(Azrayel's POV)
The road stretched black beneath the night sky.
Azrayel's horse thundered forward, hooves striking sparks from stone. His cloak was heavy with dust, his thoughts heavier still.
His father's command echoed in his mind, to seek the witch who once said Metheea was a different fire. Yet no trace of her had been found. Each mile gnawed at him with failure.
By the time the castle towers loomed against the stars, rage and exhaustion coiled together in his chest. He had not found answers. His father lay dying. And Metheea… he did not know the answer.
At the gates Polo awaited, lantern in hand. His eyes were hollow with sleeplessness, dark circles bruising his skin.
"My royal highness," Polo said, bowing. "You have returned at last."
Azrayel swung down from the saddle and thrust the reins to a groom. "How is he?"
Polo's mouth tightened. "His Majesty weakens by the day. It seems he clings to life only until you awaken."
