“There is your relic,” Azrael’s voice dripped with disdain as he cast a sharp glance at Jules, who was frantically attempting to rouse his captain from the clutches of his unnatural slumber. Jules looked up at Azrael, catching the icy, indifferent gaze that held no hint of warmth or pity. He followed Azrael’s gaze toward the skeletal remains of the girl, still cradling her worn teddy bear. Fear, or perhaps something darker, flickered in Jules’ eyes as realization dawned. His lips parted, as though to cry out, but he swallowed the scream, his voice reduced to a trembling whisper as he muttered to himself before returning to his futile efforts to wake the captain.
Azrael’s expression remained unyielding. The men, though still breathing, were lost in a twilight state—caught between dreams and reality, a fitting punishment for their trespass. Their motives, however well-intentioned, had trampled upon the sanctity of this place. The palace was alive, its very walls imbued with the will to protect what remained of the girl who had perished here so long ago. The spirits bound to this place would linger for eons if it meant shielding her from further violation.
As Azrael’s gaze swept the room, he felt a chill trace a path up his spine—a cold draft that whispered across his skin, though there was no crack in the walls to let in the wind. The unnatural breeze carried with it an echo of sorrow, a faint melody of loss woven into the silence. He knew without a doubt that this presence was tied to Seraphine. She was near, but still elusive, hidden within the layers of this forsaken realm.
Resolving to push forward, Azrael’s mind was set. He needed to find Seraphine, to unravel the threads that bound this place in darkness, and perhaps, put to rest the lingering shadow that clung to these halls like a stain that time could not wash away.
“Captain… Oh, Captain…” Jules’ voice quivered, thick with fear as the shadows twisted and flickered across his face, mocking the trembling light. He clutched the limp body of his captain, his voice a broken record of desperation as he shook the man’s unresponsive form. His eyes were wide, delirium edging into madness as he repeated the futile attempt to rouse his leader. The other two men slumped like discarded marionettes, their bodies sagging lifelessly against the walls. How could the specter of a little girl have done this, rendered seasoned soldiers helpless with nothing more than a whisper from beyond the grave? The thought clawed at the edges of Jules’ sanity.
Azrael moved with purpose through the room, his expression inscrutable as he took in the details with a calculating gaze. The bed caught his attention first—a bare, unwelcoming thing, devoid of any comfort or care. It was clear that Seraphine had not been afforded the warmth or love a child might expect; instead, this room seemed more a prison than a sanctuary. His gaze shifted to the dresser, empty and forlorn, offering no clues, no remnants of a life once lived. It was as though every trace of her existence had been scrubbed away, leaving only cold emptiness in its wake.
Finally, his eyes fell upon the mirror. Shattered glass clung stubbornly to its frame, fractured lines crisscrossing the surface like the scars of a long-forgotten struggle. The impact was violent, recent enough that time alone was not to blame. The wood splintered where something—someone—had struck it in a moment of fury or desperation. Azrael’s gaze slowly returned to the skeleton slumped in the corner, clothed in a once-beautiful dress now sullied by decay and neglect. There was a story here, etched into every crack in the glass, every tear in the fabric.
Azrael knelt before the remains, his expression softening ever so slightly as he brought the glowing orb closer to the fragile bones. The light cast a gentle glow on the delicate form, revealing no more than what the eye could see: a child’s skeleton, clutching a tattered bear in one hand, fingers curled tightly around its worn fur. There was no lingering trace of what had befallen her—no signs, no clues left to piece together the tragedy that had taken place.
A hollow ache whispered through the air, the ghost of Seraphine’s sorrow woven into the silence. Even without tangible evidence, Azrael could feel it—the anguish of a spirit wronged, bound to these walls by grief and injustice. “Nothing left but echoes,” he murmured to himself, rising slowly as his gaze swept once more over the desolate room. The only certainty was that whatever had happened here, it had left wounds that had festered through time, deep and raw.
There was no peace to be found in this place, only the lingering shadow of suffering. And still, somewhere beyond the veil of this broken space, Seraphine waited.
