The day they both dreaded had arrived, and with it, a somber transformation swept through the town. It was remarkable how much could change in a single day. Abandoned homes were now repurposed as watchtowers and archer dens, while the bridge, once a simple passageway, had been rigged to collapse at a moment’s notice if crossed by unwelcome feet. Yet amidst the tension, life clung stubbornly to some semblance of normalcy. In the main square, vendors continued to hawk their goods, though their offerings had dwindled, with fresh produce sharing space with gleaming swords. Humans, it seemed, could be both shrewd and adaptable when the need arose.
As Lara trailed close behind him, Azrael’s thoughts drifted back to the enigmatic scholar from the night before—the man clad in black who had effortlessly woven magic to multiply arrows mid-flight. His gaze wandered to one of the makeshift strongholds, an old house now bustling with activity as two archers kept watch while workers fortified its defenses. Distracted by his musings, Azrael suddenly stopped in his tracks, causing Lara to nearly collide with him.
“Do you know where that scholar—Dorian, was it?” he asked, searching his memory for the name.
“What about him?” Lara replied, a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Oh, he lives across the river, just a little ways into the woods,” she answered matter-of-factly.
Azrael frowned, surprised. “What? Doesn’t he live in the town?”
“No,” she shook her head, “he moved out not long ago—” but before she could finish, Azrael cut in.
“What do you know of him?”
“Not much,” she admitted with a shrug. “When I arrived in Sava, he had already left to chase whatever interests he’s buried himself in. We didn’t have much chance to speak.”
“Do you believe he’s trustworthy?” Azrael asked, his tone thoughtful yet tinged with subtle caution.
“Do I think—” Lara hesitated, her words catching for a moment as she considered. “I think he’s fine,” she finally answered, though the uncertainty lingered in her tone.
“I see,” Azrael murmured, the reply distant, as if his mind was already considering possibilities beyond the conversation.
They continued their path through the bustling square, weaving past vendors and hurried townsfolk preparing for what lay ahead. As they passed by, Milo darted toward the doctor’s house, his small figure moving with haste. Azrael’s gaze lingered on the boy, only to shift as Milo nearly collided with Eldon, who stood idly at the edge of the square, watching the world with a keen, practiced eye. Something in Eldon’s demeanor had shifted—a quiet intensity now clung to him, and his eyes, shadowed with concern, flicked toward Azrael before locking onto the street leading to the bridge and the old house nearby.
“Azrael,” Eldon muttered, his voice low, as though sharing a secret with the wind. “Hope the night treated you well.”
“Eldon, good afternoon,” Azrael greeted with a nod. “Is everything in place?”
For a moment, Eldon’s response was caught on the edge of silence. He bit his lip, eyes narrowing as if weighing something unseen. “We’re ready and waiting for any sign of them,” he finally replied, his voice laced with tension. “So far, there’s been nothing.”
Azrael stood in stillness beside Eldon, the weight of silence settling between them like a shroud. His gaze flickered to Lara, who watched the exchange with quiet intensity. The staff in her hands thrummed with a faint energy, catching Eldon’s attention. His eyes lingered on it, a shadow of recognition passing over his weathered features. If fortune turned against them, this town would crumble to dust, becoming nothing more than another forgotten ruin in the depths of this ancient forest.
“You’ve found a staff, have you? Is that your little ace up the sleeve?” Eldon’s voice dripped with a hint of skepticism, his sharp gaze fixed on Lara. She tightened her grip on the dark wood as if sensing that, given the chance, the old man might try to wrest it from her grasp.
“I unlocked it with the tome. Azrael, he—” she began, but her words were cut short by a voice that sliced through the air, carrying a chill like the breath of winter.
“I would tread lightly with whatever relics you unearth from that ruin,” the voice warned, distant yet edged with quiet authority. Dorian had emerged from the shadows, appearing unlike the scholar Azrael remembered. Clad now in simple garb—a brown tunic and red trousers, scuffed boots caked in mud—he looked more like a common farmer than a wielder of arcane knowledge. His dark hair, unkempt and tangled, only added to the illusion. Perhaps that was his intent, Azrael mused; to blend in, to slip away unnoticed should the need arise. In times like these, survival often lay in the art of being forgettable.
“Ah, Dorian,” Eldon greeted with a soft chuckle, his voice a blend of amusement and caution. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Azrael?”
“We’ve not yet had the honor,” Dorian replied, his words laced with a subtle venom as his gaze slid toward Azrael, eyes cold and calculating. “I didn’t think you’d welcome knives into the town so easily, Eldon. What changed?”
