The sun crested over the hills, turning the sky a fiery gold. An owl hooted in the distance as Azrael breathed in the crisp air—a new day, a new beginning. He appreciated every sunrise—its beauty and purity—something he and his mother had in common. They would sit in the early morning, watching the sky lighten, and she would wrap her arm around him, saying, Here it comes; the light chasing away the darkness. What would she think about her son becoming darkness in his quest for justice? Or was it revenge? He had walked a fine line between the two until the night he killed his father. The night he surrendered to the darkness.
He’d never known why Barnet betrayed them. Had his father watched the Fire Spectral murder his wife or seen the others drag his daughter behind their burning cottage? Had he listened as her screams were silenced? Was there any remorse? Azrael wished he’d asked his father those questions before killing him, but the desire for revenge had prevailed over rational thought. That night, Azrael had forfeited his soul, and now only shadows remained.
“You look lousy. Couldn’t sleep?” Bronn said, stretching his muscular arms, yawning loudly.
Azrael tensed, distracted by another time and place. Over the past week, his mind kept replaying the Dunstead raid—the Spectrals’ turbulent emotions, the young man’s head rolling along the cobblestones, the girl with flowers trembling in her hand who reminded him of his sister, Jaida. The serum created havoc within him, taking him places he didn’t want to go, mentally or emotionally. For someone who lived and breathed combat, who felt anxious without it, the war raging inside him left him exhausted. He still wasn’t sure how to suppress the unwanted feelings. He’d thought about wearing one of Drexus’s collars, but now that he’d experienced the power, he didn’t want to let it go. He’d already grown accustomed to the strength and speed that pulsed through his body.
Azrael shook his head. He’d had enough; he needed to focus on the mission.
“Is everyone ready?” Azrael asked, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
Bronn nodded and pointed at the village below. “My sources say the steward is in that cottage with a dozen guards. Shouldn’t be a problem for the Angel of Death.”
Azrael ignored his lieutenant’s sarcastic tone, admiring the sunrise one more time before turning to retrieve his weapons. Distria adjusted her crossbow, her face expressionless, while Sabine strapped on her armor, looking everywhere but at him. She had been quiet the entire trip, not her usual flirtatious self. Azrael shrugged. He’d rather battle twenty soldiers than try to figure out a woman’s changing moods.
“Our assignment is simple,” he said. “Bronn and I will ride in first. Distria and Sabine, you take out anyone who tries to escape. Once we’ve disposed of the steward and his guards, Bronn will set the place on fire. No masks—it’s imperative this looks like a Fire Spectral killed the steward.”
Azrael was about to pull himself onto his horse when Sabine spoke. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Bronn’s head shot up. She continued, “Have we thought through the repercussions?” Her eyes darted between Bronn and Azrael.
Azrael frowned. Sabine wasn’t one to show trepidation before a job. He glanced at Bronn, whose jaw twitched, the morning light making his blond hair appear white.
“It’s not your place to question orders, Sabine,” Distria said, her eyes cold.
Sabine’s face paled, and she looked away from Distria, focusing on her weapons belt.
“Drexus has a plan, one that will better Pandaren.” Azrael squeezed Sabine’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine, just no witnesses.”
Azrael mounted his horse, noticing Bronn shrug while Distria shook her head. He rode down the hill thinking about Sabine. What repercussions was she so worried about?
Halfway through the clearing, a searing pain tore into Azrael’s back. He twisted, his eyes darting from the vibrating shaft of an arrow to the top of the hill. His stomach dropped. Bronn and Sabine watched from their horses while Distria knocked another arrow in her crossbow.
He immediately felt the effects of the Brymagus plant, remembering the day in Nigel’s forge with the arrowheads and sweet-smelling liquid on the worktable. He tried to reach the arrow lodged into his back, but Distria’s aim was perfect.
Angry shouts invaded the quiet morning.
