Dragging the unconscious redhead back to the mansion, Lilith deposited him on the sofa, resting the fallen hammer beside his limp form.


    With nimble fingers, she plucked a wayward clump of grass off dishevelled magenta strands, casting it aside like an old memory. Climbing the stairs, she rushed past the tomes, overlooking the paintings adorning the hallway, making her way towards her office.


    Slamming the door shut behind her, the heavy thud reverberated throughout the near-vacant stronghold, as if sealing her determination within the confines of her safe space.


    “Dammit,” she muttered, her voice a tremor laced with vulnerability.


    Moisture pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Her cheeks were awash with a fiery flush. She balled her hand into a seething fist, unleashing a vengeful strike against the unforgiving wall. A nagging gush of warmth shot up her arm, but she paid it no heed.


    “No,” she insisted, her voice spiked with unyielding conviction. “This is where it ends, I can’t falter now, not when I have come so far.”


    On the Silhouette’s order, she had been assigned to take out Mol’okh and wipe out his base. During the mission, she had found Azrael lying next to her dead target, which turned the gears of an idea, one she was willing to wager her life on.


    The redhead’s journey from whence she’d first met him, followed by his training, and all the months spent in between, was her patiently awaiting the moment he would unveil the power he had vanquished Mol’okh with. When he had shown no promise of revealing his true strength, doubt began to consume her, one that grew to despair till the time he had embarked on his first mission involving the Yang.


    Luckily, she had managed to extract the circumstances which catalysed his evolution from a survivor of the Yang slaughter, revealing a pattern wherein each brush with death propelled him towards manifesting the beacon of her hopes.


    That was all she could surmise presently, and yet there seemed to be a missing component. Or was it a matter of timing? She had no plausible answer.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    For the moment, all she could do was kill her emotions, steel her resolve and break Azrael till he evolved. She had no other alternative. Not when he had caught the Silhouette’s fancy.


    The wheels were set in motion. The ploy was in play.


    Even then, she refused to accept a future where Azrael would become a mere sacrificial pawn, a means to escape the shackles that had bound her.


    But what choice do I have?


    What the hell was that woman on about? Value a grey existence? Return to those days of nothingness? Screw that! After everything I had endured, you want me to ease myself back into that appalling way of life!?


    Azrael curled up in the sofa, hugging his knees, gripping his head in his hands. The wounds he’d been endowed had healed up, and yet the scars ran deep, long after flesh and skin were whole.


    “If Briar had survived that night, he might’ve used whatever’s buried in me a lot better.” He rested his hand over his chest, shaking with contempt. “Why did it end up this way? I-I-I…”


    Is that the extent of your conviction? spoke an ancient rumble, a voice long forgotten. You desired power to stand on equal footing with demons, and yet all you see is despair, despite the potential you hold.


    “Shut it!” seethed Azrael, clambering to his feet. “What do you know of the hell I have been wrung through!?”


    Nothing like front row seats to watch it all first-hand.


    “Wha–” He faltered in his outburst, scratching his head. Spinning around, he took note of his surroundings, realising he was alone. A faint realisation filled the gaps of his ignorance. “Don’t tell me, Requiem?”


    Miss me? I need more time to awaken fully, so listen well. You haven’t made full use of my abilities. Think back to when you had first used my power. There’s your hint.


    “Could you be more specific?” asked Azrael.


    A volley of bullets answered his plea, interrupting his heated morning. A dozen assassins materialised from the shadows, closing in on him.


    “Great, more of these bozos.”


    *


    Standing atop a pile of eviscerated cannon fodder assassins, the redhead panted agitatedly, his blood boiling over. “Is that all you chumps got?”


    Heaving a sigh, he steadied his breath. His sore buttocks were eased back into the couch he had slept at. He winced, his heart racing at a thousand leagues an hour, agitating his brief respite before the next training bout.


    “What do I do to improve?” Miffed, Azrael rolled over the fallen corpses, prodding a foot at a rib that stuck out one of the assassins like a flagpole. Lulling his head, back and forth, his gaze lingered on a sheathed katana beside a torso-less assassin. “Come to think of it, when did I first use this power? At the mansion? No, wait.” He sat up, cradling his chin atop steepled fingers. “My limbs were cut off by that bastard Mol’okh. They had regenerated when I–”


    Eyes widening, he sprang to his feet, an evident smugness curving the corners of his lips.


    “That could work.”