Celeste awoke to the soft hush of rain tapping against the window panes. Her body ached, her magic still simmering beneath her skin like the dying embers of a firestorm. For a long moment, she lay still, wrapped in the thick blankets of her new chamber, breathing in the scent of smoke and forest clinging to the fabric.
Azrael sat in a chair by the hearth, a book in his hands, his long fingers resting against the worn cover. He wasn't reading. He was watching her. His crimson eyes flickered like firelight, but his expression was unreadable—guarded and pained.
"You stayed," she whispered hoarsely.
"I told you I would."
Her lips parted, but she couldn't form the words. Gratitude tangled with confusion and fear, each fighting for a place in her heart.
Azrael rose slowly, his every movement restrained. Controlled. "How do you feel?"
Celeste shifted under the blankets, wincing as her muscles protested. "Like something inside me broke... and rebuilt itself."
"That's what awakening feels like," he said, voice low and calm. "Your magic has slept for so long, it's raw. Wild. It'll hurt at first—but it will pass."
She looked down at her hands, at the faint shimmer still dancing along her skin. "I didn't mean to lose control."
"You didn't lose it," he replied, stepping closer. "It was never yours to begin with. But now… it's waking because it senses danger."
She tensed. "Danger?"
Azrael hesitated, then nodded. "Something—someone—was watching us last night. A creature not bound to this realm. It left before I could strike, but it was searching for something." His eyes met hers. "Searching for you."
The fear gripped her chest again. Cold and deep. "Why me?"
He crouched beside the bed, his fingers brushing her wrist—slow, careful, as if touching a wounded bird. She still flinched, even at his gentleness. He didn't pull away.
"Because they know who you are, Celeste," he said. "Even if you don't."
Tears stung the corners of her eyes. "Then why don't you tell me?" Her voice cracked. "Why won't anyone tell me what I am?"
Azrael's jaw tightened. "Because it isn't just about what you are. It's about why you were hidden. Why they kept you powerless. Why someone like your stepmother feared you enough to silence you."
She shook her head, trembling. "I don't want to be special. I just want to be safe."
His hand rose to gently tuck a strand of her silver hair behind her ear. "Then you'll be safe. I'll protect you. Even if it costs me everything."
The words struck deep. She wanted to believe them. But trust still came slowly, like thawing ice.
"I need time," she whispered. "I still… flinch when you touch me. I don't mean to."
Azrael exhaled, brushing his thumb along her wrist before withdrawing his hand. "I know. I'm not asking you to stop. Just… let me stay close. So when you are ready, you'll know I never left."
A silence fell between them, heavy with unsaid things.
Then, a knock rattled the chamber doors.
Azrael stood immediately, his presence shifting from gentle to lethal in an instant. "Stay here," he said sharply, already striding for the door.
Celeste sat up slowly, her heart pounding as she watched him disappear into the corridor.
Outside, voices rose. Heated. Urgent. One male. One female. The female voice was sharp, commanding—and oddly familiar.
Celeste slipped from the bed, bare feet padding softly across the floor. She reached the doorway just as the stranger's voice rang out clear:
"You should have told me she was here, Azrael. She's one of us."
Celeste froze.
Azrael growled, his voice low. "You'll speak with respect. She isn't ready to know."
"She's more ready than you think," the woman replied. "And if you don't tell her soon… I will."
And then, the stranger stepped into view.
She was beautiful—deadly and tall, with silver-blue eyes that glowed faintly like the moon, and a long braid trailing down her back. She looked like a reflection of something buried deep in Celeste's memories.
"Who are you?" Celeste asked, voice small but steady.
The woman smiled faintly.
"I'm someone who's waited a long time to meet you."
The door closed with a soft but final thud, muffling the voices in the hallway. Celeste stood frozen in place, her hand clenched tightly over her chest as if she could calm her racing heart with sheer will alone.
She had seen the woman's face—those icy eyes, that confident grace—but something in her gut twisted with unease. The woman had spoken like she knew Celeste. Like she had been waiting for this moment. But why?
Celeste backed away from the door, her knees wobbling beneath her. The warmth of the room suddenly felt oppressive, the fire's crackling hum louder than before. She stumbled to the armchair Azrael had vacated and sank into it, her fingers gripping the edges.
She didn't feel safe.
Not from the voices beyond the door.
Not even from herself.
Her hands were trembling again. She looked down and caught a faint shimmer dancing across her fingertips—residual energy she couldn't control. Magic she hadn't asked for.
What am I becoming?
Her chest constricted.
"Breathe, Celeste," she whispered to herself. "Just breathe."
But breathing didn't help. The air seemed too thin. The walls too close. The silence too loud.
Her thoughts spiraled until a soft creak snapped her attention to the doorway. Azrael returned alone, his expression dark and unreadable. His crimson eyes searched her face instantly, noting the tension in her limbs, the way she curled in on herself like a frightened child.
"She didn't mean to scare you," he said, his voice low. "She won't speak to you again unless you want her to."
Celeste didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat felt raw. She simply looked at him—her eyes wide, haunted.
"Come here," he said gently, extending a hand.
She shook her head.
"I can't."
Azrael didn't move. He knelt beside her instead, lowering himself to her level. "You're safe, Celeste. You're in my kingdom. In my chambers. No one will touch you here."
Her lips parted, but again, no sound came. It was all too much—the magic, the woman, the fear.
"I don't want to be this," she finally said. "Whatever it is I'm supposed to be. I just want peace, Azrael."
His jaw clenched. "You deserve peace. And I'll give it to you. Even if it means protecting you from the truth a little longer."
She finally met his eyes. "But if I don't understand who I am, how can I ever heal?"
That question lingered in the air like smoke.
"I don't want to be broken anymore," she whispered.
Azrael's gaze softened, the usual edge of his power muted in the dim light. "Then let me help you heal. I'll slow everything down. No more surprises. No more visitors. Just time. Just us."
His words settled over her like a fragile balm.
Celeste hesitated, then slowly reached for his hand. She flinched at the contact—but this time, she didn't pull away.
Azrael stilled completely, not tightening his hold, not moving a muscle. Waiting. Letting her lead.
Her fingers trembled against his palm. But she didn't let go.
"Stay?" she asked softly.
"I will always stay," he answered, and something in his voice cracked—like it cost him to say it, like the promise was more than just words.
Celeste leaned forward until her forehead rested against his shoulder. Her body was still tight, still on edge, but the closeness didn't suffocate her this time. It soothed.
Azrael didn't move.
He let her be.
He let her heal.
And outside, far beyond the window, storm clouds gathered.
Because healing always comes before the storm.