Chapter 3 – First Mission, First Death
The sun never fully shone in Eidralis. Even in the heart of the day, it filtered through layers of drifting cloud like a fading memory. That morning was no different. The sky was a dull gray, and the air held a damp chill that clung to the skin.
Azrael stood before a bulletin board lined with thin sheets of parchment—mission requests, bounties, sightings of the undead. Each was pinned with an iron nail bearing the insignia of the Ashen Veil: a silver eye, half-closed, weeping a single tear of black flame.
Leo Simetril stood beside him, arms folded. He seemed uncertain whether to speak.
"You've only been with us a few days," he finally said. "Most new initiates take weeks to accept their first solo assignment."
Azrael didn't reply. His eyes scanned the pages with slow, calculating precision.
Leo sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. "Look, I get it. You've got that whole 'mysterious loner' thing going, and maybe you've got talent. But these aren't petty thieves or runaway spirits. If you die, there's no resurrection. No coming back. You die once in this work, and that's it."
Azrael's hand froze. He pulled a parchment from the board.
"Case 11-B: Village of Hollowbrook"
> Reports of grave desecrations and "moving corpses." Local priest confirmed signs of necrotic influence.
Reward: 6 gold, bonus for elimination of source.
Clearance: Initiates and above.
Leo leaned in, surprised. "Hollowbrook? That's not far, but the last team who went there didn't return."
"I'll take it," Azrael said coldly.
"…Alright." Leo stepped back. "You're ranked for it now. But don't go alone. At least take one of the hounds or a scout."
Azrael turned his eyes toward him—deep red and black, void of warmth.
"I work better alone."
Leo opened his mouth to argue, but closed it just as quickly. He simply handed Azrael a rolled-up map and a copper medallion bearing the Ashen Veil's mark.
---
Azrael set off at noon.
The trip to Hollowbrook took half a day's journey on foot. The path twisted through forests and over creaking wooden bridges, and every bird that once sang now seemed silent.
He passed abandoned milestones and ruined watchtowers, remnants of an older kingdom. By nightfall, he arrived at the village outskirts.
Hollowbrook lived up to its name.
The houses, though mostly intact, were vacant—doors ajar, windows broken. Crows perched on thatched roofs, watching silently. The air was thick with rot. A faint breeze carried the smell of death and wet soil.
Azrael approached the village chapel, the only building with candlelight inside.
Inside, a single old priest knelt at the altar, muttering prayers under his breath. His white robes were frayed, and his hands shook.
He looked up when Azrael entered.
"Are you from the city?" he asked, voice hoarse with fear.
Azrael nodded. "From the Ashen Veil."
The priest crossed himself quickly. "Thank the gods… I sent that letter weeks ago. I thought we'd been forgotten."
Azrael stepped closer. "Explain what happened."
The priest swallowed. "It began with whispers in the graveyard. The dead no longer rested. We found one of the coffins broken from the inside. Then the night attacks began. At first it was livestock. Then people."
Azrael's eyes narrowed. "How many dead?"
"Seven villagers in total. But they don't stay dead. We bury them. They dig themselves out again. I've seen them… eyes hollow, skin gray… they scream at night, like they want to remember who they were."
"Where were the bodies buried?"
"In the glade. North of the well."
Azrael turned toward the door.
The priest called out, desperation in his voice. "You can stop them, can't you? You're… you're one of the Reapers, aren't you?"
Azrael paused at the threshold.
"I am."
Then he vanished into the fog.
---
The graveyard lay silent beneath a crooked willow tree. Mist swirled along the cracked tombstones. The earth was disturbed—fresh dirt clawed away by something that had once had fingers, now reduced to bone and sinew.
Azrael stood at the center, eyes closed.
He could feel them.
Not life.
Not death.
Something in-between.
He knelt and pressed his palm against the cold earth.
> Pulse.
A tremor passed through his bones. His eyes opened, now glowing faintly red.
Three… no, four of them… moving beneath the ground like worms through mud.
Then he whispered.
> "Arise."
The word was not a command, but an invitation.
And the ground responded.
From beneath the soil, emaciated hands tore free. Limbs snapped, twisted joints cracked, and faces emerged—gaunt, half-decayed, with eyes full of hate and confusion.
The dead rose.
And Azrael stood alone among them, calm.
They screamed.
He raised a single hand.
> "Sleep."
A black wave pulsed from his palm. One of the corpses—the smallest—froze. Then its skull shattered, crumbling inward as if crushed by an invisible weight. It fell, lifeless again.
The others hesitated. Some retained fragments of memory, just enough to fear the unknown.
Azrael stepped forward. Each motion was precise, effortless. He drew no blade, cast no fire. But shadows clung to him like a cloak, and the graveyard itself bent around his presence.
The second corpse lunged.
Azrael sidestepped and touched its chest.
> "Return."
The corpse disintegrated—bone, flesh, and soul alike pulled inward into nothingness, leaving only a trace of ash.
The third screamed and turned to flee. Azrael raised his hand again.
But then… something shifted.
The ground at the far end of the glade erupted.
A fifth figure emerged—taller, heavier, wearing the tattered robes of a once-noble priest. A black brand was burned across its chest in the shape of a spiraling fang.
Azrael's eyes narrowed.
"A brand of the Fanged Rite."
The creature snarled—a mix of beast and man—and lunged with unnatural speed.
Azrael dodged. The blow missed by inches, slamming into a headstone which cracked in half.
Azrael fell into a low crouch, whispering the invocation of silence.
> "Mourners walk. Mourners wait. Let silence claim its due."
The creature paused, dazed.
Azrael dashed forward and drove his palm into the creature's forehead. Black veins spread instantly across its skull.
> "Be gone."