Lara bristled at the insinuation, her voice rising in protest. “How dare you—” But her defense was swiftly cut off by the elder.
“I’m no guard, and as long as he doesn’t stir trouble, there’s no quarrel to be had,” Eldon interjected firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “Now, let’s keep the peace, shall we?”
“Nevertheless, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dorian,” Azrael offered, his voice smooth as he attempted to mirror the cordiality he had experienced thus far. Extending a hand in greeting, he found only disdain in Dorian’s eyes. The scholar merely glanced at the outstretched hand, making it clear that any pretense of courtesy had long since crumbled between them. Was it his appearance? Azrael wondered. Perhaps there was something deeper—a prejudice tied to the features he now bore. The intricacies of mortal relationships remained a mystery to him, a puzzle with too many pieces missing.
“How old are you, knife?” Dorian’s question struck like flint, his gaze kindled with a smoldering intensity, a fire not unlike the one that had burned in Jana’s eyes.
“Dorian!” Lara snapped, indignation coloring her tone. “Is this how your mother taught you to greet others?”
“Don’t bring her into this, and certainly not while you’re cavorting with him!” Dorian shot back, his words sharp as steel, silencing Lara’s objections. He turned his gaze back to Azrael, unyielding. “Now, answer me—how old are you?”
Azrael hesitated, recognizing the scholar’s relentless curiosity. There would be no easy end to this confrontation until Dorian had his answer—scholars were rarely satisfied with silence. “I’m just a little over a hundred,” Azrael finally answered, his voice guarded.
“How little over a hundred?” Dorian pressed, his gaze unwavering, seeking any crack in the facade.
Azrael calculated quickly, aware that elven lifespans far outstripped those of humans. “One hundred and nine,” he replied, his tone carefully measured, betraying no emotion.
“Now, will that answer suffice?” Eldon’s voice cut through the growing tension like a blade honed by years of quiet authority. “As far as I can tell, Azrael has been nothing but a helpful lad.”
“Oh? Has he tilled the fields, then? Watered the crops? Healed the sick?” Dorian’s retort dripped with venom, his gaze sharp and unwavering as it locked onto Azrael. There was a readiness in his stance, as if every word was a challenge waiting to be met.
“No,” Eldon responded with the steady grace only age could bring, “he has helped Lara with the safeguard we may need if our defenses fall short. The town will be under siege in mere hours, and here you two stand, squabbling as if Azrael were the one who brought ruin upon your bloodline!”
“He might as well have—” Dorian began, his voice laced with bitterness, but his protest was swiftly silenced.
“Enough!” Eldon’s command rang out with the sternness of a father rebuking a wayward child. “You’re not the only one who’s lost in the midst of this strife. Grieve if you must, but remember that while you mourn, we all bear the burden of rebuilding.”
The words hung heavy in the air, their weight pressing down like a shadow over the square. The echoes of the past still clung to them all, but the hours ahead left little room for such divisions. The storm was gathering on the horizon, and they had only the fragile strength of unity to stand against it.
Azrael stood unwavering, the scholar’s hostility rolling off him like mist in the morning sun. If anything, Dorian’s animosity only deepened his curiosity. The dynamics between the races intrigued him—creatures bound by shared lands and experiences, yet harboring such deep-seated disdain for one another. Was Sava an exception, a singular pocket of tension, or did this division run through the veins of the entire region? Whatever the truth, Azrael’s desire to understand this world and its people grew with every encounter.
Before he could voice another thought, Eldon took hold of Dorian, leading him away with a firm hand and leaving Azrael and Lara alone in the square. The once-bustling marketplace had grown eerily still, the stalls now shuttered, their wares packed away as villagers retreated to their homes, bracing for what was to come. The square was emptying, its silence a harbinger of the looming storm.
“I’m sorry for him,” Lara said softly, her voice tinged with quiet regret. “He’s been through more than most, but he means well, if you get the chance to know him.”
Azrael’s gaze remained cold, his thoughts far from placated. “Why should I give time to someone who refuses to see beyond what I am?” His voice, steady and unyielding, carried a chill like the northern winds. “Why should I care for the opinion of one who despises me simply for how I was born?”
Lara opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She knew he was right, even if she wished it weren’t so. There were wounds in this town, scars carried in the hearts of those who had suffered, but none of that excused the bitterness that ran like poison through their veins. “You’re right,” she admitted softly, though the admission stung.
She quickly sought to shift the conversation, sensing the heaviness lingering between them. “We should check on the reinforcements—they’re due to arrive soon,” she suggested, her tone laced with a forced brightness as she turned toward the street that led to the town’s edge.