“Can you not rouse them?!” Jules’ voice rang out, sharp with desperation as he clutched his captain’s lifeless form. “Aren’t you a mage?! Do something!” The plea echoed in the chamber, laced with a frantic hope, as if clinging to the remnants of who he was—a soldier, a protector—yet now utterly lost.
Azrael did not answer immediately, his focus drawn to the wall behind the skeletal remains, where something intangible seemed to whisper to him from beyond the stone. The pull was subtle, yet unmistakable, a call that demanded his attention. As his gaze remained fixed, Jules wrestled with his rising fury, a storm building within him until it could no longer be contained. With a sudden burst of rage, Jules pushed Azrael aside, pinning him against the cold, empty wall. The hilt of his sword pressed against Azrael’s throat, the metal biting into the flesh with a threat that mirrored the fire blazing in Jules’ eyes.
“You could wake them up!” Jules shouted, his voice raw with anger and frustration. “You, a damned knife-eared mage, can’t break a simple spell?!” He barked the words like a wounded beast, his fury a desperate attempt to regain control over the chaos surrounding him. But Azrael’s expression remained unreadable, his eyes cold and distant, a void that only fanned the flames of Jules’ rage. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“You should have,” Azrael replied, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade, commanding and unwavering. There was a power in his words that caused a flicker of doubt to cross Jules’ gaze, the fire in his eyes momentarily subdued. “Why don’t you do it now?” Azrael challenged, his tone steady, almost inviting.
For a heartbeat, Jules’ grip on the sword faltered, the weight of his anger momentarily lifting. It was all the opening Azrael needed. With a swift, fluid motion, Azrael pushed the young man off him, breaking free from the hold. Jules staggered back, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at Azrael. The fire in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a dawning realization that he was not in a position to fight, not against someone like Azrael. The room fell into a tense silence, the echoes of their confrontation lingering in the air, as if the very walls held their breath, waiting for the next move in this perilous dance.
“Go on then, do it,” Azrael’s voice lilted, a mocking undertone weaving through his words as he stepped closer. Jules held his ground, eyes alight with something beyond distrust—conflict, hesitation perhaps. “You’re capable,” Azrael continued, his gaze sharp as a blade. “You’ve taken lives before, have you not?”
Jules tried to respond, but the words lodged in his throat, silenced by the weight of his own doubt. Azrael’s soft chuckle echoed in the shadows, a sound that sent ripples through the stagnant air. “You tread in a place where you are neither wanted nor needed. As do I,” Azrael admitted, his tone shifting, almost wistful. “But do not add to the Lady’s worries.” His gaze flicked to the skeletal remains near the shattered mirror, the child’s presence still clinging to the room like an echo of sorrow.
Something in Azrael’s words snapped a thread in Jules’ mind—a switch flipped, banishing the rage that had fueled him moments before. Fear took its place, creeping into his expression as he straightened, attempting to regain his composure. He tugged at his collar, trying to seem composed, but the quiver in his hands betrayed him. He was still human, still vulnerable to the fear this place conjured.
“I… I apologize,” Jules mumbled, the words slipping from his lips like a confession. “I don’t know what came over me.” His eyes sought Azrael’s, searching for something—approval, forgiveness, understanding—but finding only cold indifference. He looked more like a chastised child than a soldier, his bravado crumbling in the face of Azrael’s silence. Azrael’s gaze remained distant, a slight wince flickering across his features as he regarded Jules’ pitiful attempt at reconciliation.
“We need to find Seraphine,” Azrael said, dismissing the apology as irrelevant. His attention returned to the skeletal figure, that ever-present chill brushing against his senses once more. There was something concealed here, something hidden in plain sight. He moved closer to the wall behind the remains, placing a hand against the cold stone. A faint draft whispered against his fingertips, stirring the dust like a breath from forgotten times. “There’s a hallway behind this wall,” he murmured, more to himself than to Jules.
“What?” Jules blinked, the fog of fear clearing from his thoughts as he processed Azrael’s words. “Behind… the girl?”
