SONDER : Prologue

0.3 : ALPHA - AZRAEL, Leader of Fallen Souls

** Dear Readers, your first choice in Azrael's story appears at the bottom of this chapter. You will see it in bold. Choose wisely, some choices are small, but others have the butterfly effect and will change the course of the story for other characters across the Sonder books as well...
Once your choice is made, comment your selection. The choice with the most votes will dictate the next chapter - other choices will ALSO be written for minor choices, with enough votes, so you will be able to follow your path with the numbering of the chapter. The Prologue here is numbered 0.# (this section is 0.3), Part One will be 1.# etc. Your choice's path will be 0.#.A. For example, after this section, 0.3, if you choose path B, you will proceed to 0.3.B to see your choice on the page. Once the next part is ready to begin, for example, once we leave the Prologue and move to Part One, the major choices will be locked and change the plot going forward, and minor choices will affect the relationships between Azrael and everyone around him... **

The sunlight tickled lazy fingers through his hair. A soft lover, the sun, one who came every morning. Morning was something to count on, a loyalty so fierce it burned.

Azrael wasn't sure how he made it to a soft, warm bed as he cracked open his eyes. One eye was ginger, difficult to open fully, almost swollen shut. He tried to push himself up, but his arm didn't respond. Out of one ear, he could hear the chirping of birds outside.

He had to turn to one side to use his good arm to get up, his head pounding like he was hung over: that sure was a feeling from a lifetime before. He groaned, getting to his feet and almost keeling right back down.

He had lost a lot of blood, but when he turned to look at his shoulder he could only see bright, white bandages. There was a pink bloom seeping from his traps'. Clearly, he was still bleeding, but not enough yet to soak through. His eye caught the, 'soft,' bed— the mattress was dry straw, the pillow— if it could be called a pillow— flat. He chuckled to himself: it was quite funny, of course, that a bed at all, even one of straw, had him sleeping like a King! He was an easy man to please.

Azrael shuffled to the adjoining powder room, lacking his usual grace. He peered at himself in the mirror there. His face was pretty bad. His ear was caked in blood and his shoulder... He tore the bandages off to look.

A gaping hole greeted his gaze. No wonder he couldn't move it— with what muscle was he supposed to? Linens were stuffed into the hole and his stomach coiled with disgust. But he had to. He had to see it. Would he ever hold a sword again? He ripped out linen after linen, like plucking bloodied rose petals off a flower, as his heart thudded out, will he, or won't he hold a sword.

His brow furrowed. The wound was ugly— the beast had indeed taken its 'pound of flesh' as payment for his rashness. Purple and white edges, like a carnation fed ink, as some flesh bruised and other bits... Died. The base of the wound was what caught his eye. It was black, where it should have been the reddest.

Hurriedly he tore off more of the bandaging in horror, revealing his chest and bicep. The black snaked through his veins, the infested branches bulging out of his skin like overgrown roots. "No..." He scratched at himself, pulling his skin to see where they went, how deep. Their inky fingers coiled all the way down his arm, but the other branches...

His knees buckled, but he caught himself. They were stretching, reaching, trying to burrow their way to his heart...

With a start Azrael knew what the beast was, the one that had come from no where to tear out his shoulder.

Now he did drop to his knees, gaze vacant. It was a death sentence. The black march would press on, hunting, until he was gone. There was no stopping it. The door creaked open, but it didn't seem to matter anymore. If someone wanted his head, at this point, take it. With how deep and gaping the wound was, he didn't have long.