Elana's lids felt heavy as she parted them, now awake where she lay between the cotton sheets and blanket. The quiet around her signaled it was still midnight but also made her miss the tiny sounds of insects at Zelda's home that used to fill this same hour.
The silence here felt…wrong.
She snuggled deeper into the sheets, only to groan as her muscles ached in response.
The warm water she had soaked in had done all it could—and still, it wasn't enough to soothe the aftermath of what Azael had done to her—what she had made him do.
Her cheeks flamed.
The thought alone opened the floodgates of memories—memories of last night with him.
Frustration bubbled inside her and she turned to lie on her back.
She wished her anger could turn into hate for him, not what it became with a single touch.
Her lip caught between her teeth as her mind recalled the uneven rhythm of his cold breaths against her neck.
She had secretly enjoyed it—the slip of control he could not help while inside her.
Elana raised her knees, thighs pressing together as her toes curled faintly into the sheets.
She hated how unfortunate she was.
How could someone like her—a slave, nothing more—hope to matter in any way that wasn't beyond the physical?
She braced both hands at her side and sat up, leaning back to the headboard, knees raised. The blanket rested halfway down her waist, letting the cool air drifting in from the window caress her skin beneath the thin cotton dress.
Regret and need twisted in her chest, the former trying desperately to overpower the latter.
But need was strong—and her palms already missed him.
The solid, unmoving strength of his body. The way his muscles never tensed no matter how deeply she dug her nails into his back—how he held her there as she shattered in his arms.
Her throat tightened
Tears failed to come, exhausted by the same person who triggered them.
His harsh words still echoed—dismissing what intimacy meant to her.
Elana drew her knees closer to her chest and clasped her hands softly over her thighs.
Two nights ago, she had been certain she hated his audacity and control over her life, ready to confront him.
Now, she was left regretting how easily she had surrendered under what she had mistaken for passion between them.
Her fists tightened.
If she was nothing but a possession to him then he could at least act like it—be harsh, be cruel like an owner.
Not this.
Not the confusion of his kisses—especially when they were soft.
Not the safety in his arms.
Not the way he had held her while she slept last night.
Elana was sure Cara would be disappointed if she ever told her what had happened between them.
But if Azael was going to own her this way—with such cruel, quiet manipulation—then she would not make it easy for him.
No matter how far he pushed her.
She knew she could push him too.
Frustrate his logic. Break that calm control he carried so easily.
And by God's grace, she would overcome the new temptation he stirred in her while at it.
**
Azael scoffed, watching the eyes of his bat as Arden lingered atop a rooftop in Lumere, the moonlight exposing every ounce of his hesitation.
The ghost was trembling.
For his own sake, he had better remember where he had claimed to have been taken.
If he was telling the truth about being abducted by the sorcerer, then he was useful bait—and might force the sorcerer to reveal himself.
Arden flinched as the bat shot forward, passing through his ghostly form twice, screeching sharply as it did—communicating Azael's impatience.
"S-sorry, my lord," Arden stammered. "Please…just a little more time. I'll recall properly."
Azael scoffed again.
He had to get to the sorcerer's lair first—before he gave in to the temptation of sending another bat to check on Elana…or spy on her.
The memory of her body slipped into his alert mind instantly, triggering his desire.
He had never been pushed into wantonness like this before. Not by anyone.
Not the way Elana had.
So much that he had lost control over the little restraint he had left—taking her more than once through the night.
He leaned back into his throne, eyes drifting shut as his mind replayed the melodies of her sounds…the way her body had responded, only to him.
Heat rushed to his groin.
If her fever had not worsened again, he would have kept her to himself the entire day.
The bat shifted, and Azael's eyes opened, his thoughts coming back to the present as it glided between buildings toward a smooth-walled house with silver roofing and external stairs—close to the palace, but not too close.
"D-Do I have to go in, my lord?" Arden asked, fear plain in his eyes.
The question irritated Azael enough that the bat stilled midair, fixing him with a silent, unblinking stare.
"Sorry," Arden said quickly, sinking into the wall.
Azael redirected his bat, searching for a window.
He found one—closed.
Not for long.
One side creaked open, revealing Arden's hand. Azael moved the bat inside, his gaze sweeping over furniture…dust…emptiness.
Doubt crept in—
Until something caught his attention.
A portrait on the wall, faintly illuminated by moonlight spilling through the window Arden had opened.
The familiar face of the fool who had dared to stir him, bold on the canvas.
Azael's jaw tightened and his gaze shifted toward the entrance—faint traces of blood still staining the floor.
Empty transparent tubes lay scattered across the room. Streaks of color marked the largest table.
He directed the bat to scratch at the cupboards beneath it, and Arden quickly obeyed, pulling them open.
Empty.
Some of the locks were broken—shattered with a force no human could manage.
Azael brought the bat back to the portrait, staring closer.
The last thing Fen had better have mistaken for weakness…was his mercy.
Because if Fen had chosen to challenge him—if he had truly aligned himself with a sorcerer—
Then it would only reinforce Fen's need to die—and by his hands.
