ghostly hair from her face. “You’ll need to trust me, alright?”
Seraphine hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but the hope was stronger. She nodded, a small, fragile gesture. That was all Azrael needed. Rising smoothly, his wings rustled as they stretched out, shaking loose the dust that had gathered from the cold stones. He placed a hand against the wall beside them, and the shadows, ever his loyal servants, began to swirl and coil like tendrils of smoke. They danced and wove together until a dark void appeared, an oval portal rippling with inky blackness that suddenly parted to reveal a mist-laden valley.
Through the veil of mist, a landscape unfolded—rolling hills dotted with mausoleums of every shape and size, their stones weathered by time but glowing softly with a pale, eternal light. And far in the distance, standing proudly beneath the shrouded skies, was the Eternal Palace. Its grand arches and spires were hewn from dark stone and bathed in ethereal luminescence, intricate carvings depicting the endless cycle of life and death etched into every surface. The scene was both haunting and beautiful, like a dream caught between dusk and dawn.
Seraphine’s eyes widened in awe as she peered through the portal. From its shimmering edges emerged a figure—Lumus, clad in his familiar robes of white and silver, the patterns on them shifting like flowing starlight. His luminous skin cast a gentle glow, his white hair shimmering as if spun from moonlight. He approached with a serene smile, his staff tapping softly as he came closer, his glowing eyes exuding a soothing radiance.
“My Lord,” Lumus greeted, bowing his head with elegant grace. “It has been some time.” He then turned to Seraphine with a warm smile. “And you must be Lady Seraphine.”
Seraphine blinked in surprise. “You know my name?”
“Of course,” Lumus replied with a soft, musical chuckle. “It is my duty to know those whom the realms touch.” His voice was gentle, radiant with an unearthly kindness.
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“This is Lumus,” Azrael said, introducing the figure with a nod. “He is my assistant.”
Seraphine, ever the little lady despite her tears, curtsied gracefully, her form shimmering as she dipped her head in respect. Lumus responded with a bow befitting a royal court, acknowledging her with the dignity she had likely never received in life.
“But how will this help me find my mother?” Seraphine asked, her voice small, yet brimming with yearning.
“Ah, Lady Seraphine,” Lumus said with a twinkle in his eye, his voice as soothing as a lullaby. “Your mother never arrived in Necropolis, which means her spirit is still near, waiting for you.”
Seraphine’s eyes widened, her heart swelling with renewed hope. The mist swirled gently through the portal, beckoning her forward, and for the first time in ages, her tears ceased. In that mist-covered realm beyond, where death was but another chapter in the endless tale, perhaps she could find the peace she sought—reunited with the love she lost. And for just a moment, as Azrael watched her step closer to that ethereal doorway, he felt the lines between shadow and light blur in a way only those caught between worlds could truly understand.
“You promise I’ll be able to see her?” Seraphine’s voice wavered as she glanced back at Azrael, her ghostly form hovering at the edge of the portal. There was a flicker of hope in her eyes, fragile yet determined.
A gentle smile curved on Azrael’s lips. “I promise you a proper burial,” he replied, placing a hand over his chest where a mortal heart might have been, his voice imbued with both solemnity and care. “One worthy of both you and your sister, so that you may find the peace denied to you for so long.”
Seraphine’s gaze softened, the ethereal glow in her eyes shimmering with something close to gratitude. She gave a small nod and stepped into the mist-covered realm, her tiny hand reaching out to grab onto Lumus, nearly tipping him over in her eagerness. Even in death, she clung to her childish energy, a fleeting spark of innocence.
“I’ll keep my word,” Lumus said with a warm chuckle, steadying himself as he smiled down at her. “You won’t cross the Veil until she’s by your side. I’ll make sure of it.” His words carried a promise woven with kindness, the sort that only someone deeply attuned to lost souls could offer.
As the portal began to swirl closed, the last image Azrael saw was Seraphine’s radiant smile, her small hand waving in farewell. The light faded, leaving the damp passageway in shadow once more, the air thick with the echoes of a child’s joy that had finally found release.
