Chapter 2 – Whispers of the Alley
The second-period lecture dragged on with the weight of eternity. Chalk scraped against the blackboard in shrill strokes as Miss Rao wrote down yet another equation. The ceiling fans above spun sluggishly, stirring the hot afternoon air into a languid haze.
Azael sat at his desk, his cheek resting on his palm, eyes half-lidded. To anyone else, he looked like he was simply bored out of his mind. But his mind wasn't on the math problem scrawled across the board. It wasn't even in the classroom.
It was back in the dream.
The scorched battlefield, the screams that weren't human, the throne of bone and fire. He could almost smell the ash still clinging to him, taste the metallic tang of despair in his mouth. His fingers curled on the desk unconsciously.
Why me? Why do I keep seeing this?
"Azael."
The voice snapped like a whip. His head jerked up, eyes wide.
Miss Isha stood at the front of the classroom, her sharp gaze fixed squarely on him. "What," she said crisply, "was I just explaining?"
The room went silent. Every eye in the class turned to him, some wide with amusement, others already suppressing grins.
"I…" He faltered, his mind scrambling. The board swam in front of him, the numbers blurred nonsense. "…the… uh…"
A cough of laughter broke out from the back.
Miss Rao's expression tightened. "Since you clearly don't find my lesson worth your attention, you can make yourself useful after school. You'll stay behind and clean this classroom."
A few students snickered openly this time.
Ravi, the tallest boy in the class with a cocky grin that never seemed to leave his face, leaned over his desk. "Tough luck, dreamer," he whispered just loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "Try dreaming about mops and brooms, maybe you'll pass next time."
Meera, who sat beside him, covered her mouth but failed to hide her giggle. Even Karan, the quietest of their group, shook his head with a smirk.
Heat flushed into Azael's cheeks. He clenched his jaw, staring down at the desk. It wasn't worth arguing. It never was.
---
The rest of the day passed in the same rhythm of lectures, laughter, and long stares at the clock. When the final bell rang at four, the classroom burst alive with movement as students packed up and streamed toward the door.
"Azael, don't forget," Miss Isha called as she gathered her books. "You're responsible for the entire room. Not a speck of dust should remain when I come back tomorrow."
"Yes, ma'am," Azael muttered.
His classmates filed out, tossing glances back at him. Ravi gave him a mocking salute. "Don't scrub too hard, dreamer. You might rub holes through the floor."
The laughter that followed faded down the hallway, leaving the room unnaturally quiet.
Azael stood in the center of the empty classroom, broom in hand, staring at the chalk-dusted blackboard. The setting sun filtered in through the tall windows, painting long streaks of amber across the floor. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light, turning every movement of his broom into a little storm.
At first, he worked mechanically. Sweep, gather, dump. Sweep, gather, dump. But as the silence deepened, his thoughts crept back to the dream again.
That throne. Those legions. The words— Kneel. All shall kneel beneath me.
His grip tightened on the broomstick. Even now, just remembering them sent a chill racing down his spine. He could almost hear the echo of that whisper curling inside his skull.
Why him? Why that mark?
The minutes stretched. Shadows lengthened. One by one, the orange beams of light retreated as the sun sank, until the classroom was drenched in twilight. Only the faint hum of crickets outside broke the silence.
By the time he placed the broom back against the wall, his shoulders ached. He glanced at the clock—5:45 p.m.
"Finally." He exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.
---
The school corridors were deserted by then. His footsteps echoed loudly against the walls as he made his way to the gate. Outside, the city had shifted into its evening rhythm. Vendors packed up their stalls, the smell of fried pakoras and roasted corn still clinging to the air. Families strolled home, their voices a low hum of comfort. Bicycle bells chimed as children raced down the streets.
Azael adjusted his worn satchel on his shoulder and walked quietly, his thoughts still tangled.
Sister Miriam would scold me if she knew I was daydreaming again. Father Donovan would probably say I should pray more, that God speaks in mysterious ways. But these dreams… they don't feel like God's work. They feel like something else. Something darker.
He turned into one of the narrow alleys that cut toward the orphanage. The air there was cooler, shadows stretching long between the tall buildings. The lively sounds of the main road dimmed into a muffled hush.
Azael's steps slowed. The dream's fragments replayed behind his eyes, sharper now. The crimson sky, the screams, the mark searing into his palm. He rubbed his hand absentmindedly, as though afraid the phantom eye would reappear.
And then—
A scream.
High-pitched. Raw. A woman's voice, tearing through the evening quiet.
Azael froze. The sound had come from deeper within the alley, from the stretch where the light barely reached.
Another scream, choked this time, followed by a muffled crash.
His heart lurched. Every instinct screamed at him to run back toward the crowded street, to find an adult, to pretend he hadn't heard a thing.
But his feet didn't move.
The orphanage's bell, Sister Miriam's gentle words, Donovan's sermons—all of it flickered through his mind. Believe in yourself, Azzy. Always.
His breath trembled. Slowly, step by step, he began moving toward the darkness.
The alley seemed to grow narrower, the air thicker with every pace. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything except the memory of that whisper.
Kneel.
No. He clenched his fists, forcing the fear back down. Whatever waited at the end of this alley, whatever had made that scream—it was real. And running from it wouldn't make it vanish.
He took another step. And another.
Until the evening swallowed him whole.
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