"We need shelter," Azazel muttered. Shadow, padded beside him, each silent step betraying the creature's immense size. It was eerie how such a beast moved without a sound.
Azazel's stomach groaned. Shadow's ears twitched, its red eyes narrowing as it sensed something up ahead. Azazel laid a hand on Shadow's coarse fur, feeling their shared tension simmer in the air.
"A village," he whispered, spotting the outline of wooden stakes, a crude palisade fortified to fend off nightmares. Smoke drifted lazily skyward, carrying with it the faint murmur of voices.
Shadow's growl deepened, a warning that the village held no guarantees of safety. Azazel steeled himself, gripping the knife at his belt. The knife was hardly a comfort against the terrors this world had to offer, but it was something.
"Stay calm," Azazel said, stepping toward the gate. He had no other options.
The gate creaked open, revealing wary faces. Men and women, some barely out of youth and others ancient with experience, stood ready with whatever weapons they could find—pitchforks, rusty blades, heavy clubs. Children peeked out from behind legs, eyes wide with fear.
"Who goes there?" A rough voice cut through the tense air. A man stepped forward, broad-shouldered, grizzled, a jagged scar carving down his face. His armor was cobbled together from rusted metal and cured leather. In his grip, he held a wickedly curved sword, one that had clearly seen use.
Azazel swallowed. The intensity in the man's gaze was almost suffocating, but Shadow's presence at his side kept him steady. "My name is Azazel," he declared. "We're just looking for shelter. We don't mean any harm."
The man's eyes flicked down to the symbol glowing beneath Azazel's shirt, the mark of Valhalla. It pulsed faintly, but everyone saw. A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd.
"The mark of Valhalla…"
"Is he cursed?"
"A tamer, one of the prophecy…"
The scarred man, Eirik, didn't lower his weapon. "That mark," he said, voice harsh with distrust, "brings nothing but ruin. And you walk with a beast." His gaze shifted to Shadow, who bared its fangs in reply.
Azazel clenched his jaw, fighting frustration. "Shadow isn't like the others," he insisted, though even he heard the desperation in his voice. "We're not here to hurt anyone. Just… give us a chance."
Eirik's lips curled in a sneer. "A chance?" He spat on the dirt. "Every outsider brings ruin. We have no food to spare and no patience for danger."
Before Azazel could argue, an elderly woman stepped forward. She leaned on a gnarled staff, her frame frail but her eyes sharp as flint. The crowd parted for her, a mixture of fear and respect in their eyes.
"Eirik," she said, her voice steady, "even you know we cannot turn away every soul. Not with the darkness encroaching as it does."
Eirik bristled but didn't argue. He turned back to Azazel, his eyes blazing with warning. "We'll be watching you," he said. "Step out of line, and we'll put you and your beast down."
Azazel nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Thank you," he said, though the village's suspicion pressed heavily on him. Shadow stayed close, hackles raised, ready to defend him.
The village was a place of thin smiles and haunted eyes. Children scurried away, clinging to mothers who eyed Azazel like he was a wolf come to devour them. Men sharpened weapons in the fading light, whispering of raids and monster attacks. The dirt paths crisscrossed between huts, each one looking more fragile than the last.
A young boy, clutching a wooden horse toy, stared at Azazel with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Azazel met his gaze and offered a small, weary smile. The boy flinched and ran, disappearing behind his mother's skirts. The woman shot Azazel a glare that screamed warning.
"They hate us," Azazel muttered. Shadow huffed in agreement, eyes never ceasing their restless watch.
Night descended. The villagers gathered around a bonfire in the central square, flames crackling. Eirik stood as a sentinel, his sword ready, eyes never straying from the treeline.
Azazel stayed at the edge, feeling every eye on him. Shadow sat, a still statue of black fur and menace, yet it sensed what Azazel did: dread, thickening in the air like a coming storm.
Then, a roar split the night. The kind that made the ground quake and every heart drop into silence. Azazel's breath caught, and he turned, eyes widening. From the darkness, monsters emerged—a pack of them, eyes burning red, their jaws slavering. Leading them was a horned beast, massive and covered in bone plates, its horns twisting like jagged roots.
Panic erupted. The villagers screamed, scrambling for weapons, barricading huts. Eirik's voice bellowed commands, but Azazel saw the hopelessness in his eyes. The beasts crashed into the defenses, splintering wood and trampling everything in their path.
"Azazel!" Eirik roared, rage and desperation mixing. "If you want to prove you're not a curse, now's the time!"
Azazel's mark of Valhalla flared, and a heat surged in his chest. Shadow growled, every muscle tensed to spring.
"Shadow, let's go!" Azazel yelled, running toward the fray. The wolf-beast surged forward, a shadowy blur. Azazel reached out with his power, his mind seeking the soul of a lesser beast, one that had broken through the defenses. It was a battle of will, the beast's wild spirit crashing against his own.
Submit, Azazel demanded, gritting his teeth. His vision swam, but at last, the creature yielded, its rage dulling. It turned on its own kind, attacking the monsters that had been its kin moments before.
But the horned beast was another challenge entirely. It barreled through the palisade, bellowing and shaking the earth. Azazel faced it, feeling small, feeling afraid.
"Come on," he whispered, his voice shaking. The mark on his chest seared, light blazing out. The beast charged, a juggernaut of bone and shadow, and Azazel knew he was out of his depth.
Power surged, threatening to drown him. His humanity wavered, the line between man and monster thinning. He clenched his fists, trying to hold on to who he was. Shadow stood beside him, ready to fight, ready to defend.
The world exploded into chaos—fire, blood, light, and shadow. Azazel fell to his knees, vision fading. Around him, the battle raged, and villagers whispered in awe and fear, unsure if he had saved them or become something worse.
"Is this... salvation?" Azazel murmured, darkness pulling him under.