The moon crept over the horizon, casting a silver kiss upon the twilight as it ascended into the velvet sky. Stars shimmered like scattered diamonds, their light entwining with the moon’s glow in a dance of celestial beauty. The night’s symphony began—a chorus of hidden critters singing their age-old songs from the shelter of rustling bushes. Nearby, the river whispered in harmony, its waters flowing with serene grace, reflecting the luminescent glow of the moon. The surface, undisturbed save for the occasional ripple caused by stones, shimmered like liquid stardust, a vision of ethereal splendor. Beneath the surface, fish glided in the current, their scales catching the faint light like silvered shadows in the depths.
Azrael had been walking for a full day, unyielding in his journey despite the weariness that gnawed at his limbs. His steps wavered as he followed the riverbank, each footfall sending a sharp sting through his bare feet. The valley stretched endlessly before him, its rough terrain unforgiving to one without proper boots. But he had none, and in this moment, he was no god, only a wanderer at the mercy of the earth beneath him. Beggars cannot be choosers, he reminded himself, a lesson learned long ago in the realms of the living and the dead alike.
His thoughts drifted back to a memory, a quiet encounter with a soul who once lingered in his gardens. The man had been a beggar in life—pious, humble, yet plagued by misfortune. He would wander the edges of Azrael’s domain, always careful to avoid direct contact, as if fearing what might come next. At first, Azrael believed it was the weight of tales about his role that kept the man at bay, that perhaps some residual memory from the mortal world still clung to him. But no, the truth was simpler, and far more poignant. The beggar did not wish to reincarnate if it meant returning to a life of poverty and struggle. It was a wish born of exhaustion, a plea for something more. And though Erebus had already prepared for the man’s departure, Azrael felt a pang of pity he seldom allowed himself to feel.
The river’s melody intertwined with the echoes of that memory, blending the past with the present as Azrael trudged onward. The world around him seemed to blur—moonlight, shadow, and the gentle murmur of flowing water—all merging into a dreamscape that swirled with the weight of his journey. The stars above watched silently, indifferent yet luminous, while the moon, ever watchful, guided him through the valley’s quiet embrace.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself to imagine rest—cool grass beneath his aching feet, the soothing balm of sleep cradling his weary mind. But no, rest was not yet his to claim. There were still miles to go, secrets to uncover, and a purpose that tugged at the edges of his consciousness like a half-remembered dream. And so he pressed on, each step carrying him further along the river’s shimmering path, deeper into the heart of a world where mortal and divine blurred beneath the light of a boundless sky.
He hesitated, feeling the weight of the choice pressing against his mind. Another step forward might be the one that sent him to the ground, his body on the brink of collapse. Yet if he stopped now, precious time would slip away—time he could scarcely afford to lose. Though he carried the essence of a god, this body was still mortal, bound by the limitations of flesh and bone, and it was weary—terribly so. The elven frame he inhabited demanded rest, urging him to listen, but the stubbornness of divinity made him waver. Should he push this vessel further or yield to its need for respite?
Turning back, he saw only the path he had already traveled—a ribbon of worn earth running parallel to the river, bordered by vast, moonlit fields of swaying grass. The stars above glittered like distant, forgotten hopes, while the great mountain in the distance pierced the heavens, standing sentinel beneath the endless sky. Before him stretched more of the same: open fields, the flowing river, and nothing else. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in. Had Saafira deceived him, sending him on a wild journey just to rid herself of an inconvenience? But his hand brushed against the envelope in his pocket and the blade at his side, anchoring him in purpose.
Yet with each step forward, his legs threatened rebellion, the ache in his feet growing sharper, more insistent. He knew he could go no further—rest was no longer a suggestion, but a demand.
His gaze drifted to the river, its waters catching the moon’s reflection and twisting it into liquid silver. It was as if the river mocked him, whispering, “Look at me—I flow endlessly, while you, for all your power, can barely stand.” A soft chuckle escaped his lips at the absurdity of his own thoughts. With a weary sigh, he veered off the road, pushing through the tall grass until he reached the river’s edge. He sank down onto the damp earth, the coolness of the grass a welcome relief against his tired limbs.
