Azael watched the bombs rip through the tall structures, turning buildings to mesh, the floor crumbling from the impact—through the mind's eye of a bat he sent out.
Humans were at it again. The smell of death lingered in the air. Peace had lasted this time—before chaos began, as usual.
The war had been going on for at least two years.
He smiled. Boredom creeping in; humans made it too easy
"Master," one of his minions called.
"What?" Azael snapped, irritation flickering across his face.
He didn't want any disturbances.
"We caught trespassers."
Azael raised an eyebrow. Trespassers?
Impossible—his castle was hidden within a spiritual cast.
Probably a witch doctor—one of those modern scientists.
He'd handled a few before: most dead, one spared to spread the warning.
Humans were fragile fools.
Smiling, he murmured, "A feast, then."
It had been too long since he tasted human blood.
He faced the minion. The Red—lean and elongated creature stood with staff in hand, eyes down, trembling.
Fear clung to him like a perfume. Just the way Azael liked it.
"Bring them."
The minion left.
Azael wasn't exactly hungry for blood; perhaps he might entertain himself with a bit of torture and leave the rest to his minions.
Two minions returned, dragging the trespassers: two females and a boy.
The older woman had striking ginger hair; the younger, dark-haired girl clung behind her, hair tied with pale pink bows.
The boy, under ten, blonde-haired, dressed simply, clutched a single shoe in one tiny foot. The ginger-haired woman held him protectively.
Azael's nose twitched at the scent of innocent blood—likely the boy's. It was going to be an interesting feast.
"Kill them."
The ginger-haired woman shielded the dark-haired girl behind her and tightened her hold on the boy tighter, screaming defiantly.
"You'll have to get through me first."
Azael laughed, dark and amused.
"Silly human. What do you hope to achieve with such fragile strength?"
"Try me and find out, you heartless bastard."
He paused, intrigued. Couldn't she see that she was utterly surrounded?
He studied her: striking features twisted with determination—naturally reddish lips, a straight nose, almond-shaped eyes.
A small dagger flashed toward his minions.
Her eyes were cold grey, unlike the blue of the black-haired girl or the brown of the boy. Her caramel skin didn't match theirs.
Why risk herself for children not her own?
Most humans would have abandoned the children.
Her cream top and jean shorts did nothing to conceal the girl behind her.
Pathetic. A truly pathetic hero.
Unimpressed—he moved closer—to deliver a reality check before ending her and her team of trespassers.
Azael stepped from the shadows, appearing abruptly beside the ginger-haired woman.
The black-haired girl gasped, and the ginger immediately turned toward him with the knife, her hand swaying.
Couldn't she see him? He wondered, puzzled.
He met her cold, grey eyes. Lavender scented her breath, teasing his nostrils. The boy clutched her tighter. Her pupils flicked nervously.
"Are you…blind?" Azael asked, intrigued.
"I'm not," she said, trembling but determined, knife raised.
In a blink, he was behind her, snatching the dark-haired girl, who screamed.
"Elana!"
"No," The ginger swung wildly. "Let her go! Naina!"
He grinned wider. Blind. Heroic. Foolish. He tossed the girl to his minions.
Such an interesting twist in his boring world.
"Take them to Moza," he commanded.
"No, no," Elana cried. " We lost our way. We're heading to the refuge mountains."
"Refuge?" His voice dripped with mockery. "You really think mountains will save you?
"They're waiting," she said, gaze lowered. "My Master and Mistress."
An enslaved person bound by loyalty.
Azael leaned close. Her breath brushed his face, lavender and soft.
Her fiery hair whispered across his robes. For a fleeting second, he wondered why.
"Master, should we proceed?" a minion asked.
Azael's hand shot out, squeezing the minion, its cries ringing out as it vanished. "How dare you interrupt me?" he growled, voice vibrating the room.
He watched the terror in her eyes overshadow her bravery, her pupils darting frantically.
The little boy buried his face deeper into her neck.
Her clean breath washed over his face, her voice soft despite the edge. "Naina!"
"The minute you trespassed. You became mine." His voice startled her; she hadn't even realized he was standing right in front of her.
Another minion materialized from thin air, replacing the one Azael had just obliterated.
"Obey my every command, and I may resist the urge of making a meal of all of you," he said, each word menacing, each breath carrying weight she could feel against her skin.
Azael stepped away, moving toward his throne, shrouded in darkness. "Defy me, and I will fill my belly with the child in your arms."
The minions then escorted them deeper into the fortress, toward Moza.
**
"Elana," the little boy in her arms murmured, sniffing, his voice drowsy. "I'm scared."
The boy finally drifting to sleep in her arms.
She was just as scared.
Hating that her eyes betrayed her.
Maybe they wouldn't be in this mess if she could see.
Elana braced for a harsh, unwelcoming cell—a cell with no hint of softness—but the bed beneath them was clean with the scent of wisteria,
the same fragrance that clung to their captor.
After setting Israel down, Elana heard Naina scoff.
"All your fault. Incompetent servant."
Elana bowed. "I'm sorry. Madam Naina."
She apologized, though she knew it was initially Naina's fault.
Naina and Israel were the children of her Master and Mistress—the ones who had cared for her since her birth.
Even if she was never treated as tenderly, she had a place here and she was grateful for it.
Elana and the children had been separated from them during the war, a cruel necessity that prioritized the lives of children over adults.
Tragedy struck on the train they had boarded—an ambush that left many dead.
They had barely escaped, guarded by a lone soldier through the forest toward a refuge in the mountains.
But Naina's confidence in her directions, dismissing Elana's cautious suggestions, had led them to this point.
"Go prepare my bath," Naina commanded dismissively. "At least that man had the sense to recognize I'm an aristocrat and gave us a befitting room."
Elana hesitated, rubbing one arm. "Please, Madam Naina…could you show me the way to the bathroom?"
"How dare you?" Naina snapped, dripping with pride and condescension. Elana flinched.
"You forget your place, you peasant." Naina continued, "I'll report your insolence to mother when we eventually return to them."
"I'm sorry, Madam Naina. It will never happen again." Elana said quietly, bowing her head.
Her hands traced the room—the drawers, the walls.
Without her stick, she relied on touch and sound alone. She found the bathroom door: smooth, cool wood. Pushing it open, she carefully filled the tub for Naina.
The room was a level of luxury she hadn't expected for prisoners.
Returning to announce the bath. Naina's sharp scoff met her.
"About time. Slow and stupid, even now."
Naina's scent lingered as she entered the bathroom, the sound of the door banging shut behind her.
Elana exhaled and continued exploring the room with her hands, mapping the space, in case Israel or Naina needed her.
Her fingers followed the walls until the floor opened to a sudden space.
A balcony. Her hands brushed against flowers, their delicate petals sending a sweet wisteria scent in Elana's nose.
Arms outstretched, she twirled, feeling the wind tug at her hair.
At the end, she traced the railing, savoring the flowers by touch.
This wasn't a prison—not like she'd imagined.
The cool air kissed her face, though their safety was far from certain.
And for a fleeting second, her heart dared to whisper that maybe, just maybe, the man had not intended them harm.
Perhaps she could plead with him, appeal to some part of his strange sense of mercy.
Absent-mindedly, she let her fingers dance along the railings, playing with the flowers, enjoying their beauty in the only way she could.
Meanwhile….
From afar, Azael observed through his mind's eye, a bat perched atop the highest point of his castle.