**
Fen lifted his head toward the peak of his mountain, where the full moon hovered in the night sky, its glow washing over his white fur and reflecting in his blue eyes.
Most of his wolves were out hunting. Others lingered in the darker parts of the mountain, restless.
He should have been excited.
About the sorcerer.
About the power he would gain once he became one with the tree witch.
But instead… he felt uneasy.
He had lived too long—seen too much—to trust anything that came this easily.
Especially something that demanded death first… to become stronger.
He leaned back into his throne, a small flicker of regret tightening his chest—but he forced it away.
He was too close.
Too close to proving he was better than Azael.
He could not afford doubt now.
The tree witch had been with him for centuries—loyal since the remnants of Nasaer's war with Azael.
Compared to then, Azael was different, and Fen knew deep down he carried his own fair share of regret.
The truth was simple—Nasaer had deserved everything Azael had done to them.
What maddened Fen the most wasn't Azael's power.
It was his restraint.
How he was humbly living through the humiliation. Isolation.
Being used only in war.
Fen would never have done the same.
A small dot appeared against the moon's circular frame.
Fen squinted.
It grew larger—wings stretching wider.
A bat.
Azael?
Fen bared his fangs as it approached with unnatural confidence—until it dissolved into a swirl of dark smoke in the center of the mountain floor.
And from it—
Azael emerged.
Still. Silent.
Eyes glowing red, locked on Fen.
The wolves growled from the shadows, slowly circling, cautious…but advancing.
Fen rose in response, alert, his paws braced—Azael's stare a clear threat.
"Your new toy isn't entertaining enough, is it, Azael?" he jeered, clearly referring to the ginger-haired girl.
"Where is the sorcerer?" Azael asked.
Fen's fur bristled.
How did he know?
But it didn't matter.
He couldn't afford for his plans to be terminated before they had a chance to unfold.
"The only sorcerer we both know is dead," Fen said. "Centuries ago. You killed him, remember?"
Azael didn't blink. "Lehava."
Fen felt the heat before he saw it.
He turned—
His tail was on fire.
He roared, stumbling away from his throne in panic as he tried to smother the flames, shifting desperately into human form.
The fire vanished as his fur melted into flesh but by then his panic had already driven him to the ground, trembling on all fours a few feet from where Azael stood.
The growling of his hybrids grew louder.
Humiliation spread through him.
He would never be enough like this to conquer Azael.
"You fail to realize your life is a speck of dust in my hands," Azael said. "Do not test me, Fen. Because in truth, you're the toy I'm growing bored with."
Fen's jaw tightened, but he kept his head lowered, staring at the stone beneath him.
If he pushed too far, Azael could burn everything—the mountain, the wolves—and worse, discover not just the sorcerer, but the source of his immortality and power.
"I do not know a sorcerer," Fen lied, swallowing his truth. "What could I possibly need with one?"
"Lehava!"
Flames burst again—this time forward, behind Azael.
Painful growls erupted. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.
Fen lifted his head sharply.
Three wolves shrank beneath the flames.
His teeth clenched.
He had no choice. A man who lived today lived to fight another day.
He had to get himself out of certain death by reaching Azael's emotions first.
"I've never made as much trouble within your territory as you have in mine these past days," Fen said quickly. "You invaded my land first. Stole my prey. Burned my wolves. And now you accuse me of something I know nothing about?"
"That will be nothing," Azael said, impatience heavy in his voice, "if you don't speak."
Fen's breath wavered as his gaze dropped again.
How could Azael have known about the mage? It couldn't be Eira—she didn't know.
Then he remembered that Syrus had mentioned Azael sought to kill him, and the ginger was also within Lumere—part of why the kingdom now lived in fear of him.
Could Azael have spotted his wolves in the Mage's home? Fen clenched his fists against the floor.
He had underestimated what the sorcerer had said, and now he risked paying the price—especially now that he was close to victory.
"I do not command every wolf out there," he said. "And most of the men who attacked your territory wandered into mine while fleeing from the war."
"Your new hybrids are sick, soulless," Azael said. "What is your source?"
Fen's arms trembled.
"Maybe before you blame me, you should look within your own," he shot back. "I am simply an outcast of nature like you.
Who am I to question its flaws? Your hybrids act on their own will.
Why assume mine don't ?"
Silence.
Fen raised his head to meet Azael's stare, the flickering flames casting shadows across his face.
"I've always challenged you openly," he continued. "Never from behind. And yet—you were attacked by humans and chose to blame me."
Azael remained silent, still watching Fen.
"Perhaps you just want to end me," Fen said. "Your dame is safe—far from here. So it couldn't possibly be your reason, Azael."
"Pathetic Coward!" Azael spat.
Fen grinned despite himself. "Then don't resist it. Finish what you started with Nasaer. Burn me down if you want."
"The sorcerer you seek would still be out there, so drop the so-called honor of brothers in war and end me if you must. It won't stop fate from catching up."
Azael's eyes blazed.
Fen's grin faltered. His head dropped again.
His soul might as well go to hell for this life—living and dying like this, by the hands of his enemy.
Nothing came.
Only silence.
Fen slowly lifted his head. Azael was gone.