For a while, he simply watched the river glide by, its surface rippling with the moon’s ethereal glow. The night was peaceful, untouched by the concerns of gods or mortals, and the stars above twinkled as silent witnesses to his solitude. He tilted his head back, eyes seeking the moon in its serene ascent. A faint smile tugged at his lips, tinged with longing.
“Watching over me, Selene?” he murmured with a soft chuckle, his voice lost in the night’s stillness. A sigh followed, filled with a homesick ache that gnawed at the emptiness within him. He missed Necropolis—the shadows, the cool silence, the familiar weight of his realm.
But that was far behind him now, and this lonely stretch of road was all that remained in his world for the time being. With that thought, Azrael laid his head on the cool, damp grass beside the river, too weary to care about the discomfort. The earth beneath him felt steady, grounding him in a way that almost made him forget the ache in his bones. His eyes fluttered closed, surrendering at last to the pull of sleep, while the river continued its endless journey, whispering secrets to the moon.
And in that moment, as he drifted into the quiet embrace of rest, the world seemed content to carry on without him—just as it always did.
Though he had drifted into sleep, it was not the deep slumber of mortals, but rather a liminal state—a delicate balance between wakefulness and dreams. He hovered at the edge of consciousness, as if merely resting his eyes, while his senses remained attuned to the world around him. The gentle murmur of the river wove itself into the night, its steady rhythm a soothing lullaby that anchored him to the present. The night air was cool, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant pine, mingling with the subtle notes of moonlit dew.
As he lay on his side, he felt his body surrendering to the ground beneath him, muscles loosening as if they were melting into the earth itself. The tension of the long day gradually ebbed away, leaving only a sense of weightlessness, as though he were cradled on a bed of clouds. Each breath he took was deep and slow, drawing in the quiet serenity of the night. The stars above twinkled in silence, their distant light filtering through the thin veil of his half-dreaming state.
It was a peculiar kind of rest—a twilight between the waking world and the realm of sleep, where thoughts flowed like water, fluid and unbound by the rigid structures of conscious thought. He could feel the pulse of the earth beneath him, the ancient hum of life that coursed through the roots of trees and the veins of rivers. In this half-sleep, he was both present and far away, adrift in a sea of sensations that flowed around him like a gentle current.
The grass beneath his cheek was cool and damp, its touch grounding him even as his mind wandered to distant places—memories of shadowed halls and quiet gardens where souls whispered their final farewells. But here, by the river’s edge, there was a strange kind of peace, a stillness that wrapped around him like a comforting shroud.
And so, he remained in that state of rest, neither fully awake nor fully asleep, simply allowing himself to be—drifting on the edge of consciousness, lulled by the soft melody of flowing water and the gentle embrace of the night.
As night gave way to dawn, the first golden rays of the sun crept over the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of amber and rose. Azrael stirred as the light brushed against his face, coaxing him from the edge of slumber. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, he lifted his head, finding himself surrounded by the quiet guardians of the riverbank. Tiny critters, their fur dappled with morning dew, watched him with curious eyes—woodland creatures drawn by the enigma of the lone traveler. Two large cherry squirrels, perched like sentinels, stood near the road, their bushy tails flicking in the cool air. As they noticed him waking, they scurried off into the underbrush, vanishing as quickly as they had appeared. Even the insects had shown mercy during the night, leaving him untouched by their hunger.
Slowly, Azrael rose to his feet, brushing dirt and stray leaves from his robes. His muscles protested with a dull ache, a reminder of the long journey that stretched behind him—and the longer one still ahead. His gaze flicked first to the path he had already traveled, winding beside the river and disappearing into the misty distance, then forward to where the road stretched ever onward, promising more uncertainty. His feet throbbed with every step, raw and blistered from the rough terrain. A faint rumble echoed from his stomach, a whisper of hunger that had begun to gnaw at him in the silence of the morning. If he did not find shelter or a village soon, the journey to Rocheclair might end before it truly began. The city lay a week’s walk from this place, and already two days had passed with no sign of the bridge or any familiar landmark. Not a soul had crossed his path, leaving the road empty and the air heavy with solitude.