The orb of light danced around Azrael’s head, flickering with a joyous energy, as if celebrating the resolution it had helped bring about. But it soon circled back toward Jules, whose groan broke the silence, signaling his return to consciousness. Azrael felt a brief surge of alarm. With a swift motion, he snapped his fingers, shedding his true form. The dark wings folded inward, dissolving into wisps of smoke before vanishing entirely, leaving only a few stray feathers drifting to the floor. His robes faded into the simple attire he had worn before—an unremarkable brown tunic and red trousers, though a subtle nod to Seraphine remained: the boots she had admired earlier now adorned his feet.
Jules stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he struggled to emerge from the heavy grip of the unnatural slumber. The orb above him drifted lazily, its soft glow casting faint shadows across the damp stone walls. Azrael, now dressed in the guise of a simple traveler, adjusted the collar of his tunic with an air of practiced nonchalance, masking the depths of what had just transpired beneath a calm exterior.
“What—” Jules mumbled, blinking groggily as if awakening from a dream that clung to the edges of his mind. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear the fog from his thoughts. “Where are we?”
“An old passageway,” Azrael replied, his voice a soft, soothing murmur, like a lullaby carried on the wind. But before he could say more, Jules’ eyes widened in sudden realization. With a burst of energy, he sprang to his feet.
“The girl!” he shouted, panic lacing his words. “Where is she?”
Azrael regarded him quietly for a moment, surprised by the surge of vitality in the man. With a calm gesture, he stepped aside, revealing the small, lifeless form still clutching itself in the corner. Jules fell silent, his previous urgency fading as his gaze softened, a fleeting shadow of sadness crossing his face. He stared at the little girl’s remains, the weight of her tragic story heavy in the air.
Azrael turned and knelt beside the bones, his movements deliberate, reverent. Jules watched him, confusion knitting his brow. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and unease.
“We cannot leave her here,” Azrael responded simply, his tone gentle but firm, as if the decision had already been made.
“Yes, we can—and we should,” Jules argued, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and practicality. He stepped forward, intending to push Azrael away from the fragile remains, but the moment his hand touched Azrael’s shoulder, he froze.
A primal fear surged through Jules, ancient and instinctual, paralyzing him as if the very essence of terror had wrapped itself around his soul. The world seemed to stretch in that instant, every heartbeat an eternity, his mind gripped by a dread that defied reason. His eyes widened, and for a brief, harrowing moment, he was lost in that abyss of fear, unable to move, to think.
Then, as swiftly as it had come, the feeling dissipated, leaving him standing a step behind Azrael, trembling and bewildered. Azrael turned to look at him, cradling the fragile bones in his hands with a tenderness that belied the earlier display of power. Jules could only stare, his protest silenced, as the weight of what he had experienced lingered like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness.
“Are you going to move?” Azrael’s voice cut through the dimness of the passage, carrying the weight of command rather than mere inquiry.
Jules met Azrael’s gaze, the power in those words unmistakable, leaving no room for hesitation. He understood instantly—this was not a request, but an order, one that compelled him to obey. Without a word, Jules fell into step behind Azrael, the undeniable force of the man guiding his every move. As they walked through the dim corridor, shadows twisted and danced along the walls, and the mischievous orb of light continued to dart playfully around Jules, casting just enough illumination to tease him, yet not enough to banish the creeping darkness entirely.
Azrael carried the fragile bones with a reverence that bordered on sacred, cradling the tiny skull in his palms while the rest of the bones lay scattered across his hands, barely held together. There was a quietude in his expression, a sense of peace—not the peace of finality, but something more nuanced, perhaps a step closer to an elusive resolution. As they retraced their steps back to the place where their journey had begun, Azrael remained focused, the little girl’s remains carefully held as if they were the most precious of relics.
When they finally emerged from the passage into the old bedroom, the room was notably emptier—the captain and the others were gone, likely having awakened and departed while Jules had been in his deep slumber. Azrael paid no mind to their absence, his attention solely on the task at hand.
“Jules,” Azrael spoke, his voice breaking the silence as the portal sealed shut behind them. “Could you take these bones?”