Azrael gave a curt nod, his focus never wavering. The draft told him all he needed to know—this hidden passage was protected, guarded by the spirit that had clung to this mortal shell. The girl had given her life defending this secret, and even in death, her vigil continued. Azrael’s eyes scanned the room, searching for a lever, a mechanism, anything that might reveal the hidden path. But there was nothing—only dust, shadows, and the remnants of forgotten lives.
Still, he could sense it—buried beneath layers of sorrow and neglect, the truth awaited. He just needed to find the way to unravel it.
“You will not utter a word about what happened here.” Azrael commanded as his gaze locked on Jules. Jules stared at Azrael as some kind of divine being in a morta form, which undeniably he is, but he did not need to know that. Azrael’s words were felt in Jules’ bones, he was as if under a spell. Jules simply nodded.
As Azrael placed his hand back upon the cold wall behind the skeletal remains, the shadows responded to his will as if they were living things. Tendrils of darkness slithered around his fingers, coiling like serpents before flowing outward, merging with the other shadows that lurked in the corners of the room. Jules watched, both in awe and trepidation, as the darkness seemed to breathe, shifting and twisting until it formed an oval-shaped void in the wall. It was a passage darker than the deepest abyss, a blackness that swallowed light whole. Despite his fear, Jules’ pride kept him rooted in place, refusing to show weakness.
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The shadow-formed passage spread across the wall, just behind the girl’s body and beside the shattered mirror. When Azrael withdrew his hand, the void solidified, revealing an ancient corridor lined with weathered stones. It was an old escape route, long forgotten and hidden behind layers of time. Azrael moved with practiced grace, stepping over the remains with care, his footfalls silent as he crossed the threshold into the passageway.
Jules stared in disbelief. What manner of magic could command shadows with such precision? Questions swarmed his mind like restless insects—questions that he knew would remain unanswered. He watched Azrael’s form shimmer in the dim light as he surveyed the darkness beyond, then turned back, locking eyes with Jules. The flickering light of the orb caught the irritation in Azrael’s gaze.
“Are you coming?” The question was laced with impatience, more a command than an invitation.
Swallowing his unease, Jules nodded and followed, mimicking Azrael’s steps so as not to disturb the little girl’s skeletal remains. The moment he crossed into the passage, the stench struck him—a nauseating blend of damp rot and something far worse, like decaying flesh mingled with old blood. It clawed at his senses, thick and oppressive, causing his stomach to churn. He forced himself to maintain composure, glancing at Azrael, who appeared entirely unaffected, as if such foulness was beneath his notice.
The walls of the hidden passage dripped with moisture, slick with moss that clung to the ancient stones. Faint, distant echoes of dripping water resonated through the darkness, the sound hollow and eerie. Jules could feel the weight of the shadows pressing in, as if the very air was alive with whispers of things long dead. Yet, through it all, Azrael moved with unwavering purpose, his figure a silhouette against the gloom. Jules steeled himself and followed, each step drawing them deeper into the forgotten heart of the manor, where the boundary between the living and the dead grew ever thinner.
The hallway stretched on, its damp stones slick beneath their feet. The only source of light came from the small orb that trailed behind Azrael, casting faint, wavering beams that barely penetrated the gloom. Yet, the orb seemed mischievous, almost sentient in its behavior, darting just out of reach whenever Jules needed it most. Twice he stumbled, nearly falling into the darkness, and each time the orb lingered mockingly behind him, as if relishing in his misfortune, its light flickering like a silent, gleeful laugh.
“Azrael,” Jules called out, his voice tinged with both curiosity and frustration, “where did you learn such magic?”
Azrael’s steps faltered for the briefest moment. He drew in a slow breath, as if weighing his answer, then turned his gaze slightly over his shoulder. “South,” he replied, the word crisp and curt, but carrying an air of finality.
“South?” Jules echoed, skepticism lacing his voice. “The art of shadow-weaving… from the south?” He racked his brain, the answer teasing the edge of his memory. Then, it struck him like a revelation. His voice echoed off the damp walls, vibrating through the narrow corridor. “The *Institut de les Ombres Arcaiques!*”
Azrael offered no response, his expression unreadable as he continued forward, eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. The name tugged at his mind, but mortal institutions and their fanciful titles blurred together in his thoughts. He knew the significance they held, yet he found such details tedious and often irrelevant. For now, at least, his true nature remained shrouded, his disguise intact—a traveler, nothing more.