Azrael remained still for a moment longer, watching her with a gaze that hinted at ancient depths. The world around them was changing, yet the echoes of the past held their grip firmly in the hearts of these mortals. He nodded slowly, more out of obligation than agreement, before following her lead, each step bringing them closer to the inevitable confrontation that awaited.
As they moved through the quiet streets, Azrael’s eyes swept over the old ruins that once lay crumbling at the town’s edge—now repurposed into watchtowers bristling with makeshift defenses. Abandoned homes, long forsaken by time, had been transformed into archer dens. Every hidden corner, every forgotten crevice, now served the singular purpose of protecting Sava. The men who labored under Eldon’s command were no longer in their prime, yet there was a fierce resolve in their eyes. They were prepared to lay down their lives for this town, and many had already steeled themselves for that grim fate. Their families, if they had any, clutched close the bitter hope of escape, ready to flee at the first sign of disaster.
As they passed, Azrael noted the whispered prayers drifting from doorways and windows—entreaties to Hephaestus, to Helios. Not a single invocation was directed to him, the one who held dominion over death and the souls of the departed. He paid it no mind; this was not the time for recognition or reverence.
The air was thick with tension, the kind that settles in the lull before a storm. Only the whisper of the wind stirred the stillness, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the distant creak of old wood. The streets were eerily silent, yet there was an order to the waiting—men positioned with quiet discipline, weapons at the ready. Despite their age, their determination was palpable.
Yet it was clear that without Dorian’s intervention, this town would have stood little chance against the force bearing down on them—a force driven by greed, by a lord who saw Sava as little more than plunder. There had been no parley, no justification beyond the hunger for power and the thirst for blood. Now, as the shadow of war crept closer, the town braced for what might be its final stand.
As Lara and Azrael made their way through the fortified positions, Azrael’s thoughts drifted back to his first encounter with the village. It was Eldon who had first mentioned the name—Teter. Yet, since his arrival, he had not come across anyone bearing that name, nor had he met the village chief. In their stead, it was Eldon who had taken the mantle of leadership, guiding the villagers through these perilous days. As they passed between two weathered wooden towers, Azrael paused, curiosity gnawing at the edges of his mind.
“May I ask you something? Who is Teter? Eldon mentioned he was the village chief’s son.”
Lara’s expression faltered for a heartbeat, a shadow passing over her features before she masked it with a soft, practiced smile. She turned to face him, though the effort to keep her tone light was evident. “Ah, that’s… a long story. Teter was the chief’s son—well, he used to be.” Her voice wavered, the edges tinged with pain as she found the courage to continue. “He died during a raid on the village. He was the youngest we lost, and we still mourn him. His absence is felt every day.”
“I see,” Azrael murmured, a rare tug of sympathy stirring within him. “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”
“No, no, it’s all right,” Lara replied, though her voice carried the weight of unspoken grief. “We should… we should keep moving.”
“Yes, let’s,” Azrael agreed, sensing the delicate emotions in the air, and together they continued through the shadowed streets, where memories lingered like echoes in the silence.
As they reached the bridge, the air grew thick with tension. The bell began to toll—once, and then silence, deep and unsettling. A second toll followed, echoing across the still waters, before the silence stretched uncomfortably, as if the world itself held its breath. The final, dreaded chime cut through the quiet, marking noon—a noon the people of Sava would not soon forget. Standing at the edge of the bridge, Azrael and Lara watched as shadows shifted in the treeline, giving way to the grim formation of an approaching army. The small island town braced itself, the weight of impending battle hanging heavy in the air.
At the head of the army stood a man clad in red and black, his armor bearing a white and crimson emblem—a symbol of conquest and authority. He was a tall, imposing figure, the kind whose presence alone could command fear. Scars marred his face like grim trophies, each one a testament to battles fought and won. There was a warrior’s pride in the way he held himself, a conqueror surveying his next prize. Another town to fall under his heel, just one more name in a long list of defeated places.
His eyes swept over the bridge, narrowing when they caught sight of Lara and the dark staff she held. A flicker of interest sparked in his gaze, a recognition of something unexpected, but it quickly turned cold as his attention shifted to Azrael. The man’s expression hardened, his lips curling in disdain, as if he were gazing at something beneath his notice—a mere insect poised to be crushed beneath his boot. The contempt was palpable, a sneer hidden just beneath the surface as he silently weighed the resistance of this small town.
