Celeste's legs buckled, and she gripped the edge of a nearby table to keep from collapsing. "Part… Fae?" she echoed, the word foreign and sharp on her tongue.
Azrael didn't move to touch her this time. He simply stood there, hands at his sides, watching her with eyes filled with something close to sorrow.
"I—I can't be," she stammered, shaking her head. "I'm human. I've always been human. My father was human. My mother…"
Her voice trailed off.
She didn't remember her mother. Only whispers of lullabies. Faint touches. A perfume she could never describe but always recognized in her dreams.
Azrael stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a frightened creature. "Your mother was a highborn Fae," he said gently. "She gave up everything to marry your father—her powers, her world, her name. But blood like hers doesn't fade, no matter how deeply it's buried."
"No," Celeste whispered, her breath hitching. "This is a mistake. I'm not like them. I'm not like you."
Azrael's eyes darkened, but not with anger—with hurt. "You're not. You're like you." His voice softened. "And that's what terrifies them. A being with the blood of the Fae… wrapped in the soul of a human. You were never meant to be just one thing, Celeste. That's why they're hunting you."
Her heart raced, her chest tightening. "Then… all this time… the nightmares. The whispers. The way I can feel things before they happen—"
"Your power," Azrael said with a nod. "It's waking up. Slowly. And it will grow stronger. But you're untrained, and that's dangerous. Not just to others, but to yourself."
She sat on the edge of the bed, numb. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing dancing light across her pale face.
"Why didn't my father tell me?" she whispered, eyes wide with confusion and pain.
"Because if anyone knew what you were, you'd never have lived long enough to reach me."
Celeste looked up sharply. "You knew? From the beginning?"
Azrael's jaw clenched. "I knew something. I felt it the night of the wedding. Your aura—it called to me like moonlight through a storm. I didn't realize how powerful you were until after I left. Until I felt it again, echoing across the realms."
Tears welled in Celeste's eyes. "And now what?" she asked, her voice breaking. "I'm a target. I'm half something I don't understand. And I'm in a kingdom where demons are bowing to a man who terrifies me and protects me at the same time."
Azrael took a tentative step closer. "You're in a kingdom where you're under my protection. And I swear to you, Celeste, I won't let anyone touch you. Not the Wraiths. Not the Hunters. Not even fate."
She flinched again when he reached out, but this time, his hand didn't touch her skin. It hovered above hers, waiting.
And slowly… slowly, Celeste turned her hand over and let her fingers graze his.
A spark. Not painful, not frightening. Just… warm.
"I don't know if I can be what they want me to be," she whispered.
Azrael gave a small, soft smile. "You don't have to be. Just be you. And if the world can't handle that…" His eyes flickered, red and burning. "Then I'll burn it to the ground."
She exhaled shakily, the tight knot in her chest loosening just a bit.
And for the first time since arriving in Dreadmoor, Celeste didn't feel like she was drowning.
She felt like maybe, just maybe, she was beginning to breathe.The halls of Dreadmoor Palace were hauntingly beautiful. Celeste walked in silence beside Azrael, her steps muffled by the velvet carpet underfoot. The walls were carved from obsidian stone, veined with silver that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Everything in this place breathed with ancient magic. Power. Secrets.
She should have felt lost here, overwhelmed. But instead, as her fingers brushed the cool wall, a strange sense of familiarity flickered through her. Like the palace recognized her. Welcomed her.
"Magic clings to you," Azrael said quietly, watching her from the corner of his eye. "It's reacting to you already."
Celeste flinched, withdrawing her hand from the wall. "I didn't mean to—"
He stopped and turned to her, shaking his head. "It's not a bad thing. Dreadmoor hasn't responded to anyone like that in centuries."
She swallowed hard. Her heart still hadn't calmed from everything she'd learned, and now… this? "What does that mean?"
Azrael's gaze lingered on her face. "It means you belong here more than you realize."
That word again. Belong. She didn't know what it meant anymore.
He led her through a towering archway and into a chamber that stole the breath from her lungs. A massive canopy bed, draped in sheer black silk, sat beneath a dome-shaped ceiling painted with constellations. A fireplace blazed softly in the corner, and long windows let in a wash of moonlight, casting the room in silver and shadow.
Celeste stood frozen just inside the threshold. "This room…"
"It was meant for my queen," Azrael said, his voice low. "And it's yours now."
The word queen hit her like a thunderclap. She barely knew him, barely knew herself, and yet he spoke with certainty, as if fate had already written their path in blood and fire.
Azrael turned to leave, but she caught his sleeve. "Stay," she whispered, her voice trembling.
He looked down at her, searching her face. "Celeste…"
"I don't want to be alone." Her eyes shimmered with vulnerability. "Not tonight."
He hesitated, then gave a slow nod. "Only if you're sure."
She stepped back, allowing him in. Her heart pounded as he took a seat near the fireplace, stretching out his legs like a great beast at rest. She settled on the bed, drawing her knees to her chest, watching the flames dance.
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy, meaningful.
Then, the pain started.
A sharp jolt in her chest, like lightning crackling beneath her skin. Celeste gasped and doubled over.
Azrael was at her side in an instant. "Celeste!"
Her eyes glowed faintly—an ethereal violet hue. The mark on her shoulder, hidden beneath her gown, burned bright through the fabric. She couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. A strange energy surged through her veins, wild and ancient.
"Your power," Azrael growled, eyes blazing. "It's awakening."
She screamed, but no sound came out. The windows rattled. The fireplace roared higher. And then—everything stopped.
Celeste collapsed against him, panting, sweat clinging to her brow. The glow faded. The mark dulled.
Azrael cradled her, arms trembling. "I'm here," he murmured, over and over. "You're safe. I've got you."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as her fingers fisted into his shirt. "What's happening to me?"
"You're becoming what you were always meant to be," he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers. "And I'll help you through every step."
She clung to him, still shaking, but something inside her had shifted. A door had opened. The storm had begun.
And for the first time, she wasn't running from it.
She was stepping into it.