A DANGEROUS CLOSENESS

After the encounter in Azarel's chamber, Velma could hardly breathe. Her chest ached, her limbs felt heavy, and her thoughts spiraled in painful loops. When she returned to her room, she collapsed on the bed beside Evelyn, silent.

She barely spoke that night. Evelyn noticed.

"You okay?" Evelyn asked gently.

Velma nodded, forcing a smile. "Just tired."

But all night, sleep evaded her. She stared up at the low ceiling, hearing every whisper of the Underworld winds outside their quarters. Images of Azarel and Azarath tangled together burned through her mind, taunting her.

Her Daniel was gone.

And in his place was a stranger.

The next day, she was assigned a new task: deliver a fresh robe to Azarel's chamber. He was in the bath and would need it afterward.

Her hands trembled again.

Why did it have to be her?

She said nothing as she accepted the robe and made her way through the corridors. When she arrived, the door to the chamber was slightly ajar. She knocked once, then entered.

Lucian was inside, speaking to Azarel. They were discussing issues relating to the southern borders—political matters of importance to the kingdom. Velma tried not to interrupt, keeping her head bowed as she walked toward the resting chair to place the robe.

Their eyes met for a moment—Lucian and Velma.

His expression was firm, unreadable, but something flickered in his gaze: warning.

And then, as if the stress of everything decided to culminate in that one moment, Velma's foot caught on the uneven rug. She stumbled forward, and the robe caught on the edge of the jagged dresser, tearing audibly.

The chamber fell silent.

Azarel turned slowly, a towel around his waist, his expression flat and unimpressed.

"What a clumsy maid," he said coldly.

Velma's cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

Lucian stepped forward quickly, helping her up.

He leaned in close, his lips barely moving.

"Are you trying to stay alive or get yourself killed?" he whispered harshly.

Velma's eyes flickered in panic.

Lucian turned to Azarel. "Forgive her. She's new. I'll see to it myself."

Azarel waved a hand. "Leave, Lucian. We'll speak later."

Lucian's jaw tightened, but he obeyed, giving Velma one last stern glance before slipping out of the chamber.

Now it was just the two of them.

Velma bent down, quickly gathering the torn robe. "I'll fetch another, my lord."

"Do so," he said.

She ran.

Down the halls, around the corners, her breath ragged. She returned moments later with a fresh robe, steadied her breath, and stepped inside again.

He was waiting.

This time, as she approached to hand him the robe, he stepped closer. Too close.

Her heart pounded.

Azarel reached up, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek—curious, calculated. He inhaled deeply, like scenting something unusual.

"Your scent is unfamiliar," he said, his voice smooth but laced with suspicion.

Velma froze.

"I—Sorry, my lord," she stammered, stepping back quickly.

Without waiting for another word, she turned and hurried from the chamber, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

Behind her, Azarel watched, eyes narrowed ever so slightly.