Azrael tore his gaze from the three Hunters, focusing on the villagers barreling toward him. The blade of betrayal cut deep as a second arrow whizzed through the air, lodging into Azrael’s thigh. He tried to yank it out when another bolt struck his shoulder, the force knocking him from his horse.
Azrael rolled out of the fall, crying out as the shaft in his back snapped in half. Blood oozed from his shoulder and leg. He reached with his uninjured arm and retrieved his sword, steel flashing in the morning light. Drawing upon thirteen years of training, he crouched into his fighting stance and faced the oncoming mob.
The Angel of Death welcomed the rage and conceded to the darkness, cutting down every villager in his path. Blood splattered his face and gore dripped from his sword.
Azrael grunted mid-strike as a blade sliced his leg, causing him to lose his footing. He turned and stabbed the man in the chest. Out of the corner of his eye, metal flashed. Azrael yelled; a sword pierced through his armor into his side, and he fell to his knees, panting, blood soaking the ground. A roar of victory sounded as Azrael blocked an array of kicks and punches.
Familiar boots walked toward him, parting the crowd.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Azrael tried to lunge forward, but someone wrenched his arms behind him. A kick in the ribs had him gasping for air.
Bronn knelt and grabbed Azrael by the hair, yanking his head back. Azrael sucked in a breath, the muscles in his neck corded with fury, and glared into Bronn’s dark eyes.
“Why?” Blood dripped down Azrael’s face, into his mouth. If he could pull free, he’d rip out Bronn’s throat with his bare hands.
“Because you’re a failed experiment,” Bronn sneered. He twisted the arrow in Azrael’s shoulder. Azrael swore through clenched teeth. “With you out of the way, I’ll be second in command. As it should’ve been.”
Azrael’s upper lip curled, his muscles shaking. “You’re betraying me because you’re second best?”
Bronn’s smugness melted into rage. Stars exploded as his fist connected with Azrael’s jaw, whipping his head to the side.
Azrael glared, spitting blood onto Bronn’s shiny boots. Bronn punched him again. And again. Azrael’s head hit the ground, his eyes swelling and jaw pounding.
Bronn gripped Azrael by the throat, pulling him off the ground. “If it’s any consolation, Drexus regretted losing his precious Angel. Gave me strict orders not to kill you.” Azrael struggled to breathe as black spots floated in his vision. Bronn released his grip, leaving Azrael on his knees, gulping for air, and threw a bag of gold to someone in the crowd. “The Angel of Death is all yours,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away. In the distance, Distria lowered her crossbow, her face blank. Sabine’s mouth drew into a thin line, her eyes never leaving Azrael’s.
“I will kill you!” Azrael yelled, struggling against the hands holding him, the arrowheads digging deeper into his skin. “I will kill you all!”
The hilt of a sword crashed down onto his head.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water—at least, Azrael hoped it was water—dripped onto the stone floor, and a scream sounded in the distance. Azrael hung from the ceiling, his arms numb, metal cuffs digging into his wrists. A rodent skittered by, grazing his toes which barely skimmed the ground. He tried to inhale to clear his head and immediately winced, the smells of the dungeon assaulting him: sweat, rot, and death.
Guards arrived with moldy bread and foul-tasting water at varying times, so Azrael had lost track of the days. One thing remained constant, though: Every day, they hoisted him up and let him hang, sometimes for hours, before a guard used his tattered body for punching practice.
Pain is inescapable; suffering is a choice.
Azrael tried to repeat the mantra he had spoken so often at the Watch Guard to help him get through the grueling training and the beatings, but with the Hunters’ betrayal the words seemed meaningless. He now understood Sabine’s uneasiness. Have we thought through the repercussions? They had no idea the torment coming for them, the nightmare that would destroy them. Drexus should have ordered his death, for he would make Bronn, Sabine, and Distria pay for their treachery. And after Azrael killed the Hunters, he would deal with Drexus—if he didn’t die in this filthy prison.