Azrael remained still, his gaze unflinching, yet his mind churned with the undercurrents of the moment. The leader’s pride, the uniform ranks behind him, and the way he stood with the confidence of one who had already tasted victory—all spoke of a foe not easily swayed. Yet in the depths of the forest’s shadows, where light and darkness intertwined, even the most assured conqueror could be met with something unexpected.
The man’s polished boots came to a halt at the very edge of the bridge, their sheen unnervingly pristine, as though untouched by the dirt and blood of battle. Yet such details were lost on Azrael; his attention remained fixed on the figure before him. The two locked eyes, a silent contest of wills, as Eldon stepped forward, his presence steady and unyielding. But the general barely spared a glance at the elder now standing between Azrael and Lara, his focus sharpened like a blade poised for a decisive strike. Azrael’s grip tightened around the tome in his hands, ready for whatever swift and treacherous move the man might make.
“Are you the village chief?” the man demanded, his voice searing the air with its authority. “Surrender now, and we may show you mercy.”
Eldon chuckled, a sound both weary and knowing. “I’ve seen men like you before,” he replied, his tone carrying the weight of years. “I may not be young, but I’m far from foolish.” His smile was soft, tinged with a hint of something deeper—envy, perhaps, as if Eldon held something intangible, something this general craved but could never possess.
The general’s lips curled into a cocky grin, confident in the certainty of his position. “So you’ll surrender, then?”
“Is it not customary for one to introduce themselves, General?” Eldon’s voice carried a subtle challenge, the kind that only a seasoned elder could deliver with such quiet composure.
Lara tightened her grip on the staff, her gaze sweeping over the soldiers behind the general. They were disciplined, armed with swords and shields, numbering perhaps a hundred, give or take. A small relief washed over her—this was not a vast armada sent to crush a defenseless village, but these men were no less formidable, their armor gleaming with unsettling precision.
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“I am General Godric Oswine of Blackthorn Hall, under the command of Lord Ezekiel,” the man declared, his tone clipped, betraying his irritation at Eldon’s deliberate stalling.
“And I am Eldon of Sava, current head of this village,” Eldon replied smoothly. He gestured toward Azrael and Lara with a gracious sweep of his hand. “These are my advisors: Azrael of the South, and Lara of the Ruins.”
The general’s eyes flicked over them, a glimmer of disdain dancing in their depths. “Fascinating names, old man.”
Eldon’s smile widened, a slyness creeping into his expression. “Your name speaks of a ‘friend of the divine.’ Tell me, General, do you believe the gods stand with you?”
“I’m not the one with an elf bearing the name of a god of death,” Godric sneered, his gaze settling on Azrael with a mix of contempt and curiosity.
The words hung in the air like a gathering storm, the tension thickening as both sides braced for the next move. The bridge, the soldiers, and the forest seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the moment when words would give way to action, and fate would carve its path through the heart of Sava.
“Well then, let’s hope your lord has prayed to the right god,” Eldon remarked, his voice laced with a calm defiance that only served to stoke the flames of the general’s barely-contained fury. The man’s face twisted in rage, his composure fracturing as the barb struck home. Without another word, he spun on his heel and stormed deeper into the village, his steps heavy with menace.
“I’ll have your heads mounted on pikes, old man!” the general bellowed, his voice echoing through the silent streets as he rejoined his waiting soldiers, each word dripping with venom. The threat hung in the air like a dark omen, seething with the promise of bloodshed to come.
Eldon remained unperturbed, his gaze steady as the man retreated, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The battle lines were drawn, and beneath the quiet resolve of Sava’s defenders, the tension thrummed like a bowstring pulled taut, waiting for the inevitable release.
----------------------------------------
The town lay cloaked in an uneasy stillness, a fragile silence teetering on the edge of chaos. The standoff was stark—a handful of determined farmers and craftsmen faced against a disciplined armada, their weapons gleaming with purpose. The island village, nestled between the river’s embrace, seemed to hold its breath, knowing it could be reduced to ash with but a single command. Eldon remained in the heart of the main street, unmoving, resolute. He had made his peace with whatever fate awaited him, knowing that if Sava crumbled, he would fall with it. Many others shared this quiet resolve, men prepared to sacrifice everything, leaving their families to mourn in the shadows of crumbling walls.
Azrael stood by the fountain, its waters now dark and still, reflecting the tension in the air. There was little more he could do—preparations had been made, decisions set. His eyes traced the worn pages of the tome in his hands, committing spell after spell to memory, each incantation a potential lifeline. Lara stood beside him, the staff a steady weight in her grasp as she tested the spells in the square, each practice met with a fleeting shimmer of arcane energy. They were poised, ready to unleash whatever power they could muster should the time for words be swept away by the tide of steel and fire.