“What?! I am not—” Jules began to protest, but the moment he caught Azrael’s steady gaze, the words died in his throat. The command in Azrael’s eyes was clear; defiance was not an option. Resigned, Jules turned to the small, broken body. He murmured a silent prayer, his voice trembling as he reached for the teddy bear, carefully placing it inside his pocket. Then, with deliberate care, he began to gather the bones, piece by piece, cradling them in his hands as though they were made of the most fragile glass.
His heart pounded, not from the weight of the bones, but from the fear of what might happen should he fumble or drop them. It wasn’t just about respect for the dead—it was the unspoken fear of what Azrael might do in response. The orb of light, which had been hovering near Azrael, hesitated for a moment, as if considering Jules’ trepidation. It waited, a silent sentinel, until Jules caught up with Azrael, and then resumed its place, hovering beside Azrael’s head and casting its gentle glow over their path forward.
The shadows thickened as they moved, yet with the orb’s light and Azrael’s unyielding presence leading the way, the darkness felt less oppressive, more like a veil waiting to be lifted rather than an impenetrable barrier. Jules followed closely, the weight of the bones in his hands a constant reminder of the delicate balance between life, death, and the mysteries that lay between.
As they moved through the remnants of the servants’ quarters, the very walls seemed to warp around them, transforming with each step. Cracks jagged and deep split the stone like the veins of some ancient creature, and here and there, entire sections had crumbled away, leaving gaping holes that opened into the shadows beyond. The passage seemed less a hallway and more a tunnel into some forgotten memory. When they reached the spiral staircase, each step groaned beneath their weight. The wood, old and tired, creaked and sighed as they ascended, and as soon as Jules stepped off the final step onto the second floor, the stairs gave way with a resounding crack, collapsing down through two floors into the basement below. Jules’ eyes widened in distress, but Azrael remained silent, his expression unyielding, guiding him onward down the hall and back to the grand foyer.
Above them, the great dome’s spire filtered the golden light of the setting sun, casting elongated shadows that stretched like ethereal fingers across the floor. At last, there was light—true, natural light. It poured into the room, bathing it in warmth that felt almost out of place in the ruins of such despair. The little orb that had been their guide twirled around Azrael’s head one last time, as if in playful farewell, before drifting toward Jules. It circled him in a gentle spiral, as if whispering a soft goodbye, then vanished with a soft glow as it touched the sunlight. Jules, overwhelmed by all that had transpired, said nothing, his thoughts a muddle of awe and unease, deciding that silence was his safest ally.
As they reached the grand staircase, Azrael hesitated, pausing on the final step just before his foot could touch the marble ground of the foyer. His gaze turned toward the shattered doors, his eyes narrowing slightly as they locked onto the gaze of the statue that stood beyond. The stone guardian had shifted; its face, once impassive, now seemed to have turned to meet theirs. Its expression held a blend of sternness, shock, and sorrow, as though it bore witness to truths long hidden and yet had never dared to voice them. It looked upon Azrael and Jules with eyes that seemed to understand all too well the weight of what had transpired within these walls, the unspoken regrets etched into its cold, unmoving features.
The air hummed with a heavy silence, as if the manor itself was drawing a breath, waiting for something—perhaps an absolution, or a release from the shadows that had clung to its bones for so long. Azrael, standing on that threshold between light and darkness, felt the weight of the statue’s gaze upon him, an ancient acknowledgment of the dance between fate and choice, life and death, and the thin thread that binds them all.
Azrael stepped onto the cold marble floor, his movements slow and deliberate as he passed by the portrait of the mother, her painted smile serene yet haunting, her eyes seeming to follow them—two men carrying the fragile remains of her daughters. Her gaze, frozen in oil and time, bore down upon them as if recognizing the burden they carried. As they crossed the threshold into the gardens before the crumbling palace, Azrael came to a halt in front of the ancient statue. The stone figure gazed down at them with a weight of timeless sorrow, as if finally beholding what it had waited centuries to witness. The birdsong filled the air, a fragile contrast to the heavy silence that lingered around the two men as they laid the bones gently at the statue’s feet.