The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant drip of water and the subtle, mocking flicker of the orb as it continued its capricious dance. Jules, still pondering his realization, couldn’t help but feel the unease gnawing at him. There was a weight in Azrael’s silence, a heaviness that made the shadows seem thicker, the air colder. Jules tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his instincts alert to the uncanny nature of the path they tread—a path where reality and sorcery intertwined in ways that defied simple understanding.
As they ventured further, the dampness clung to the walls like cold breath, and the shadows grew denser, as if the very stones were absorbing the light. Whatever lay ahead, Jules could feel it—the pull of something ancient, something that whispered in the darkness just beyond the reach of the flickering light.
There was something more than the stench of decay clinging to the air, a subtle pull like a half-forgotten lullaby carried on the wind. Jules felt it, a haunting melody that tugged at the edges of his consciousness, urging him deeper into the gloom. He cast a glance at Azrael, whose expression remained as unreadable as ever, a stoic mask that revealed nothing of the thoughts swirling behind those sharp eyes. The man he had first crossed paths with earlier that day—a ragged traveler who appeared no more than a beggar as Jules rode past him—had now become an enigma. The afternoon’s events had twisted fate in ways Jules couldn’t comprehend: from Azrael rescuing him from beneath a toppled bookshelf to revealing himself as a master of shadowy magic, this day felt less like chance and more like the workings of the divine.
“Watch your step,” Azrael’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding, as he yanked Jules by the collar, pulling him back just in time to prevent him from stumbling into a makeshift river of dark, sluggish water. The current oozed through the passage, black as ink and reeking of ancient rot.
Jules inhaled sharply, his heart pounding as the reality of how close he’d come to plunging into that foul stream sank in. He stared at Azrael, who regarded him with cool indifference before turning and continuing down the path without a word. “Thank you,” Jules breathed out, quickly falling back in line behind him.
As they pressed on, Jules couldn’t shake the sense that something radiated from Azrael—an energy that was neither malevolent nor comforting, but something strangely… kind. The idea struck him as absurd—a mage exuding kindness? He allowed himself a quiet chuckle at the thought, though he kept his eyes fixed on the uneven ground ahead. Yet, that fleeting amusement vanished as Azrael’s gaze flicked back toward him, the barest tilt of his head delivering a silent command to remain quiet. The chill that followed was undeniable—a wordless reminder that whatever mysteries this figure held, they were not to be questioned lightly.
The air grew thicker with each step, the unseen lullaby weaving through the silence, drawing them ever closer to whatever lay at the heart of this cursed place. Jules couldn’t decide if it was curiosity or fear that kept him moving forward, but he knew one thing: there was no turning back now. Not when the shadows themselves seemed to guide their way, whispering secrets only Azrael could understand.
The walls grew more decrepit with every step, the ancient stones seeming to crumble into dust and mud as if the very essence of time had abandoned this place. The only sounds breaking the oppressive silence were the sluggish flow of the river beside them and the mournful howl of the wind winding through unseen cracks. Azrael halted abruptly, causing Jules to nearly collide into him. He shot a questioning look at Azrael, but the elf’s expression demanded silence. There was a stillness here, a thick, unnatural quiet that pressed down on Jules like the weight of deep waters. It was the kind of silence that preludes catastrophe—a quiet so profound it was as though the world held its breath.
Azrael’s gaze was fixed ahead, stern and resolute, his expression eerily reminiscent of a seasoned commander bracing for an unseen ambush. Jules could feel the tension radiating from him, a tension that set his own nerves on edge. And then, from the abyss before them, a gut-wrenching scream tore through the darkness. It was a sound that clawed its way into Jules’ soul, chilling him to the bone. His heart pounded violently in his chest, the beat drumming in his ears, and he instinctively tried to flee—but his legs refused to obey. He was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by terror. He turned to Azrael, hoping for reassurance, but found only sorrow etched across the elf’s face. In the dim light, Jules thought he saw a tear glisten at the corner of Azrael’s eye, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Without a word, Azrael pressed on, and despite the dread gripping him, Jules found himself compelled to follow.