Azrael stepped back onto the road, the cool breeze of dawn wrapping around him like a gentle caress. The dew-laden grass sparkled in the sunlight, tiny jewels adorning the earth. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to savor the serenity of it all, as though the worries of gods and mortals alike could be washed away by the simple beauty of the morning. But duty clung to him like a shadow, a reminder that peace was a luxury he could not afford.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves broke the stillness, drawing Azrael’s attention. He turned to see four riders cresting the hill behind him, their horses galloping with purpose. Each steed was draped in armor as black as the depths of night, while their riders wore gleaming tabards of gold and white. Soldiers—figures of authority, neither friend nor foe. They sped past him without so much as a glance, save for one. The youngest of the riders, a youth barely touched by the harshness of war, turned his head to meet Azrael’s gaze. His eyes, a clear and vibrant blue, held the innocence of a child untouched by the cruelties of battle. Golden hair crowned his head, catching the light like ripened wheat under the summer sun. For a brief heartbeat, their eyes locked, an unspoken exchange passing between them before the riders vanished over the next rise, leaving dust and silence in their wake.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
“An emergency, perhaps,” Azrael mused aloud, the words barely a breath on the wind. He watched the horizon for a moment longer, then turned back to the road, his journey resuming with the weight of a thousand thoughts pressing against the edges of his mind.
With each step, the world around him whispered of ancient secrets—the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the distant call of a lark, and the ever-flowing river that accompanied him like a faithful companion. Though the road was long and uncertain, Azrael pressed on, guided by duty, curiosity, and the faint hope that somewhere along this path lay answers to questions yet unasked.
As he pressed onward, the morning sun climbed higher into the azure sky, casting long, golden fingers across the waking world. The road stretched ahead, meandering through fields of wild grass that danced in the breeze. In the distance, perched upon a solitary hill, stood a ruin—large, silent, and steeped in forgotten grandeur. Its ancient walls, once proud and imposing, were now entangled with creeping vines and thorny shrubs. Sections of the stone had crumbled, revealing jagged gaps and collapsed archways, yet the dome at its center remained miraculously intact. Rising from that dome was a spire, slender and sharp, its tip stretching toward the heavens as if it sought to pierce the very fabric of the sky.
Azrael paused, eyes narrowing as recognition stirred within him. The sight tugged at something deep in his memory, a half-remembered echo of another time, another place. Drawn by the familiarity, he veered from the main road, his steps carrying him closer to the ruin. With each stride, the remnants of a once-great castle came into sharper focus, its grandeur still clinging stubbornly to the ravages of time. This was no mere fortification—it had been a seat of power, likely the domain of some forgotten lord whose lineage had long since faded into the annals of history.
At the foot of the hill, the path upward revealed itself, winding steeply between broken stone steps and tangled gardens that had long since surrendered to the wilderness. Roses in every shade of the rainbow mingled with wildflowers, their petals sparkling with morning dew as they sprawled in joyous defiance of decay. The air was thick with the scent of earth and blossoms, a fragrance that carried both the sweetness of life and the melancholy of things long past.
Azrael placed his foot on the first fractured step, the stone cool against his blistered skin. The railings, once grand and likely adorned with intricate carvings, had been swallowed by thorny brambles and creeping ivy, their shapes barely discernible beneath nature’s relentless embrace. He wondered if the castle might yet harbor some remnants of its former inhabitants, perhaps even something as mundane as a pair of boots—anything to ease the strain on his aching feet.
As he ascended, the true splendor of the place revealed itself in glimpses. Majestic stone arches, weathered by centuries of wind and rain, still held the grace of Elysian design. Carved gargoyles perched upon the roof’s edges, their grotesque faces frozen in fierce determination, as if they continued to stand sentinel over a kingdom long turned to dust. Broken windows framed by shattered panes of stained glass shimmered in the sunlight, casting fractured rainbows across the ground below. The remnants of a kaleidoscope of colors—emerald, sapphire, ruby—danced across the stone like memories of forgotten artistry, the hues so vivid they could leave even the most hardened critic breathless.
