The fire had long since dwindled to embers by the time Celeste fell into a restless sleep, her body curled beneath Azrael's cloak. Dreams teased the edges of her mind—fragments of a childhood stolen, a cold palace corridor, the cruel sneer of her stepmother, and the haunting feeling of always being watched.
But somewhere in the haze, another figure emerged—tall, cloaked in darkness, his crimson eyes not cold, but warm. Azrael. In her dream, he reached out to her again.
She flinched.
But this time… she didn't run.
She awoke to the soft sound of birdsong and the scent of damp earth. Morning had come.
Azrael was already up, his back to her as he spoke quietly with Draven and Gemma. He looked regal and commanding, even in the wilderness—an undeniable king, yet somehow hers.
Celeste sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She startled slightly when Gemma turned toward her with a kind smile.
"She's awake," Gemma called softly.
Azrael turned at once, crossing the short distance to her and kneeling beside her, careful not to startle her.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked.
Celeste hesitated, then nodded. "I think so."
She didn't mention the dream.
Azrael glanced up at the morning sky. "We'll reach the borders of my kingdom by nightfall. I'll send a message ahead so the gates will be open."
Celeste blinked. "The gates? To your kingdom?"
He nodded. "Yes. To Dreadmoor."
The name sent a shiver down her spine. She'd heard the stories. Whispers of the Demon King's fortress of shadows, surrounded by mountains steeped in eternal mist. A place where no human ever returned from.
Azrael must have noticed her hesitation. "It's not like the stories say," he assured her gently. "It's my home. And soon, it'll be yours too."
She opened her mouth to respond, but then a sudden gust of cold wind swept through the clearing, extinguishing the embers of the fire.
Gemma's head snapped up. "Did you feel that?"
Draven already had his sword drawn. "That wasn't natural."
Celeste's skin prickled. Something was watching them.
Azrael stood slowly, his form suddenly radiating power. "Stay close to me."
A figure stepped out from the trees—cloaked, faceless, silent.
Then another.
And another.
They came not with war cries, but with stillness more terrifying than any battle cry.
Wraiths.
Gemma cursed. "Spirits from the Nether."
Azrael placed himself in front of Celeste, his hand raised. His crimson eyes burned bright, the air crackling with demonic energy. "You dare approach her?"
The Wraiths didn't speak. But Celeste felt it—an invisible pull, a tug in her chest as if they were calling to something deep within her. Something ancient. Something... hers.
She clutched her head, her breath short. "Azrael… they're inside my mind."
Azrael turned sharply, fury flashing across his features. "No one touches her."
He raised his other hand, the sky above them darkening. A violent wind howled through the trees as his power surged, scattering the spirits with a blinding pulse of red light.
The Wraiths screamed—not with voices, but with the sound of splintering air—and vanished.
Silence returned.
But Celeste remained on the ground, her heart pounding, her body trembling.
Azrael dropped to his knees beside her, gently brushing hair from her face. "You're safe. I've got you."
She flinched again—but this time, instead of retreating, she clutched his sleeve. Her fingers curled into the fabric like before.
"I felt them," she whispered. "They wanted me."
Azrael's face darkened. "They sense your power. You're waking up, Celeste… And others will come for you."
She looked up at him, fear swimming in her eyes. "What am I?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close without forcing her to stay. "You're mine. That's all that matters right now."
But even as his arms wrapped around her, Celeste's mind echoed with the Wraiths' silent whisper.
"She is the key."The journey to Dreadmoor was silent after the attack. The forest seemed to shrink back as they passed, the trees bending away from the path as though sensing who walked among them. Azrael rode ahead, his presence sharp and alert, while Celeste sat quietly in the carriage, wrapped in a heavy cloak, her hands trembling softly in her lap.
She hadn't said a word since the Wraiths appeared.
They wanted her.
Not Azrael. Not the others.
Her.
Their chilling whispers still echoed in her mind. She is the key. But to what?
The carriage slowed, wheels crunching over gravel as the landscape began to change. The towering black mountains of Dreadmoor rose in the distance, their jagged peaks wrapped in eternal mist. The sky darkened unnaturally as they approached, not with storm clouds, but with the ever-present gloom that blanketed Azrael's kingdom.
Still, Celeste stared out in awe. She had expected bleakness—death, fire, stone—but there was a strange beauty to it all. A haunting, ancient grandeur in the way the cliffs rose like the edges of the world itself. The spires of the fortress came into view, piercing the mist like dark fangs.
The gates opened before they reached them, ancient metal groaning with magic as they swung wide. At once, shadows poured forth from the path beyond, forming into cloaked figures—guards, or perhaps beings she had no name for. They bowed low as Azrael passed, their murmurs of "My King" rising in eerie unison.
Celeste's breath caught in her throat.
This was real.
She was in the realm of demons now.
The carriage rolled through the gates and entered the great city of Dreadmoor. Despite its dark reputation, it wasn't lifeless. There were markets, towers, even music drifting on the wind. But everything had an edge—too sharp, too cold, too aware.
Azrael helped her down from the carriage when they arrived before the palace. She flinched again at his touch, and his hand froze in the air between them.
But this time, Celeste reached out first.
She took his hand.
A flicker of surprise passed through his crimson eyes before he gently wrapped his fingers around hers.
"I'll take you to your chambers," he said, voice softer now. "You can rest, eat, bathe. You don't have to do anything else today."
She nodded slowly.
The palace was a labyrinth of black marble and glowing crystal, lit by strange blue flames that danced in floating sconces. The halls were silent but watched—Celeste could feel the magic in the stones, in the air, in the very floor beneath her.
At last, Azrael opened a tall door into a massive chamber. It took her breath away. High windows let in the twilight, casting silver light across velvet drapes and a large bed carved from obsidian. A fire crackled in the hearth, softer and warmer than anything else she'd seen in the kingdom.
"This is your room," Azrael said, stepping aside.
Celeste stepped in slowly. "It's… beautiful."
"I had it prepared for you weeks ago," he admitted. "I hoped you would come back with me."
She turned to face him, eyes wide. "Even before we were married?"
He hesitated. "I never intended to leave you at the altar, Celeste. I never wanted to abandon you. War pulled me away… but not my heart."
The confession hung between them, heavy and raw.
Celeste lowered her gaze. Her heart was a maze of tangled emotions—fear, curiosity, longing, pain.
"I still don't understand what's happening to me," she whispered. "The dreams. The whispers. The way they called to me."
Azrael stepped forward, careful not to cross her boundary. "Your powers are awakening. Whatever your stepmother did to suppress them… it's unraveling now. And your essence—it's something ancient, something rare. The Wraiths weren't just drawn to you because of power. They were drawn to your soul."
Celeste's eyes widened, her voice shaking. "What… am I?"
Azrael looked at her for a long moment. Then, in a voice low and filled with regret, he said, "You're not entirely human, Celeste."
The world tilted beneath her feet.
"What?"
He stepped closer, his expression grave. "You're part Fae."