The scream grew louder with each step, its pitch rising to an ear-splitting crescendo that seemed to reverberate through the very walls, until it suddenly ceased. They arrived at a dead end, the passageway narrowing to a stop, leaving only cold stone before them. The orb, which had flitted restlessly above Azrael’s head, shot forward, casting its light on the scene that lay before them. There, curled against the wall, was another small skeleton, this one disfigured—its skull misshapen and cracked, bearing the marks of something horrific. The girl’s bones were clothed in the same tattered white dress as the first, but unlike her, this one was not cradling a teddy bear. Instead, her frail form was twisted inward, clutching her own stomach as if she had died trying to protect herself from some unimaginable agony.
Jules staggered back, his breath catching in his throat as he covered his mouth in horror. The sight struck him harder than any battlefield had—this was not the violence of war, but the aftermath of something far darker, a cruelty that lingered long after the deed was done. Azrael remained silent, but the air around him seemed to hum with an unspoken grief, a lament for the forgotten souls lost within these forsaken walls.
For a moment, the only sound was the dripping of water from the stones above, a mournful rhythm that mirrored the heaviness in the air. Jules’ mind raced, questions colliding with the growing dread gnawing at him. Who were these children, and what fate had befallen them? But one glance at Azrael told him that, for now, answers were beyond reach. They stood in a place where the lines between life and death blurred, where the shadows held memories that refused to fade.
Azrael’s hand brushed against the cold stone, his eyes narrowing as he searched for something unseen. The shadows seemed to whisper around him, as though they knew the secrets hidden in this place. Whatever darkness had taken root here, it was not finished with them yet.
“You found me.” The words drifted from the depths of the shadows, carried on a voice so gentle and warm it sent shivers down Jules’ spine. It was the voice of a child—soft, lilting, yet underlaid with a sense of something ancient, something that danced along the edges of reality. True fear, deeper than anything he’d ever known, gripped him, a sensation akin to meeting the gaze of a god.
“Seraphine?” Azrael’s voice was calm as he turned toward the shifting darkness at the edge of the light, where shadows swayed like they were alive. “This is Jules,” he introduced, his tone carrying a note of familiarity.
“Ah,” the voice hummed, delicate and amused. “The one who let his curiosity crush him?” A faint giggle rippled through the air, twining itself around them like a ghostly breeze. The shadows danced, playful yet unnerving. Jules could barely breathe as he turned back to the skeletal remains—only to find a girl standing before him. She was dressed in the same tattered white gown, her body misshapen, her face marred by deformity, yet her smile was soft, almost tender. “It’s nice to meet you!” she said sweetly, her eyes shining with innocent mischief.
Jules’ mind fractured under the weight of terror. His heart thundered in his chest, and a scream clawed its way up his throat, yet no sound escaped. The sight of the disfigured child was too much—her ghostly presence, the soft warmth of her greeting, all incongruous with the horror of her appearance. His legs buckled beneath him, and with a choked gasp, he crumpled to the floor, consciousness slipping away as he fell into the same unnatural slumber that had claimed his comrades.
“Oh,” the girl murmured, a flicker of confusion in her wide eyes as she tilted her head. “Did I do that?”
“No,” Azrael answered with a wry chuckle, “he’s just weak-minded.” There was no malice in his tone, only the detached amusement of one who had seen this play out before.
Azrael bent down, his movements deliberate and composed as he dragged Jules away from the edge of the murky river, ensuring the unconscious man was safely out of harm’s way. The grime and decay that clung to the walls would not touch him here. With that done, Azrael turned to the girl, a genuine warmth in his smile, a rare sight that softened his otherwise stern features.
“You’ve done well, Seraphine,” he said kindly. The light from the orb flickered gently, as if in acknowledgment of the bond between them. The shadows, once ominous, now seemed to gather closer, like protectors wrapping the scene in a shroud of forgotten memories. In the midst of ruin and sorrow, a quiet understanding passed between Azrael and the ghostly child—a fleeting moment where the lines between life and death, fear and comfort, blurred into something timeless and unspoken.