The undead priest convulsed, howling, then collapsed in a heap. Steam hissed from its body as the curse lifted. The black brand burned away, leaving behind only charred flesh.
All was still.
Azrael straightened and looked to the skies. The moon had shifted, and the mist was fading.
He reached into his coat and pulled out his notebook.
> "The dead are not at rest. The Fanged Rite has touched this land. This was a test… not a mistake."
---
He returned to the village before dawn.
The priest met him with wide eyes.
"It's over," Azrael said, handing him a small stone with a protective rune etched into it. "Place this on the altar. It will ward off minor necrotic influence."
The priest fell to his knees, weeping with relief.
Azrael turned away, already leaving.
---
Back at Eidralis, Leo waited in the mission hall with a mug of tea, half-asleep. When Azrael returned and dropped the bounty parchment onto the table, Leo blinked, then smiled.
"You're back? I figured you'd vanished into the mist like some tragic poem."
Azrael didn't smile.
"Fanged Rite activity. Hidden cultist. One greater undead. Four lesser."
Leo stood up sharply. "Wait, the Rite? Are you sure?"
Azrael nodded. "Burn the village records. Someone from the Order was helping them."
Leo opened his mouth, stunned. "How do you kn—?"
"Because the brand they used was still fresh. Recent. The corruption hasn't fully taken root. If we act now, we can stop it."
Leo slowly nodded. "I'll… report it to the council."
Azrael turned to go, but paused.
"There will be more. This is only the beginning."
Leo whispered to himself as Azrael walked away, his voice filled with a strange mix of awe and dread.
"Who are you, really?"
Azrael did not answer.
He simply vanished into the corridor's shadows.
---
Azrael returned to the dormitory assigned to low-level initiates. The room was small, with stone walls and a single narrow window that looked out over the fog-draped city of Eidralis. He did not light a candle. He did not wash the dirt or blood from his hands.
Instead, he sat on the edge of the wooden cot, silent, still as a corpse.
He took out a small, black-bound notebook from inside his coat. The edges of its pages shimmered faintly with runes, visible only to those who understood the Reaper's Path. Slowly, he opened to a fresh page and began writing in neat, meticulous strokes.
> Day 3
First confirmed contact with necrotic forces tied to the Fanged Rite.
Possibility of a sleeper agent within the Ashen Veil or one of its satellites.
Entity Type: Undead Priest – corrupted corpse, semi-intelligent, branded with a fang-mark of the 3rd Depth.
Method of Elimination: Pulse of Decay, Invocation of Silence, Return Command.
He paused. His eyes scanned the page, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
He had seen the brand before.
Not in this life.
But in the fragments of memory that still lingered—shadows of a time long past. A time when he bore a different name.
Elliot.
That name echoed faintly in his mind, a whisper from another era, long buried. Back then, he had been nothing. A beggar. A vagabond who had stared at the stars and asked the sky why his parents had left him.
But now… he had answers. Power. And a mission.
Still, none of that showed on his face.
Azrael closed the notebook, binding it again with a silent ward. He stood and walked to the window.
Down below, the mist rolled in from the harbor, swallowing the city in slow waves. Gas lamps flickered. People passed like ghosts on the narrow streets, unaware of how close death often lingered.
He stared at them, his expression blank.
So many lives. Fragile. Brief.
He could take them. Or spare them. Raise them from the dead or send them into the dark.
Yet he felt… nothing.
No pride. No thrill. Not even guilt.
Only a hollow sense of duty—and something deeper, far older: the instinct to balance.
---
A knock broke the silence.
Three soft taps, then a pause.
Azrael opened the door without a word.
It was Leo again, though he looked different this time. The jovial air was gone. His eyes were serious, and he held a sealed envelope.
"The council read your report," he said.
Azrael stepped aside silently, allowing him in.
"They're… alarmed," Leo continued. "The Fanged Rite has been quiet for decades. We thought their last known temple was buried after the Fifth Crusade."
Azrael said nothing.
Leo placed the envelope on the table. "They want you to continue your investigations. Quietly. Unofficially. You'll receive priority access to restricted missions from now on."
Azrael opened the envelope. Inside was a mission seal, obsidian-black with a silver eye. A token of Field Autonomy—granted to only a handful of trusted agents.
"You've made an impression," Leo added, studying him. "You handled Hollowbrook with precision. Unflinching. Almost too unflinching."
Azrael met his gaze. His voice, as always, was cold and low. "The dead don't hesitate. Why should I?"
Leo didn't answer.
But after a long pause, he finally asked, "What happened to you before you joined us?"
Azrael didn't blink. "I was born. I died. I was born again."
Leo half-laughed, half-shivered. "You really are strange, you know that? Even for someone in the Veil. It's like… you've seen the world end and came back just to watch it all over again."
Azrael didn't answer.
Because Leo was right.
In his past life—as Elliot—he had seen the end. The collapse of all he knew. The silence that followed when the gods stopped listening. He had begged for death back then. And someone… something… had answered.
And now, as Azrael, he walked a different path.
One soaked in shadows, watched by gods and monsters alike.
Leo stood to leave but paused at the door. "One last thing. There's a mission in West Garlan. Reports of an entire town falling silent overnight. The locals are afraid to even speak its name. It reeks of death… and silence."
He hesitated.
"Sound familiar?"
Azrael's red-black eyes glowed faintly in the dark.
"Yes."
Leo stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Azrael stood there for a long while. Then he looked to the candle sitting unlit on the table.
With a whisper, it sparked to life—though no match had touched it.
He watched the flame dance, his expression unreadable.
> "So it begins again," he murmured, not to himself, but to something far older listening in the dark.
And from the corner of the room—where no light reached—a faint whisper replied:
> "Azrael…"
But there was no one there.
Only a shadow that moved just slightly too slow.