Chapter 28 Azrathiel
AZRATHIEL
The familiar weight of shadow dissolves around me as I step through the wall, expecting to find Ilyra waiting with that slight smile she reserves for my arrivals. Instead, I emerge into a room stripped bare as winter bone.
Gone are the silk dresses that hung like captured moonlight in the corner. The jewelry box sits empty, its velvet lining exposed like an opened wound. Even the moonbeam lily—that perfect bloom I cultivated in the deepest caverns of the infernal realm—has vanished without trace.
The temperature plummets. Frost begins forming along the window glass in delicate, deadly patterns.
A soft sound reaches me from the bed—barely audible, like rain on distant stone. Ilyra lies curled beneath a threadbare sheet, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.
Bruises bloom across her exposed back in shades of purple and red, finger-shaped marks that speak of violence delivered with deliberate cruelty. More bruises circle her upper arms where someone gripped her hard enough to leave permanent reminders.
"What happened?"
She flinches violently at my voice, spinning to face me with wide, startled eyes still wet with tears. Fear flickers across her features before recognition settles—and guilt pierces through my rising fury at having frightened her when she's already been hurt.
"Azrathiel." My name breaks on a sob, releasing the flood she's been holding back.
She curls inward, hiding her face against her knees as tears fall like rain after drought. The sound tears through me worse than any blade, worse than the celestial chains that bind my essence.
I cross to her in three swift strides, gathering her trembling form against my chest. She fits perfectly in my arms, as if every line of my body was designed to shelter hers from harm.
"I'm here." The words rumble low in my chest as she presses her face against my shoulder. "I'm here, flower."
Her tears soak through the dark fabric of my shirt while I hold her, one hand stroking the length of her unbound hair. Each shuddering breath she takes feeds the infernal fire building in my veins.
Someone put their hands on her. Someone hurt what belongs to me.
The room grows colder still, shadows deepening in the corners like living things drawn to my rage. I force myself to breathe steadily, to keep my voice gentle despite the violence screaming through my thoughts.
"Tell me who did this."
She shakes her head against my shoulder, fresh tears spilling over. "They took everything. All of it. The lily you gave me—they destroyed it."
My jaw clenches tight enough to crack stone. The moonbeam lily took centuries to cultivate, its petals infused with starlight from the first dawn. To destroy something so precious, so carefully crafted...
"They called me a thief." Her voice comes muffled against my shirt. "Said I stole from Bram's estate. Vaelra dragged me outside and—"
Her words dissolve into another wave of sobs. I tighten my arms around her, pressing my lips to the crown of her head as scenarios flash through my mind—each one bloodier than the last.
Vaelra's hands around Ilyra's throat. Mariselle holding her down while her mother strikes. Bram arriving to find his bride marked and deciding to sample his property early.
The shadows in the room writhe like serpents, responding to the fury building in my chest. Ice crystals spread across the walls in intricate, deadly patterns.
"Breathe with me," I murmur against her hair, though my own breathing threatens to ignite the air around us. "Just breathe, flower."
She follows the rhythm of my breathing until her sobs quiet, until the trembling in her shoulders stills to match my steady heartbeat. The salt of her tears still dampens my shirt, but her breath comes even now, calm.
"Better?" I murmur against her hair.
She nods against my chest, not quite ready to pull away.
I ease her back gently, studying the exhaustion etched in every line of her face. "I'll be right back."
Before she can respond, I step through shadow into the infernal plane.
My private chambers stretch before me—obsidian walls lined with treasures accumulated over millennia of contracts.
I move with purpose through the collection, selecting silk the color of midnight sky, woolen blankets soft as cloud-down, a pillow stuffed with phoenix feathers that will never lose their warmth.
The return journey takes mere heartbeats. I emerge in her room to find her still sitting exactly where I left her, staring at her empty hands.
I begin arranging the silk across her narrow bed, smoothing each fold with careful precision. The wool follows, then the pillow positioned just so. A nest worthy of something precious.
"No." Her voice cuts through my work.
I pause, one hand still adjusting the corner of a blanket. "No?"
"I don't deserve it." She shakes her head, dark hair falling around her face like a curtain.
The words hit me wrong, sparking something volcanic in my chest. My eyes flash with infernal fire as I straighten to my full height.
"You deserve whatever I say you deserve." The words snap out sharper than intended, edged with the authority of someone who once commanded legions. "Nothing less. Nothing more. And I say you deserve silk and comfort and every beautiful thing I can lay at your feet."
Silence stretches between us like a held breath. She flinches slightly at my tone, and guilt follows swift on the heels of my anger. I force my voice gentler.
"Why didn't you summon me?"
Her shoulders curl inward again, making her seem smaller than ever. "I was ashamed."
The admission lands like a physical blow. Ashamed. Of needing help. Of being hurt. Of trusting me with gifts that others could destroy.
Heat builds behind my ribs where the celestial chains bind my essence. The markings along my shoulders begin to glow white-hot as fury threatens to consume rational thought entirely.
Vaelra and Mariselle. Both of them. Right now.
I turn toward the wall, ready to step through shadow and paint their modest home red with justice. They hurt her. They made her feel shame for accepting what I freely gave. They destroyed something I created with my own hands, something that took centuries to perfect.
They will burn for this. Slowly.
"Azrathiel, wait."
Her voice stops me mid-stride. I hear her scramble to her feet behind me, bare feet hitting the cold floor.
Her fingers close around my wrist like a shackle stronger than any celestial binding. The touch burns through me, but not with fire—with something infinitely more dangerous.
"Not yet."
"And why not?" The words emerge as a snarl, infernal power crackling in the air around us. "Why should I not end them right here and now? They put their hands on you. They hurt you. They destroyed what was mine to give."
The room grows colder with each word, frost spreading across the windows in intricate patterns that mirror my rage. Her breath mists in the sudden chill, but she doesn't release my wrist.
"Because," she whispers, and the single word carries more weight than any contract I've ever signed. "I'm asking you not to."
The fight drains out of me like water through cracked stone.
Asking. Not commanding. Not invoking the contract that binds me to her will. Simply asking, as if my choice matters. As if she trusts me to make the right decision without magical compulsion.
No one has ever asked me for anything. Orders, demands, bargains struck in desperation—those I understand. But this quiet request, spoken without expectation of obedience...
I sink to my knees before her, the motion as involuntary as breathing.