Azrael’s head swam from the blood loss caused by the gashes in his thigh and side. Blood-soaked bandages covered the lacerations, but the broken arrowheads remained embedded in his body. Someone, and he guessed it was Drexus, told whomever held him captive that the arrows suppressed magic. They wanted him alive, but powerless.
Azrael swore. “You’re still the Angel of Death. Act like it.”
Boots thumped down the stone corridor. His last visit from the guard—a smelly man who delighted in punching his enormous fists into Azrael’s wounds—had left him unconscious for hours.
A short, heavyset man stopped in front of his cell, nodding at Smelly to open it. Two other guards flanked him. Four against one were usually good odds. Usually.
“It’s never a good sign when prisoners talk to themselves,” the man said in an oily voice as he entered the cell. “We can’t have you losing your mind yet.”
“Who the blazes are you?” Inwardly, Azrael grimaced at the weakness in his voice.
Smelly’s fist came out of nowhere, connecting with Azrael’s jaw. Blood dripped from his mouth.
“Manners, please,” the man said, staring up at Azrael with watery brown eyes. “My name is Phillip Gallet, warden of Bradwick Prison. My guards tell me you’re not talking, except for an array of swear words.” Phillip paced, his hands resting on his beefy backside. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, then you leave me no choice.”
Azrael spat a glob of blood onto the warden’s boots. Pain exploded in his side and blood gushed through the bandages, splattering on the floor. It took everything Azrael had not to cry out. Smelly wiped the blood off his knuckles, yellow teeth peeking through his crusted lips. Azrael glared at the guard, his vision swimming.
“How did you become a Spectral?” Phillip asked. “That’s the rumor—and based on the warning regarding those arrowheads, they must be true.”
“I’m not a Spectral.”
The warden inclined his head. “You have magic, therefore you’re a Spectral.”
Azrael scowled, wanting to smack the smug look off his face.
“Did something go wrong? Why would Drexus surrender his Angel of Death?” Phillip started pacing again, his boots thudding along the stone floor. He waved his hand lazily in the air. “You see, I like to dabble in this sort of thing, experimenting if you will. What if we could choose to have magic? Then we would all be equal. No more Spectrals against Naturals.” He stopped in front of Azrael, his sagging cheeks flushed. “So I will ask again. How did Drexus do it?”
Azrael lifted his chin and glowered at the man. Loyalty to the Watch Guard ran deeper than the tattoo inked on his arm. He wouldn’t tell the warden anything. Once he did, the warden would have no reason to keep him alive.
He just needed a little more time. Soon, a guard would make a mistake and Azrael would escape. He breathed deeply, readying his mind for the pain that would come.
“Very well. We’ll try again tomorrow.” The warden nodded to Smelly, who retrieved a whip from the other guard. Phillip paused at the opening of the cell. “You will tell me, Angel of Death. I promise you that.”
The sound of retreating boots faded as the whip sliced through the air.
A rock skittered down the stone path and flickering torches distorted the two approaching shadows. Whispers floated through the air as the shapes grew larger. Smelly had left Azrael hours ago, leaving him hanging from the ceiling, blood and grime covering him. Besides the agony of the serum transfusion, Azrael couldn’t remember ever being in this much pain.
“Just a bit further,” a male voice said.
“I know the layout just as well as you,” another voice replied, this one female.
“Oh, shut it.”
“You shut it.”
“How about you both shut it?” Azrael said, his voice gruff. He flexed his hands, trying to get his blood to flow against gravity.
“Well, there’s gratitude for you,” the man said, placing a torch in the sconce on the wall, his features hidden in the shadows. He was easily six-four and had bulging muscles. He wore a black tunic with a leather baldric laden with throwing knives strapped across his broad chest.
A woman nudged the man out of the way. “We don’t have much time.”
“Watch it,” the man said, gripping the hilt of his sword.
She knelt before the cell door, pulling two metal sticks from her black hair and sliding them into the lock. She looked a few inches shorter than Azrael, wearing a dented and scratched metal chest piece, her sword hanging on her hip. Azrael frowned, contemplating the metal gauntlets covering parts of her hands and wrists.