From the shadows of the doctor’s house, Dorian watched with narrowed eyes, his gaze fixed on Azrael with a blend of contempt and wariness. There was a bitter weight to his stare, a quiet loathing that simmered beneath the surface, yet even he knew that grievances must be set aside, at least for now. He turned back to his work, tending to Jana with the meticulous care of a scholar, his hands steady even as his thoughts churned with resentment. As the town’s only learned healer, he busied himself with the sick, all the while waiting for Eldon’s orders to dictate what came next.
The air thrummed with the quiet hum of anticipation, like the final note of a song held in suspension, waiting for the inevitable crescendo. Sava’s streets, once filled with laughter and life, now whispered of old fears and new hopes, mingling with the ever-present tension of a world where magic and mortal determination might be the last defense against the encroaching dark.
As night slowly surrendered to day, the unease that clung to the villagers thickened like a gathering mist. The men who had been poised for orders grew restless, their nerves fraying with each passing hour. This was no ordinary siege; there were no tents pitched, no fires burning across the river. The soldiers of the opposing force remained eerily still, a wall of steel and discipline, awaiting the command of their silent general. The lookouts reported the same thing over and over to Eldon: not a single movement, not even a shift in their ranks. They stood, statuesque, as the moon’s pale light bathed the river in its cold glow.
Despite the growing tension, Eldon stood resolute, the weight of his years pressing upon him but never breaking his resolve. Azrael continued to pore over the tome, the ancient script now familiar beneath his fingers as he began his second read. Dorian, once hidden away, now lingered outside the doctor’s house, his expression hard as stone. Lara whispered chants under her breath, gripping her staff with white-knuckled determination as she repeated each word, trying to push the creeping dread to the edges of her mind. All was silent save for the rustle of leaves in the wind and the persistent chorus of crickets. The moon hung high, a solitary sentinel watching over the strained calm.
Azrael’s gaze lifted to the moon, its light serene amidst the growing shadows. A thought flickered across his mind—was Selene herself watching, her pale eyes tracing the events below? A soft, almost ironic chuckle escaped his lips, the sound sudden in the tense quiet. It startled Lara, who jerked in response, tightening her grip around the staff.
“I apologize,” Azrael said, closing the tome with a gentle thud. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, no, I should focus better,” Lara replied, offering a small, nervous smile. “They’re—”
Her words were abruptly cut off by a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. An explosion tore through the far edge of the village, flames erupting from one of the abandoned houses. Screams split the night as the inferno swallowed everything in its path—those caught in the blast, the wooden beams, the hopes of those clinging to life. The flames clawed at the sky, casting twisted shadows as the acrid smoke began to blot out the moon’s light.
Panic rippled through the village as men and women scrambled to contain the blaze, forming desperate lines to douse the flames. But even as they moved to stifle the spreading fire, another explosion rang out, this time from the bridge. The structure crumbled in an instant, collapsing into the river below, taking several of the town’s defenders with it.
The night, once held in fragile stillness, was now shattered by chaos. The moon above, once a serene watcher, now stood helpless as Sava burned beneath its gaze.
“Fire!” Eldon’s voice thundered through the chaos, a command that cut through the crackling flames and the screams of battle. In an instant, the night sky was filled with the hiss of arrows, hundreds of them arcing through the smoke-choked darkness and raining down upon the enemy lines. The thick veil of night grew even darker, the moon and stars obscured by the swirling smoke and the frenzy of war. Eldon’s orders came swift and sharp, directing the defense of what remained of the bridge, urging the villagers to hold the line and slow the enemy’s advance.
“Lara!” Azrael’s shout pierced through the din, his voice straining to be heard above the roar. “Saqtī Mataar, Dajzhdevoy Lij Ro’eh!”
“What?!” Lara barely caught his words through the clamor, but as he repeated the chant, the command rang out clear and precise. Gripping her staff tightly, she shut out the nauseating scent of burning wood and flesh that hung thick in the air, focusing her mind. “Saqtī Mataar, Dajzhdevoy Lij Ro’eh!” she intoned, her voice steady despite the chaos.
As the last syllable left her lips, the sky quivered, and the smoky heavens seemed to groan under the weight of darkening clouds. The moon’s pale glow was swallowed as the storm gathered with unnatural speed. Azrael’s eyes flicked upward, then back toward the encroaching army. The acrid stench of charred bodies clawed at his senses, but in the next breath, the skies opened. Rain cascaded down in a relentless torrent, drenching the town in moments. The flames sputtered and died beneath the downpour, and the villagers, now freed from the urgent battle with the blaze, turned their focus to the fight at hand.
