Chapter 95 Azriel

Chapter 95 Azriel
  Amara POV
  The witch’s blood does not wash away easily. Three days later, I still feel it beneath my fingernails.. though I’ve scrubbed and scrubbed.
  The memory clings to me in quiet moments, surfacing without warning like something rising from deep black water. A flash of silver hair. The feel of flesh tearing between my teeth. The heat of ancient blood flooding down my throat while magic screamed through the chamber hard enough to shake stone.
  I killed her.
  The thought should bring relief.
  Instead, it sits inside my chest like a splinter buried too deep to remove.
  Because something about that moment felt wrong.
  Not morally wrong.
  Necessary things are rarely gentle.
  This felt different than guilt, though. 
  Like something changed the instant she died.
  The castle feels different now.
  Colder in places it should not be cold. Hallways I have walked a hundred times seem longer than I remember, shadows stretching strangely along walls when no torchlight should reach them. Twice now I have caught whispers drifting through empty corridors only to find nothing waiting when I turn toward the sound.
  Nobody else seems to notice.
  Or perhaps they pretend not to.
  Sebastian watches me too carefully these days.
  He hides it well from others, but I feel the weight of his attention constantly, lingering against my skin like warmth from a nearby fire. Every time I go quiet too long, his eyes sharpen. Every time I flinch at something no one else hears, tension settles visibly into his shoulders.
  He thinks I am afraid.
  The truth feels worse.
  I think something followed me back from that summoning circle.
  Steel crashes against steel hard enough to jar my entire arm.
  I twist quickly, catching Sebastian’s next strike before his blade can glance against my ribs. The impact shudders through my shoulders, forcing my boots to slide slightly across the packed dirt beneath us while warriors nearby wisely clear more space from the training circle.
  Sebastian fights differently than everyone else.
  Most warriors attack with force first.
  Sebastian watches.
  Measures.
  Every movement feels deliberate, calculated with terrifying precision before it ever happens. Even sparring carries the quiet pressure of standing too close to a storm pretending to sleep.
  His golden eyes stay locked on mine as our blades grind together.
  “You’re distracted,” he says.
  I shove harder against his sword, forcing enough distance between us to breathe.
  “You say that every five minutes.”
  “Because it keeps being true.”
  Irritation flashes through me sharp enough to cut.
  I lunge before he can say anything else.
  Steel rings violently through the morning air as we exchange strikes in fast succession, boots kicking dirt across the training yard while cold wind snakes through the castle walls overhead. Sweat dampens the back of my neck beneath braided dark hair, but the movement helps temporarily.
  For a few moments, I can almost forget the feeling crawling beneath my skin.
  Almost.
  Sebastian blocks another strike before catching my wrist suddenly mid-motion.
  Not rough.
  Firm enough to stop me completely.
  “Amara.”
  The sound of my name in his voice tightens something painfully inside my chest.
  I yank my arm free.
  “I’m fine.”
  His expression darkens immediately.
  “You haven’t slept properly in days. Not since the witch..”
  “You’ve been counting?”
  “You wake me every time you start pacing.”
  Guilt flickers briefly through my irritation.
  I look away first.
  Around us, warriors continue training while pretending not to watch their king and queen too closely. Swords, fists and claws clash somewhere farther across the yard while clouds drift heavily across the pale gray sky overhead.
  Sebastian lowers his blade slightly.
  “Talk to me.”
  I hate how gently he says it.
  Hate how dangerously close it comes to breaking the walls holding me together.
  “There’s nothing to say.”
  The lie lands flat between us.
  Sebastian studies me silently for a long moment, eyes tracing across my face with quiet intensity.
  “You think killing her changed something,” he says carefully.
  Cold slides instantly through my stomach.
  I say nothing.
  Because he is right.
  Sebastian exhales slowly.
  “Sybil said magic like that leaves marks.”
  “Marks,” I repeat softly. 
  But that’s not the word I’d use.
  His jaw tightens slightly, as though he already regrets speaking.
  “She also said fear makes people imagine things.”
  Something sharp twists inside me at that.
  “You think I’m imagining this?”
  “I think you went through something violent.”
  “That isn’t an answer.”
  Frustration cracks through my voice harder than intended.
  Several nearby warriors glance toward us before quickly pretending otherwise.
  Sebastian notices immediately.
  His gaze softens slightly.
  Mine does not.
  “Amara.”
  “No,” I snap quietly. “You didn’t feel what happened in that room.”
  His expression shifts then.
  Not anger.
  Something worse.
  Concern edged with helplessness.
  “I felt enough.”
  The memory slams into me instantly.
  The circle exploding beneath my feet.
  The witch screaming.
  Blood flooding my mouth while ancient magic cracked through the chamber like lightning hunting for ground.
  My stomach twists violently.
  For half a second, the training yard flickers strangely around me.
  The sunlight dims.
  Shadows stretch too long across the dirt.
  Something cold brushes the edge of my thoughts like fingers trailing slowly across the back of my neck.
  My breath catches sharply.
  Then everything snaps back to normal.
  Sebastian goes still.
  “What was that?”
  Panic rises immediately.
  “Nothing.”
  He steps closer instantly.
  “Your eyes changed.”
  Fear punches hard through my chest.
  I step backward before he can touch me.
  “I need air.”
  “Amara.”
  I turn before he can stop me and walk quickly from the training grounds, ignoring the uneasy silence that follows in my wake.
  I hear Sebastian call my name once behind me.
  I do not stop moving until I find shadow.
  Then I step.
  The castle corridors swallow me quickly, muting the noise of the training yard until only silence remains wrapped around cold stone and flickering torchlight.
  My pulse refuses to settle.
  Something feels wrong again.
  Not outside.
  Inside.
  Like invisible fingers sliding carefully through the edges of my thoughts.
  I move deeper into the castle without thinking about direction, boots echoing softly against worn stone floors as I pass through quieter sections rarely used by servants or guards. The air grows colder the farther I walk.
  I should turn back.
  Instead I keep moving.
  A strange pull curls low in my chest, subtle but steady, guiding me through unfamiliar corridors lined with faded tapestries and dust-covered statues whose faces have softened beneath centuries of neglect.
  I have never been in this part of the castle before.
  At least I do not think I have.
  Yet something about it feels familiar in the worst possible way.
  The torches dim as I descend a narrow staircase spiraling deep into the older foundations beneath the keep. Shadows gather thickly along the walls here, swallowing corners in heavy silence broken only by the faint scrape of my boots against ancient stone.
  Then I hear humming.
  Soft.
  A bit uneven.
  An old melody drifting through darkness like smoke curling beneath a door.
  My steps slow immediately.
  The sound comes from ahead.
  At the end of the corridor, warm light flickers faintly beneath a half-open wooden door.
  Unease tightens every muscle in my body.
  Still, I move closer.
  The room beyond is small and strangely warm compared to the cold corridors surrounding it. Shelves packed with ancient books cover the walls from floor to ceiling while candles burn low across a cluttered wooden desk overflowing with yellowed parchment.
  And seated beside the fire is an old man.
  He looks impossibly ancient.
  Goddess help me. I’ve stepped into some old servants corridor. 
  Thin silver hair falls loose around a deeply lined face, and dark robes drape across narrow shoulders like spilled ink. One weathered hand rests against the arm of his chair while the other turns a page in the book open across his lap.
  He does not look surprised to see me.
  “There you are,” he says gently.
  I stop cold near the doorway.
  “Who are you?”
  The old man smiles faintly.
  Not mocking.
  Almost kind.
  “That,” he says softly, “depends entirely on who is asking. But you, my Queen, may call me Azriel. Just an old man nonetheless.”