“What now?” Jules broke the stillness, his voice uncertain, the tension hanging between them like a taut string. Azrael responded with a swift knock to the back of his head—a wordless reprimand that stung more than it hurt. Jules winced, the message clear even if unspoken. Understanding his role without the need for words, he hurried back into the ruined manor, leaving Azrael alone with the statue in the dying light of day. The sun’s rays painted the stone cheeks in a soft, warm glow, casting a shadow on the ground that bore the likeness of a grieving mother, her sorrow etched into the earth.
Jules soon returned, panting slightly, a shovel in his hands. Without a word, Azrael began to dig at the base of the statue, his movements steady and rhythmic. The soil gave way beneath his touch, and Jules, after a moment’s hesitation, joined in. Together, they carved out a resting place large enough for the two skeletons. Each shovelful of dirt seemed to whisper of a time long past, of memories buried deep and secrets long forgotten.
When the hole was ready, Azrael and Jules carefully placed the delicate bones within, arranging the sisters to face one another, as if in quiet reunion after so much darkness. Before the first clod of earth could be returned to its place, Jules took the little teddy bear from his pocket, its fur worn and faded, and nestled it between the skeletal hands of the two girls. For a moment, he lingered, gazing at the fragile remains, the final resting place they had crafted in the shadow of the watchful statue.
Then, with a shared nod, they began to fill the grave. The earth fell softly over the bones, a gentle blanket to cradle them in the eternal sleep they had been denied for so long. The sun continued to descend, casting long, mournful shadows across the garden, and for the first time in many years, the air seemed to sigh with a deep, quiet relief, as if the manor itself had finally released a breath it had held for far too long.
As the final layer of soil settled over the small grave, Azrael brought his hands together, clapping twice in a gesture of reverence, his lips moving in a silent prayer for the two lost souls. Beside him, Jules mirrored the motion, his eyes closed in solemn reflection. The air seemed to hold its breath, heavy with the weight of ages past. And then, like a ripple in still water, a childlike laughter drifted through the garden, light and pure. Azrael turned swiftly, his gaze drawn back to the grand, decaying mansion.
There, where the shadows met the fading sunlight, a portal shimmered into existence—not to the mist-covered planes, but to a scene more vivid and tender. Seraphine and Aveline stood there, locked in an embrace, and with them, the woman from the painting—their mother. Her arms wrapped around her daughters for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. Her eyes, warm and filled with gratitude, met Azrael’s across the divide. For a brief moment, Lumus appeared beside them, his soft smile full of quiet satisfaction, before he waved a hand and the portal gently closed, the vision fading like a dream in the morning light.
Azrael turned back to the statue, his expression calm, though his eyes held a distant glimmer. The silence settled over them once more, a stillness that seemed to stretch on—until it was shattered by a sudden, resounding crack. Both men’s heads snapped toward the statue. A jagged fissure formed across its stone chest, splitting wider with a groan that echoed through the air. Without hesitation, Azrael seized Jules by the arm and pulled him back just as the statue gave way, crumbling into pieces that crashed onto the ground like a thunderous release of long-held sorrow.
“What in the—” Jules stammered, eyes wide with shock. “Was that some of your magic?”
“What? No.” Azrael shook his head, his tone as cool as the evening breeze. “Shouldn’t you go and see where your captain is?”
“Oh, if something happened, we would meet up at a hill nearby—”
“Cadet Jules!” A voice, strong and clear, rang out from beyond the garden walls, cutting through their exchange. Jules’ eyes widened in recognition.
“Captain!” he shouted, his voice breaking with excitement. He was like a loyal hound catching the scent of his master, his whole demeanor shifting in an instant from wariness to eager devotion.
Azrael watched him with a faint, almost amused smile as Jules darted off toward the call, the echo of the crumbling stone still resonating in the air. The garden seemed to breathe easier now, as if relieved of a great weight, while the sun dipped lower, its final rays bathing the ruins in a golden embrace, and the line between the living and the dead blurred ever so slightly, just for a moment.