Azrael

Sixteen

When she regained consciousness, Adira lay on a sofa in a dark, candle-lit chamber. The colour of the sofa was not exactly to her taste: a kind of pink that made her feel somewhat queasy, especially when her head already felt as if her brain had imploded. Shadows lingered at the edges of her vision, fluttering out of sight just before she could focus on them.

At that moment, a door set into the wall that had not been visible to her before slid open. A figure entered, and the door closed silently behind the figure - again, apparently by itself - and promptly disappeared again.

There followed a deathly silence, during which she had the distinct impression he was studying her intently, although he gave no visible sign of this. He just stood before her, motionless, his face completely shrouded in the darkness of his hood, hands clasped before him. Adira had been sitting in silence for what seemed like hours, but was in fact, no more than a handful of minutes, before she realised the great disrespect she was showing by remaining seated in his presence. When she made to rise, however, mumbling something incoherent by way of apology or excuse for her behaviour, a slight hand movement from him caused her to sit again and keep her mouth shut.

Suddenly, he spoke to her, which was almost more nerve-wracking than the silence. "Welcome, Adira," he said. The use of her name made her choke, but she stifled it instantly as he continued. "I am Michael," he continued, "Archseraph of the Eastern Fort, and I have something very important to discuss with you."

Michael sat opposite her, hands clasped before him once more. "What I am about to tell you, you will recount to no one outside this Fort."

"Of course, Sir," Adira replied, having found her voice again.

"You must have been made aware of the..." Michael hesitated "...problems which the seraphim forts are facing, with the sudden invasion of..." he hesitated again "...Revenants."

Adira shook her head. "I have no idea what Revenants are."

Micheal looked surprised by that. "Did Azrael not tell you about them?"

"No."

"It's a long story, perhaps you'll have to ask Venus to tell it in its entirety. To put it simply, they are seraphs whose minds and bodies have been overtaken by a curse that has plagued our kind to near extinction. Infection results in hyperactivity, hallucinations, lack of coordination, photophobia and aggression. They attack anything that moves, and any bites or scratches will spread the infection."

"Oh."

"Death occurs after a few days due to cardio-respiratory arrest. All efforts to find a cure, magical or otherwise, have been futile."

"However, if circumstances were normal, you would not be here now." Then, seeing Adira flush, he said, "Let us dispense with formalities." With that, he pulled his hood from his head, so that his full features could be seen. The golden hair, the sharp, angular bone structure: he looked almost similar to Vera, and his face gave off the same radiance. But there was something else; something distinctly different that she could feel about him. The phantoms that lurked in her peripheral vision seemed to agree, hissing in discontent and slithering to the darkest edges of the room.

"Not all seraphim can manipulate magic," he explained. "Some have little to no affinity for it, some are rather average, some have very specific capabilities, and others are elite at using it."

Adira wondered where Azrael fell, possibly in the elite from what she had seen.

"But we don't create magic," Michael said. "We channel it from elsewhere, some of us manipulate light magic from the flow of life, and others shadow magic from the circle of death, like your friend Azrael."