“Azrael, we’re here to rescue you from this nasty hole. So please don’t give us a hard time. I don’t want to knock you out,” the man said.
Azrael grunted, but based on his injuries and the man’s size, he was at a considerable disadvantage. “Who are you?” His voice sounded like he had swallowed knives.
“Both of you be quiet,” the woman said as she unlocked the cell, gripping her metal sticks. If Azrael could get those, a strike to the jugular would quickly and silently do the trick. The large man entered the cell, his features coming into view. Green eyes scanned Azrael’s body, his lips a thin line above a chiseled jaw. Short black hair stood in all directions as if he had just battled a windstorm. His kind face contradicted his menacing form.
“Heal him now, or wait till we get out?” the man asked.
“Let’s wait. If we’re lucky, he’ll die on the way to Paxton,” the woman said, crossing her arms and sighing as the man frowned.
“We’ve been over this a hundred times, so knock it off.” The man looked pointedly at Azrael. “You won’t be any trouble now, will you?”
“Define trouble. And I’ll ask again, who are you?” Azrael swiveled his head to watch the woman working on his cuffs. His stomach tightened, unable to stop staring at her green eyes, similar in color to the man’s. She had a thin nose and a full mouth, which had him licking his lips. She was beautiful, in an angry sort of way.
The woman maneuvered her metal sticks into the lock. Her eyes flitted to his, narrowing when she found him staring. “Let’s knock him out so I don’t have to listen to him.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t feel like carrying him up all those stairs. Do you? He’s lost a lot of blood, still has open wounds and . . .” He strolled behind Azrael. “Huh” was all he said.
Azrael’s right arm fell heavily to his side as his feet fully touched the ground. He pivoted to keep the man in view and thought about neutralizing him—a quick strike to the nose and throat—but when his other arm fell free, it took everything he had not to collapse to his knees.
The woman quickly stepped back, twisting her wrists. A blue light pulsed through the gauntlets and her eyes remained narrowed as she watched Azrael shake out his hands. He flinched when the man grabbed his arm and threw it over his shoulder, lugging him out of the cell.
Azrael focused on each step as they climbed, his muscles quivering. He wished the man had knocked him out. They passed a few guards, alive but unconscious, and his fingers itched for his dagger.
“Easy there,” the man said, looking at Azrael’s twitching fingers.
“Why didn’t you just kill them?”
“Because we aren’t like you,” the woman said. “Now please, shut up.”
After what seemed like hours, the heavy door to the dungeon opened and brisk night air washed over Azrael’s face. The stars shone brightly against a moonless sky. He breathed in the sweet smell of pine, cleansing the putrid scent of the dungeon from his nose.
“Where are we going?” Azrael stumbled, his vision blurring.
“Can you ride?” the man asked, leading Azrael to the edge of the forest.
“Of course.” He wanted to roll his eyes, but even that tiny movement hurt.
Three horses waited in the shadows, pawing the ground. The man lifted Azrael as if he weighed nothing, which was impressive considering Azrael’s size. If Azrael had to fight him, he’d have to rely on his magic, which was still, regretfully, absent. His mind instinctually formed combative scenarios, replaying each of his rescuers’ movements, cataloging their weaknesses to use when the time came to escape.
Ropes wrapped around Azrael’s body, securing him to the horse with his hands bound in front of him. The woman, already on her horse, trotted over and double-checked the ropes.
“Just in case I try to escape?”
“Just in case you fall off,” she said, smirking. She looked over her shoulder as bells rang in the distance.
“You should’ve killed them.”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s go.” She kicked her horse forward, the blue glow of her gauntlets a reassuring beacon as they rode through the trees.
“Don’t mind her,” the man said. “She gets a little testy when she’s skipped a meal. I’m Kord Haring, by the way. And that’s my younger sister, Kenz.”
Azrael gripped the reins, his knuckles white, every movement excruciating as the horses raced through the woods, the darkness of the forest swallowing shouts from the prison.