The bell of St. Augustine Orphanage tolled softly against the dusk.
Children spilled out of the yard, their laughter ringing like silver against the cooling wind, but Azael stayed behind, stacking the last of the battered wooden chairs in the chapel hall.
"Always the helpful one." Sister Miriam, her hair a fading halo of silver, smiled at him.
Azael shrugged, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "If I don't do it, Father Donovan will scold again tomorrow."
"You say that every day." She chuckled, patting his shoulder.
He smiled back to her .
The last of the twilight slipped behind the mountains as Azael finished his chores. The chapel smelled faintly of old incense and wood polish, the sort of scent that clung to your memory long after you left.
He walked through the quiet halls toward the dormitory, the echoes of the other children's chatter fading into sleep. His bunk by the far window waited for him.
That night, as the candles guttered out one by one, Azael lay staring at the cracked ceiling.
why… why do I feel like something is calling me far away from here?
Sleep came slowly. And with it—darkness.
At first, he thought it was a dream like any other. But the silence was too heavy, the air too thick with the scent of ash.
The ground beneath him was scorched black, broken weapons half-buried in the soil. The sky—no, it wasn't a sky. It was bleeding. A crimson haze stretched overhead, torn open by rifts of shadow.
Screams echoed. Not human screams. Deeper. Hollow. Endless.
Azael turned. His breath hitched.
A throne of jagged bone towered above the battlefield, crowned with fire that refused to die. Upon it sat a silhouette with horns like crescent moons, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.
Chains clinked in the distance. Whole races were shackled together—humans with long ears with shattered gazes, small people forced to their knees, beast like people muzzled like animals. Even humans were dragged in droves, skin gray under the weight of despair.
The shadow raised its hand, and the ground trembled. Legions marched forth, banners dripping black ichor, their footsteps shaking the earth.
And then… the whisper.
"Kneel. All shall kneel beneath me.
The words tore through him, not in sound but in soul. His vision blurred with fire, the world collapsing inward.
A burning mark seared across his palm—an eye of flame, staring back at him.
Azael screamed—
—and jolted awake, gasping for air. The dormitory was quiet, moonlight spilling in through the cracked window. Sweat clung to his back.
He looked at his hand.
Nothing.
Only trembling fingers.
Azael stared at his palm for a long while, half-expecting the phantom mark to blaze back to life.
But there was nothing. Only his trembling fingers, pale in the moonlight.
He sank back onto the thin mattress, chest rising and falling too fast, as if he had truly screamed in the middle of the night. For a long moment, the orphanage was silent. Only the soft snores of children and the whistle of wind through the cracked window reminded him that the world around him was real.
That dream again… haunting me like it wants me to remember something.
When he finally drifted back into a restless doze, the bell of morning was already tolling.
He jolted upright, eyes darting to the wall clock.
"Six-thirty—!"
Panic jolted through him. "I overslept again!"
He scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping on the blanket, tugging his worn shoes on with clumsy fingers.
As he rushed into the hallway, a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Azzy!" Father Donovan's baritone carried through the corridor like rolling thunder. The priest stood at the chapel doorway, arms crossed, expression equal parts stern and tired. "Late again, I see."
Azael rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Father. I didn't hear the bell."
"Hmph." Donovan's frown softened just enough to betray the ghost of a smile. "Come on, then. Morning mass waits for no one. After that, you'll need to run if you plan on making it to school."
"Yes, Father."
---
The chapel glowed faintly with candlelight as voices rose in hymn. Azael sang along quietly, though his mind wandered back to the dream. The crimson sky, the throne of bones, the whisper that had clawed into his very soul. Even surrounded by prayer, the memory clung to him like smoke.
When the service ended, the children gathered for breakfast in the dining hall. The long wooden tables were crowded with chatter and clattering spoons.
Azael sat down, half-focused on the bread and porridge before him.
"Eat slowly, Azzy," Sister Miriam chided gently from across the table, her silver hair tied back in a neat bun. "You'll choke at this rate."
"I'm late for school already, Sister," Azael said through a mouthful, flashing her a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He gulped down the last of his porridge, stood, and slung his satchel over his shoulder. "Bye, everyone!"
"Azzy—" Miriam began, but he was already darting toward the door. She shook her head with a fond sigh, though her gaze lingered longer than usual.
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