~ Dual POV: Lyra → Azrael ~
LYRA
I've always known my life wasn't meant to be grand.
Some girls dreamt of carriages, castles, and kisses that melted bones. I dreamt of silence. Of one whole day without bruises blooming down my arms or a cruel hand tugging my hair because I'd spilled the tea too warm or too cold.
"Move faster, girl."
The sharp voice of Mistress Elna sliced through the narrow hall. I ducked my head and obeyed, gripping the wooden tray tight, careful not to let the chipped teacups clatter.
I wasn't her daughter. Not truly. Just a child left on her doorstep eighteen years ago with nothing but a locket and a name: Lyra.
A mistake.
That's what she always called me.
And now, at eighteen, I worked in her crooked teahouse by the edge of the Ashen District. Serving shadows and sleepless drunks. Her coins came from debts and darker things. And I—well, I kept my head down and tried not to draw attention to the burning mark on my back.
It had appeared three weeks ago. On the night of my birthday.
A dragon. Twisting. Writhing. Its wings spread wide across my shoulder blades. No one had seen it—gods help me if they had. I'd nearly torn my skin off trying to scrub it away in the cold washroom behind the shop.
I didn't understand it.
But I dreamed.
Of fire. Of battlefields. Of falling through golden skies with blood in my mouth and a crown slipping from my head.
I dreamed of dying.
And every time I woke, the mark burned hotter.
That evening, I watched from the attic window as the world turned gold. The city below breathed smoke and soot. Lanterns lit. Cries echoed.
And I knew something was coming.
I just didn't know that tonight… everything would end.
AZRAEL
Her blood tasted weak.
Sweet, but unmemorable.
I stared down at the woman tangled in my silk sheets, her limbs limp, her breath shallow from pleasure and magic. Her eyes fluttered, half-conscious, lips parted in a moan that echoed off the stone walls.
I didn't even remember her name.
She'd begged for me, wrapped herself around my leg like a viper. Mortal noble, maybe. Or half-fae. Pretty enough to draw my eye. Weak enough to forget the moment I spilled.
I rose from the bed, dragging fingers through my black hair, skin slick with sweat and shadows. My palace loomed around me—gargoyles perched on pillars, flames flickering without a source. It was a kingdom built on sin. Just the way I liked it.
"Get her out," I muttered to the guards outside.
Two shadows peeled from the wall, bowing low.
The woman whimpered. "M-My Lord—please—"
I didn't answer.
I didn't do softness. Not anymore.
Centuries of war had carved me hollow. Lust was survival. Touch was power. And women… were temporary.
But lately, something stirred beneath my skin. Some heat that had nothing to do with lust. Some pull that made my demons uneasy.
The mark on my chest—it burned faintly again. A sliver of ancient magic I'd thought long lost. One I hadn't felt since…
A memory snapped.
Flames.
A red-haired woman on her knees before me, blood dripping from her lips, crown shattered.
"Azrael," she'd whispered as the world crumbled.
That name hadn't left my dreams in centuries.
And now the mark glowed again.
She was near.
She'd returned.
Back in the Ashen District, Lyra wiped the last table down, her fingers trembling. Mistress Elna stood by the door with a strange man cloaked in silver.
"This one," Elna said. "Fresh. Obedient. Marked."
The man nodded. Dropped a bag of coins.
Lyra turned, confused.
"Elna?"
But she was already walking away.
The man grabbed her.
And as the cloth went over her mouth, the last thing she heard was:
"The Demon Lord will be pleased."