Azael's war wasn't over. But tonight, for the first time, I'd truly fought back.
Tonight, I'd chosen myself.
Azael stood silently in the shadows of her chambers, golden eyes narrowed dangerously, frustration boiling beneath a carefully maintained facade of calm. The torches cast flickering violet light over the stone walls, shadows twisting and writhing as if echoing her internal fury.
She had never tolerated defiance not from enemies, and certainly not from those she'd raised to stand by her side. Yet Liria, her most promising protégé, had repeatedly tested her patience, straining the boundaries of her mercy far beyond breaking.
Tonight had been the final straw.
Azael paced slowly, footsteps echoing softly against cold stone, her crimson robes whispering gently behind her. Her mind replayed the confrontation again and again—Liria's resistance, her stubborn refusal, her defiant eyes burning with something Azael could neither control nor extinguish.