“Knife-ear!” Dorian’s voice cut through the downpour, filled with urgency and disdain in equal measure. “Catch!” he yelled, hurling a small sword at Azrael’s feet before vanishing into the ruins, heading toward the shattered bridge. Azrael bent down, fingers closing around the hilt. The blade was light, but its edge gleamed with deadly sharpness—more than sufficient for defense.
The rain soaked the earth, turning the streets into slick, treacherous paths as the villagers braced themselves. The clash of steel and the cries of battle filled the air as Sava prepared to make its stand, the storm above a reflection of the turmoil below. The town had become a battlefield of shadows and rain, where every step carried the weight of fate, and every breath drew closer to the unknown.
Though the rain had been a brief reprieve, it ceased as swiftly as it had come. The storm’s power slipped from Lara’s grasp—she was not yet strong enough to sustain such magic. With the downpour gone, the flames rekindled, greedily devouring the abandoned houses, their fiery tongues leaping from one structure to the next. What had been forsaken became fuel for a new wave of destruction, spreading rapidly to the neighboring homes. Women rushed from burning doorways with their children in tow, fear and smoke in their eyes, as Azrael struggled to focus amidst the growing inferno. For a moment, the world blurred and muffled, the scene before him like a vision from the gates of Infernum itself.
But the haze lifted as he forced himself back to clarity.
“Azrael! Evacuate the citizens!” Eldon’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the chaos. He was back in the fray, rallying the defenders with cries of “Fire!” as another volley of arrows streaked through the darkened sky, so thick they threatened to blot out what little light remained.
“Lara, we need to move!” Azrael called out, but as he turned to her, he saw her standing frozen at the corner of the street, head bowed, her breaths quick and uneven. She wasn’t ready for this, despite all her bravado. The reality of war—of fire, blood, and death—had struck her like a blow. “Lara!” he shouted again, his voice carrying urgency, but softer this time, willing her to meet his gaze. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the blaze around them, tears streaking her soot-covered face. “We need you to focus,” he whispered as he moved closer, his tone gentle but firm.
For a fleeting moment, she glanced past him, her eyes catching sight of the library—now engulfed in flames, the ancient ruins crumbling further into ash. The town she had fought so hard to protect was turning to kindling for a fire that seemed to burn with the fury of Infernum itself. Azrael could see her heartbreak, the loss that gripped her as her dreams went up in smoke. But she swallowed her grief, wiping the tears from her cheeks and straightening her posture. There was no time to mourn, not now. Perhaps one day, in some other town, she could rebuild, but for now, survival was all that mattered.
Azrael plunged into the burning ruins, searching for any survivors amid the collapsing structures. The heat clawed at his skin, the acrid smoke stinging his eyes as he moved through the wreckage. Lara followed suit, her resolve hardened, her movements swift and deliberate. She pulled men, women, and children from homes yet untouched by the flames, guiding them to safety. The dead she left where they lay, their broken bodies swallowed by the remains of their once warm and lively homes. The cries of the wounded and the roar of the fire melded into a nightmarish symphony, but through it all, they fought to save what little could be spared.
The town was crumbling, but its spirit clung stubbornly to life, even as it danced on the edge of oblivion.
The only path off the island led through the shallow waters at the far edge, where fire threatened to reignite among the twisted roots of bushes and the skeletal remains of homes. Lara cast a desperate glance at Azrael, her eyes a well of sorrow and despair, yet within them clung a flicker of hope, stubborn and fierce. “We need to leave, now!” she cried out, her voice cracking as she hastily murmured the chant from before. Translucent shields shimmered into existence, encircling the group like fragile bubbles of safety.
The flames licked hungrily at the shields, but they held—though it was clear Lara’s strength was waning. Sweat beaded on her brow, her hands trembling as she strained to maintain the barrier. Time was slipping away.
“Jana and Milo are still in the doctor’s house!” one of the women cried, her voice thick with panic. Azrael’s heart twisted at the words, but before he could respond, the square was engulfed in flames, the inferno cutting off any direct path to the building. It was a death trap, and yet—there it was again, a sudden pulse in his chest. His heart, that ancient organ he had thought long dormant, surged with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. It was more than concern; it was a pull, a compulsion that gripped him with an intensity that felt almost mortal.
“Lara, get them out,” Azrael commanded, his voice firm.