The deeper he ventured into the castle’s shadow, the more the echoes of its past whispered to him. This was a place where stories had been lived, where lives had flourished and faded, where power had once been wielded with elegance and grace. But now, it was little more than a forgotten monument, reclaimed by nature and haunted by the silence of time.
The allure of the ruin tugged at him, urging him to explore further. Perhaps it was not just shelter he sought but answers, hidden in the cracks of these ancient stones. Whatever secrets this castle held, they lingered just out of reach, shrouded in mystery and wrapped in the timeless dance of decay and beauty.
With renewed determination, Azrael continued his ascent, each step bringing him closer to the heart of the ruin, where shadows and sunlight intertwined like the threads of an old, unfinished tale.
As Azrael finally reached the crest of the hill, his feet throbbing with every step, his eyes fell upon the castle’s doors—imposing sentinels of a bygone age. They towered before him, carved from ancient wood native to these lands, their surface smooth and untouched by the ravages of time. Despite the rusted hinges, which looked more like the deliberate touch of an artist than decay, the doors themselves appeared almost new, as though preserved by some forgotten enchantment. Twin knobs, dark and polished, beckoned him forward, inviting him into the shadowed depths of the forsaken fortress. With a steadying breath, Azrael reached out and pulled the heavy doors open.
Beyond the threshold, a statue greeted him—a towering figure of a woman, regal and commanding, her presence so vivid it seemed she had merely paused, frozen in a moment stolen from time. Her eyes, carved with such precision, bore an unsettling clarity as they seemed to follow his every movement. She held a wand in one hand, while her robes flowed seamlessly down to the pedestal, as though they were caught in a perpetual breeze. It was not just lifelike—no, that word fell short. She was an echo of living stone, imbued with a spirit that lingered in the air like a whisper.
As Azrael stood at the threshold, he felt her gaze upon him, heavy and discerning, as if weighing his very soul. The courtyard surrounding her was a tapestry of wild growth, vines curling over broken stones, and blossoms of every hue reclaiming what was once pristine. A stone path, barely visible beneath the tangle of greenery, led from her feet toward the grand building behind, its spire reaching defiantly into the sky.
Closing the doors behind him with a creak that reverberated through the still air, Azrael began to walk forward. His eyes flicked between the path and the statue’s unnervingly lifelike eyes, drawn to their silent vigilance. As he approached her, he bowed his head in quiet reverence.
“I apologize for disturbing your rest,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as if delivering a sacred prayer to a forgotten deity. “I am but a humble traveler, seeking nothing more than boots to ease the weariness of my feet.”
The statue remained silent, her stony lips unyielding, yet a gust of wind stirred, rustling through the overgrown foliage and carrying his words into the stillness. When Azrael raised his head, he noticed with a start that the statue’s eyes had shifted—no longer fixed on him, but now gazing toward the door behind her. A soft click echoed through the courtyard, followed by a resonant thud, as the wind seemed to nudge the heavy doors open. An invitation, or perhaps a warning.
Azrael cast one last glance at the statue, bowing his head in respect before stepping toward the waiting entrance. The doors led him into the heart of the castle, beneath the watchful dome and towering spire.
Inside, shadows danced across the walls as beams of sunlight filtered through cracks in the roof, casting a pale, ghostly light on the grandeur that once was. A grand wooden staircase greeted him, spiraling upward, its balustrade worn and splintered, bearing the scars of time. Along the walls hung portraits of noble figures, their faces half-consumed by decay and the hungry mouths of maggots. Statues lined the corridors, their forms fragmented—missing limbs, heads, or half their torsos, as if the weight of forgotten history had taken its toll on them.
Above it all, the dome loomed, a masterpiece of celestial art. The painted sky was adorned with swirling clouds, where gods and goddesses reclined in majestic splendor. At the center, the emblem of a long-forgotten family held pride of place, surrounded by constellations and symbols of power. The artistry was exquisite, a reminder of the glory that had once filled this hall. Yet now, only shadows and silence reigned, the echoes of past splendor fading into oblivion.
