The days passed in a quiet rhythm, slower than time itself.
Azrael had kept his word—there were no more unexpected visitors, no more unsettling stares in the hallways. The palace seemed to hold its breath around Celeste, as if even the shadows feared to frighten her.
She spent her mornings in the garden, though it took time before she could step outside without her heart pounding in her throat. The cold touch of the wind, the flutter of wings overhead—it all reminded her of things she'd rather forget. But still, she went. Each
Each day, she pushed herself a little further. At first, she simply sat beneath the old willow tree near the far end of the courtyard, her hands folded tightly in her lap, flinching at every sound. But soon, she began to trace her fingers along the edges of the rose bushes. Her steps were tentative, uncertain—but they were hers. Steps not taken in fear, but in cautious curiosity.
Azrael watched from afar, always near enough that she could call his name, but never close enough to crowd her. He had stopped touching her without warning. He had learned quickly that even a brush of his hand made her flinch—her entire body tensing like a wounded animal. And while it pained him to see it, he never grew frustrated. He only waited.
One afternoon, as the golden light of the sun poured over the garden, Celeste sat in the grass, a sketchbook in her lap. Drawing had once been a secret escape for her, something she'd hidden from her stepmother, something pure. Her charcoal-streaked fingers moved slowly, etching the curve of a leaf, a shadowed petal.
"May I sit with you?" came Azrael's voice, softer than the wind.
She looked up, startled. Her instinct was to retreat—to hide the sketchbook, to shrink from his gaze—but something in the way he stood, hands open, waiting, made her nod.
He didn't sit too close.
"You used to draw," he said gently, watching her hand move across the page. "Before the palace?"
She nodded. "When I was little. I'd hide scraps of paper under the floorboards."
"May I see?" he asked.
Celeste hesitated, then slowly turned the page toward him. Her drawing was delicate but imperfect. Still, the lines had meaning—she had captured the willow's sorrowful branches, and at the center, a pair of crimson eyes—his—hidden between the leaves.
Azrael's lips curved just slightly. "You see more than most people, Celeste."
A blush crept up her neck, and she looked away, unsure how to respond.
Before he could speak again, the wind shifted. It carried a chill that didn't belong in the sunlit garden. Celeste's spine stiffened. Her fingers curled instinctively around the sketchbook.
Azrael sensed it too. His gaze darkened. He stood slowly, placing himself between her and the open path leading into the courtyard.
A moment later, a figure appeared—a tall stranger cloaked in gray. His hood was drawn low, but something about his presence set Celeste's nerves alight. It wasn't fear. Not entirely.
Azrael stepped forward, voice cold. "You weren't summoned."
The stranger's voice was calm. "And yet, I was drawn."
Celeste couldn't see his face, but something about the way he tilted his head made her heart beat faster. There was something oddly familiar in his presence—like a whisper from a dream long forgotten.
Azrael's tone sharpened. "She's not ready."
The man's gaze shifted toward her, though his eyes remained hidden. "Perhaps. But she will be."
Celeste didn't know why, but her breath caught. Her hands trembled, and her vision blurred for a second—not from fear, but from a strange pull, like a memory trying to claw its way to the surface.
Azrael's voice brought her back. "Leave."
The stranger bowed his head slightly and turned, fading into the shadows as quickly as he'd come.
Celeste stared after him, her voice barely a whisper. "Who… was that?"
Azrael didn't answer immediately. Instead, he came closer—slowly, carefully—kneeling in front of her. She flinched when his hand reached out, and he immediately paused.
"I'm sorry," he said, letting his hand drop. "You're safe. I promise you."
Celeste tried to breathe, to understand the strange tension that had gripped her.
"I… I think I've seen him before," she whispered.
Azrael's crimson eyes darkened. "You may have," he said, his voice low. "But not in the way you think."
And with that cryptic reply, the tension only deepened.
Celeste had been healing, yes—but now the shadows were stirring once more, and the past she had buried was starting to wake.
That night, sleep did not come easily.
Celeste tossed beneath the silk covers of her bed, her mind plagued by the cloaked figure who had appeared in the courtyard. She could still feel the strange pull in her chest—the way her heart had responded to his presence like a long-forgotten melody suddenly remembered. It wasn't fear. It was… recognition.
She closed her eyes.
And then—
A memory she didn't know she possessed flickered to life.
A boy. No older than ten.
Locked behind iron bars.
Eyes the color of storm clouds.
His hand reached through the bars to hers.
"You're not alone," he whispered. "I'll find you again."
Celeste sat up, breathless.
The memory faded as quickly as it had come, like mist slipping between her fingers, but it had felt real. Too real. She pulled her knees to her chest, trembling.
Down the hall, Azrael stood at her door. He had felt the shift in the air, the spike of fear from her room. He didn't enter—he hadn't crossed her threshold uninvited since she'd asked for space—but his voice came softly through the door.
"Celeste?"
She hesitated. Then, voice barely a whisper, "Come in."
The door creaked open, and Azrael stepped into the dim room. He looked exhausted but alert, concern clouding his crimson eyes.
"You felt it too," she murmured.
He nodded once. "He's not a stranger to you. Not truly."
She swallowed. "Who is he?"
Azrael walked to the hearth and lit a small flame with a flick of his fingers, its glow casting long shadows along the walls. "His name is Kael. He was once a part of the Demon Court… long ago. Before he disappeared."
Celeste's heart pounded. "How do I know him?"
Azrael met her gaze, slowly kneeling in front of her like he always did—to be eye level, to never loom. "When you were a child, Celeste… you were taken. For a time."
She froze.
"What?"
"You were only six. It was brief—just a few weeks. Your father never told you. He had the records buried to protect your image as the future queen. But during that time… Kael was there. He was a prisoner too."
The image returned. The bars. The boy's eyes. "You're not alone."
"He helped you survive in that place," Azrael continued. "And you helped him, in a way. It was said you had light even then, enough to soothe demons, even in the darkest places."
Celeste shook her head, her voice breaking. "Why would he come back now?"
Azrael's jaw clenched. "Because Kael… isn't like the rest of us. He was touched by old magic. Ancient. Something few understand. And he is drawn to power—and to people who carry it."
Her breath caught.
Her powers.
"You think he wants to use me."
"I think," Azrael said carefully, "that he wants something. Maybe not to harm you… but Kael is not a man who walks into the light unless he's hunting something in the dark."
Silence stretched between them. Celeste looked down at her hands—hands that had healed, hands that had drawn, reached, flinched. She felt like she was peeling back layers of herself she didn't know existed.
"Is he dangerous?"
Azrael's gaze burned. "Yes. Because you matter to him. And people are most dangerous when they care."
Celeste nodded slowly, her mind spinning.
She had trusted a shadow from her past. A boy with storm-colored eyes who had comforted her in a cage. But the man he'd become? She wasn't sure yet.
Azrael reached out, then paused. "May I…?"
Celeste looked at his hand. And though her body trembled—though the instinct to flinch rose—she nodded.
His fingers closed gently around hers.
And for the first time, she didn't pull away.