“What?!” she protested, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You can’t go alone!”
“Don’t worry,” he replied with a faint smile, pressing the tome into her hands. “Get them to safety first. We’ll meet again, I promise.”
“You’d better,” she muttered, her voice laced with both fear and defiance. “We’re regrouping at the hill, an hour’s walk from here. Follow the path once you cross the river!” With a final glance back, she turned and led the survivors onward, the shield holding as they vanished into the blazing ruins. The flames swirled around them, but the barrier endured, allowing them to slip away one by one, disappearing into the smoke and fire. And then Azrael was alone, the ghostly echoes of their departure lingering in the air.
The street before him was a hellscape—the clashing of steel, the acrid stench of charred flesh, and the twisted bodies lying motionless amid the rubble. Another volley of arrows arced through the sky, though their numbers had dwindled, each one a dark streak against the fiery backdrop. The world around him blurred, but his purpose crystallized with startling clarity. There was still something left to save, even if it meant walking straight into the jaws of the inferno.
Pushing through the crackling flames and swirling smoke, Azrael burst into the doctor’s house. For a brief moment, there was silence—a stillness in the eye of the storm. On the bed, Jana was struggling to rise, her frailty evident as Milo supported her, his small hands gripping tightly to help her stand. Despite the gravity of the situation, Milo’s face lit up when he saw Azrael, though his attention remained fixed on steadying his mother. Jana met Azrael’s gaze with a blank, unreadable expression, a cough escaping her lips as she fought to stabilize herself.
“What now? Did Eldon finally tell you to come and finish the job?” she rasped, her tone laced with bitter humor.
“Mom!” Milo exclaimed, horrified by her words, casting a worried glance at Azrael.
“No,” Azrael replied calmly, unshaken. “I’m here to get you out. We’re evacuating the town.”
“We?” Jana’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “So, the town’s a lost cause, is it? And they sent a knife-ear to save me? How… thrilling,” she added, the sarcasm biting through her weariness.
Milo struggled under the weight of his mother, his small frame trembling as he tried to bear her burden. He was still just a child, and it was clear he could barely manage. Azrael’s gaze softened for a moment before he moved to Jana’s other side, gently lifting her arm around his neck. “Hold onto me,” he instructed, his voice steady and reassuring. Jana complied, leaning against him as her strength faltered. Milo stepped aside, relief washing over his face as he saw Azrael’s sure grip take the weight from him.
Just as Milo reached for the door, it swung open, revealing a soldier standing in the entrance, a twisted grin stretching across his dirt-smeared face. His uniform was stained from the rain and smoke, his eyes wide with a wild, unhinged madness. In a flash, his hand shot out, seizing Milo by the throat. The boy gasped, his small hands clawing at the man’s grip as he squirmed in desperation. Jana cried out, panic breaking through her fatigue as she shouted for the man to release her son.
“Let the boy go,” Azrael commanded, his voice calm but edged with a dangerous resolve. His eyes locked onto the soldier, who barely registered the words, consumed by the thrill of violence. The air thickened, the tension crackling like the flames outside, as Azrael prepared himself for whatever came next.
“I don’t think I will,” the soldier sneered, his grip tightening cruelly around Milo’s throat, cutting off the boy’s breath. “I think I’ll take him with me. He’d make a better soldier than a son of a whore who beds an elf.” His words were slurred, dripping with malice, as though the venom on his tongue had left it swollen.
“You vile cur, he’s not—” Jana’s voice cracked with fury as she clung to Azrael for balance, her body trembling with the effort. “Let go of my son!” Her scream sliced through the air, sharp enough to shatter glass. Azrael’s mind raced, searching for a way to free Milo from the man’s grasp. Without a word, he gently nudged Jana back toward the bed, lowering her down with a steady hand. Her eyes pleaded with him, but he offered only a brief nod before turning away.
With a swift motion, Azrael drew the blade Dorian had given him. It wasn’t much—a short sword, almost too small for true battle—but its edge gleamed in the dim light, enough to serve its purpose. Smoke coiled in the room, thickening the air, as Milo’s struggles grew weaker, his small hands barely clawing at the soldier’s arm. Azrael’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, echoing off the stone walls. “Let the boy go! He has no part in this—he’s just a child!”
The soldier’s deranged grin only widened. “A good soldier or a fine slave, that’s what he’ll be. There are women who’d pay handsomely for fresh meat,” he drawled, his words laced with twisted delight. Milo’s movements became faint, his gasps for air fading into the sickening hush of impending unconsciousness.