As Azrael’s eyes roved over the dome’s celestial scene, he stepped into the foyer, where shafts of sunlight spilled through the spire’s heights, casting an enchanting interplay of light and shadow across the marble floor. The light flickered like distant stars, creating a dreamlike pattern that danced beneath his feet. In that moment, it was as if the castle held its breath, caught between the memory of what it once was and the decay that threatened to consume it.
There was magic here still, buried deep within the stone and whispers of the past. And though the ruin was a place of forgotten stories, Azrael felt as if it held its secrets close, waiting for the right soul to uncover them.
As Azrael’s eyes swept over the room once more, something caught his attention at the base of the grand staircase—boots, black as the night and adorned with silver buckles, gleaming as though freshly polished. They were pristine, untouched by dust or decay, as if they had just emerged from a master shoemaker’s hands. Yet, these boots had not been there when he first entered. The air around him felt alive, tingling with the faint whisper of movement, as though the castle itself were stirring.
“If you’re planning to feast on me,” Azrael called out with a teasing lilt, his gaze shifting to the unseen presence, “you should know I’m not exactly a delicacy. But I do appreciate the gift of these boots.”
A playful gust of wind drifted through the cracks in the stone, nudging him toward the offering. With measured steps, Azrael approached the boots, feeling the weight of watchful eyes upon him. He bent down to pick one up, turning it in his hands. The leather was supple, of the finest craftsmanship he’d encountered in the mortal realms. Light yet durable, they were made with a care and skill that bespoke more than just mortal hands. Slipping them on, he felt a comfortable fit, as though they had been tailored specifically for him.
He straightened and cast his gaze around the room once more, the shadows clinging to the walls as if hiding a secret. At the edges of his perception, he sensed a presence—one that carried neither malice nor ill intent, but rather an ancient sorrow, lingering like a forgotten melody.
“Thank you,” Azrael called, his voice echoing softly through the hollow corridors. “Would you care to show yourself?”
The air stirred again, a chill brushing against his skin, and with it, a voice carried on the wind—a child’s voice, delicate and tinged with sorrow. “Leave.”
Azrael turned toward the source of the voice, his eyes narrowing in concentration. There was no threat in the tone, only a lingering sadness that wrapped itself around the words. He felt a pang of empathy, sensing the reluctance, the unspoken yearning behind that single word.
The voice came again, firmer this time, though still tinged with grief. “Leave!”
Azrael remained calm, his expression softening as he spoke with gentle authority. “I will not leave until you show yourself. There’s no need to be shy—I mean you no harm.”
For a moment, all was still. The only sound was the faint rustling of leaves from the overgrown courtyard outside. He could feel the pulse of his mortal heart in his chest, each beat a reminder of the limitations this body carried, even as his spirit remained steadfast.
Then, from the shadows atop the grand staircase, a figure materialized—a girl, her form both solid and ethereal, caught between the realms of life and death. She was adorned in a flowing white dress, its hem brushing the steps as though caught in a breeze. Her hair, a soft cascade of blonde and pale silver, was intricately tied into a delicate bun, adorned with glistening crystals that shimmered faintly in the dim light. But it was her face that drew Azrael’s gaze, disfigured in a manner that suggested cruelty—a mark left by the hands of those who had meant to tarnish her beauty.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Azrael saw the fear in hers—a fear that he might flee, recoil, or cast her aside as others surely had. But instead, he bowed his head with the grace of one accustomed to greeting souls of all kinds.
“Good day,” he intoned softly, his voice imbued with kindness. “I am Azrael. Might I know your name?”
The ghostly girl flinched at his words, her ethereal form trembling as tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill. Her voice came out in choked sobs, barely audible, laden with centuries of grief. “I am… Seraphine Isabeau Adélie de Montclair-Valenbourg.”
Her name rang out like an echo of forgotten nobility, a title once spoken with pride but now laced with heartbreak. Azrael held her gaze, the weight of her sorrow pressing upon him like a tangible force. Yet within those tear-streaked eyes, he saw a flicker of something more—hope, perhaps, or the remnants of a longing that had never quite faded.
“Seraphine,” he repeated gently, allowing the name to hang in the air, soft as a prayer. The castle around them seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what would follow in the exchange between a wandering god and a soul lost to time.