The soft warmth of little Israel's hug enveloping Elana made her thankful to Azael for honoring her request—despite the notion of him being an errand boy.
"Oh, Israel. How long have you been awake?" she asked gently.
The little boy sniffed, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "Everywhere's so dark, Lana."
"Oh, my angel." She rubbed his back tenderly, "No, it isn't. It's all in your imagination."
"Don't ever leave me alone," he whimpered. "I'll cry so much and have a headache if you do."
Elana laughed softly, "Okay! Okay! I won't."
As she comforted him, Naina's sharp voice cut through the moment.
"You were out gallivanting in the open of a prison. Forgetting your duties to protect us?" She scoffed.
"No, Miss Naina," Elana said, turning toward Trisha. "My new friend here helped me take care of my monthly visitor. Right, Trisha?"
Silence.
"Trisha?" Elana called softly again.
"Now you talk to ghosts." Naina's tone dipped with mockery, "This place must be actively turning you into a bigger fool."
"Israel," Elana murmured, "Is there a lady beside me?"
"No, Lana," his small voice replied. "It's just an open field."
An eerie voice came from Naina's direction, making her yelp in fear.
"Follow me."
"Who's that?" Elana asked.
Israel released her from his hug, his clean little breath brushing her skin. "It's the wendigo that led us to you?"
"Wendigo?" the eerie voice echoed, amused and offended by the name Israel had given it.
Naina scoffed. "Well, let's go. It's not like we have much of a choice considering you're the reason we're here."
Elana rose, Israel clutching her hands as she presumed they followed the demon's lead. Where could Trisha have gone? Maybe disappear—like a fairy.
**
Azael observed through his monochrome vision, standing invisibly at the far end of the dining table, yet to reveal himself.
Elana was feeding the little boy. Her practiced movements fascinated him—the way she guided the spoon with delicate uncertainty, wiping the stray drops that escaped Israel's mouth.
There was selflessness in every motion she made.
The other girl—the dark-haired one, Naina—radiated bitterness. Her aura was thick with pride and quiet disgust, her gaze toward Elana steeped in malice.
Azael had thought they were close, judging from how Elana had charged at him when he'd first grabbed her. Maybe fear had blurred judgment then.
The little boy was also sweet to Elana.
Azael felt a strange flicker of jealousy—the kind that annoyed him the moment he thought it.
How ridiculous, to envy a child for her affection. Must be nice, he thought, having such a beautiful woman care for you.
Azael caught himself. Did he mentally beef a child over a woman?
Well, it seemed a little bit of your heart is thawing, Azael.
Trisha's teasing voice echoed in his head.
"Shut up, Trisha." He muttered aloud before he could stop himself.
Naina screamed—her bravado evaporating into panic.
So much for all that pride, he mused.
Elana instantly reached for her. "Take my hand. Naina."
He hadn't realized he was standing so close. His spoken words had startled her, sending the entire table into chaos.
Azael sighed and appeared at the head of the table,
"You're lucky I'm in a good mood these days. This sort of noise in my castle would normally be punished."
Naina froze. Elana held Israel tighter. The boy trembled.
"We're sorry, master Azael…" Elana began, her voice small but sincere.
"Actually," Naina interrupted quickly, "it was my fault. You just startled me a little, that's all."
Elana's lips parted in shock at her sudden confession.
Azael's eyes met the dark-haired girl's green ones. Her pouty lips and putty nose mimicked innocence.
His mind flashed back to Elana's red lips while he carried her down the hall.
Naina's body language screamed desperation; she was trying to look appealing to him.
He could also tell she was putting on an act.
He slid his gaze off her, eyes turning to Elana. "Eat up. I have something to tell all of you. Best eat before I take even your appetites with me."
**
Elana's thought of Azael as water from the shower cascaded down her body.
She couldn't exactly use the tub effectively in her condition, and little Israel had been quick to save her by pointing out a shower in the bathroom.
Azael's voice echoed in her head—ice cold, holding so much anger under its composure.
The anger imprisoned the affection and concern under it.
She knew he wasn't a bad person. He could have killed them on sight if he were.
He had been so concerned that he agreed to let them go, but there was doom coming.
Azael had said the mountain did have a refuge, but enemy soldiers were already on their way there to destroy the survivors.
They would take at least two days from today to reach the mountain.
Elana had been worried for her master and mistress, insisting on warning the refugees so they could vacate before it's too late.
Azael had protested, saying it would take them half a day to get there even if they rode by carriage.
At that moment, Elana had been torn—and as Israel rested his head against her chest, sobbing, "I miss mummy," her heart broke further.
Naina had remained silent, but her quiet resolve told Elana that she was willing to go along and save her parents.
Azael had eventually given in, lending them a carriage to depart by the next day.
Now, as streams of water traced down her skin, Elana closed her eyes.
The first thought that came to her was his voice—deep, commanding, yet gentle in moments.
She remembered the feel of his face: the straight bridge of his nose, the edges of his chiseled cheeks, the shape of his lips—horizontal, slightly plump.
She traced her own face with trembling fingers, as if mapping his features from memory.
How would it feel to be loved by such a man?
His voice was such a gentle blend of baritone and piano—like that of an ancient god—a Prince. Elana smiled faintly.
He must be handsome, she thought, biting her lower lip.
She was drawn to him—deeply— and it was a shame they would part ways so soon.
She wanted to understand this complicated and mysterious man.
A man who battled with his emotions.
In her twenty-five years of living, Elana had never felt this kind of attraction to any man.
Not the farm boy from her master's field who struggled to recite poems to charm her.
Not the laundry man who brings her collage-drawn flowers every time he comes by.
She knew they were interested, but she wasn't—though she wished she could be.
Her soul had never connected to any of them.
Azael wasn't cheerful or charming like those men—he didn't have to be. Yet somehow he still was.
A reluctant sweetheart, she thought, giggling under the shower.
Her thoughts drifted, her body moving absentmindedly as the water ran over her, her heart filled with quiet, aching longing for Azael.
**
"Surely, you're not letting those children ride to their deaths."
Trisha cut through the stillness, her tone laced with irritation.
"I told them not to, and they disagreed," Azael said simply.
Trisha frowned, her aged but striking blue eyes tightening with worry. Her blood-red lips contrasted sharply against her pale skin as she pressed the back of her wrists dramatically to her forehead.
"Oh my. You're going to let these humans kill the one good thing that I've seen in this corrupt world in ages."
Azael smirked, unable to resist teasing her. "What? You into girls now?"
Trisha scoffed, her petite frame turning away, arms folded defiantly. "Call it whatever you like," she said, meeting his gaze again. "But she mustn't die."
Azael exhaled sharply, frustration rising as he stood and began to pace.
"This is not who I am. Why should I care about some blind girl who just happened to be lost? I knew I should have killed her from the start."
"Well," Trisha said with a sly smile, "I'm not asking you to do it for yourself… I'm asking you to do it for me. Or maybe," her smirk deepened,
"You're just angry because you can't stand the thought of her being hurt."
Azael froze.
He shot her a lethal stare, his breathing quick and sharp, already used to the armor he wore to protect himself.
"Redemption might be delayed," she said softly, "but it's never evaded."
With that, she disappeared—her body dissolving into thin, glittering air.
Azael sank back into his chair, still battling the storm inside him.
For the first time in centuries, he struggled to shut off his emotions—his ability to care.