Azrael’s gaze hardened, the weight of the decision heavy upon him. He could see the man’s filthy fingers caressing the edge of a blade against Milo’s cheek, a grotesque mockery of tenderness. Time was slipping away. There was no choice left.
“Jana, close your eyes,” Azrael ordered, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “No matter what you hear, do not open them.” Jana’s breath hitched, her eyes wide with fear and hesitation, but she obeyed, squeezing them shut as she clutched the fabric of her dress in trembling fists.
Azrael’s grip tightened around the hilt of the sword, his mind focused with a deadly clarity. The room seemed to close in, the shadows growing longer as the fire crackled outside. The moment hung like a poised blade, ready to fall.
And then, in a blur of motion, Azrael acted.
Azrael’s gaze locked with the man’s, and in that instant, fear rippled across the soldier’s face like a shadowed tide. His grip faltered, and Milo crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, terror seizing his throat. His body trembled violently as he stared at Azrael, eyes wide with horror. With a calm, deliberate motion, Azrael raised his hand, and from the darkened corners of the room, shadowy tendrils began to form—spectral hands crawling across the floor like ink spreading through water. They wrapped around the soldier’s legs, anchoring him in place as he struggled in vain.
“No…!” he cried out, his voice breaking with desperation. “Get away from me, demon!” His shrieks filled the air, but they fell upon deaf ears. The shadowy hands clung tighter, pulling him down as he thrashed, eyes wild with panic.
Azrael stepped forward, each movement precise and unhurried, careful not to disturb the unconscious boy at his feet. His hand reached out, seizing the soldier by the throat with an iron grip. In that moment, Azrael could feel the man’s soul—a flickering, tainted thing, clinging to life out of sheer desperation.
“Let me go!” the soldier whimpered, his bravado crumbling into pathetic pleas. “I’m begging you, please! I didn’t mean to—” His words tumbled over each other in frantic desperation, but the shadows paid him no heed. With a cold, detached expression, Azrael snapped his fingers. Two dark hands materialized on the man’s shoulders, gripping him with unyielding strength. The soldier’s screams rose into a pitiful wail as he was dragged backward, his boots scraping against the floor, pulled inexorably toward the darkened hallway beyond.
The flames roared, hungrily consuming the wood and stone as they closed in. The soldier’s cries echoed once more, shrill and filled with agony, before they were swallowed by the fire and the sound of collapsing beams. And then, silence—broken only by the crackling embers and the faint, echoing whisper of something dark and ancient retreating into the shadows.
Azrael’s hand fell to his side, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and despair. He looked down at the unconscious boy and then back at Jana, her eyes still tightly shut, as he quietly steeled himself for what was yet to come.
“You can open your eyes,” Azrael said softly, standing in the doorframe where the soldier once stood. He knelt down and gently lifted Milo into his arms. The boy’s breathing was stable, but he was unconscious—he would need care soon. Azrael’s gaze shifted to Jana, who was trembling, the echoes of the man’s final screams likely still ringing in her mind.
“What did you—” she began, her voice shaky.
“What I had to,” Azrael replied, his tone blunt but not unkind. He carefully positioned Milo onto his back, the child’s weight as light as a handful of grapes to him. Rising smoothly, he extended a hand toward Jana, offering her a moment of reassurance. She hesitated, fear still clutching at her heart, but when she met Azrael’s eyes, she found not the cold detachment she expected, but a gentle smile—a quiet promise of safety amidst the chaos. Swallowing her fear, she grasped his hand, letting him steady her as she stood.
“Do you know a way out?” Her voice trembled, laced with desperation. “What about the others?”
“Eldon won’t fall easily,” Azrael replied, though a flicker of concern crossed his features as he thought of both Eldon and Dorian. He bit back his own worry; there was no room for it now. His words, though simple, seemed enough for Jana, who clung to the hope they offered. With a determined nod, she steadied herself and followed Azrael.
Together, they made their way out of the doctor’s house, just as the fire began to claim the back rooms. The main square was a blazing inferno, flames consuming everything in their path. Retracing the route Azrael had taken through the burning streets, they managed to slip through the crumbling ruins and out of the heart of Sava. Behind them, the town was swallowed by smoke and fire—a memory rapidly turning to ash.
As they crossed the threshold of the square, leaving the blazing remnants of the town behind, the path ahead stretched dark and uncertain. The night air was thick with smoke and the distant clash of steel, but somewhere beyond the chaos, hope flickered like the first light of dawn. They moved forward, each step pulling them further from the past and closer to the unknown future waiting beyond the flames.