"No… not him," Eirik muttered, eyes narrowing.
Azazel clenched his fists, feeling his heart pound. "Mizan. He's behind all this, isn't he?"
Eirik stood, his mouth a hard line. "He's more monster than man, Azazel. A nightmare that haunts us even when the sun is high."
Azazel's mind raced. Mizan—the Beast Master. Stories of his cruelty were whispered in every village from the mountains to the sea. He commanded hordes of beasts, bending their will as easily as breathing. The attack last night now made sense. A force so relentless, so organized… it had to be Mizan.
"We don't have the strength to face him," Eirik continued, his voice strained. "Our defenses are in ruins. The villagers are terrified, our warriors exhausted."
Azazel stepped forward, determination hardening his resolve. "I'll face him," he said, though the weight of his words made his knees feel weak.
Eirik's eyes widened slightly. "You? Against Mizan?" He shook his head. "You've helped us once, but this… This is suicide."
Shadow growled low in his throat, and Azazel felt the beast's confidence pulse through their bond. He put a hand on Shadow's back, drawing strength from the connection. "We have to try," he insisted. "If Mizan comes, running won't save us. We stand and fight."
Eirik's lips pressed together in a grim line. "Then prove it. Rally the people, give them hope." He gestured to the broken defenses and the haggard faces of the villagers. "If they're going to put their lives in your hands, they need to believe in you."
Azazel swallowed hard. "I understand."
Eirik nodded, a reluctant respect shining in his eyes. "Then make them believe, Azazel. Or we're all dead."
As Eirik turned back to oversee preparations, Azazel looked at the villagers. Mothers clutching children. Old men with haunted eyes. Young warriors with hands shaking around their weapons. They were counting on him, whether they wanted to or not.
"Shadow," Azazel whispered, "we have to give them hope." Shadow gazed at him, red eyes unwavering, and nodded, as if understanding every word.
Azazel took a breath and stepped forward. "Everyone, listen!" he called out. His voice cut through the air, and all eyes turned to him. Whispers stilled, and a fragile, uncertain silence descended.
A group of men stopped stacking broken wood. Women paused their frantic mending. Even the children quieted, looking at him with a mix of curiosity and fear.
"I know you don't trust me," Azazel began, voice firm despite the weight in his chest. "And I don't blame you. I came here with a beast, a mark you don't understand. But I fought for this village, and I'll fight again."
The crowd shifted uneasily. An older man, with a bandage wrapped around his head, scoffed. "What can you do against Mizan?" he shouted. "You're just a boy with a wolf!"
Azazel's jaw clenched. "I'm more than that. Shadow and I can fight. We've faced darkness before." He paused, feeling the doubt pressing against him like a storm. "But I need your help. We have to stand together. If we don't, Mizan will crush us all."
A heavy silence lingered. Then, a young woman with a tired face stepped forward. She held a small child on her hip, and her gaze was wary but steady. "How do we know you can protect us?" she asked softly. "How do we know you won't bring more harm?"
Azazel met her eyes. "I can't promise no one will get hurt," he admitted. "But I promise to give everything I have to protect this village. To protect all of you."
The young woman's gaze softened, just a little. "Then what do we do?" she asked.
A spark of hope ignited. "We rebuild the barricades," Azazel said, his voice growing stronger. "We set traps along the perimeter, strengthen our defenses. Anyone who can fight, arm yourselves. We prepare, together."
Slowly, people nodded. The village began to stir with purpose, and even though fear still gripped them, there was something else now—a flicker of belief.
Azazel moved among them, helping to lift planks of wood, guiding warriors on where to stand watch, and showing children how to carry water to those working. Shadow prowled by his side, lending its silent strength.
As night fell again, Azazel found himself beside Eirik at the half-repaired barricade. The older man studied him, his expression unreadable. "They're starting to listen to you," Eirik said, almost grudgingly.
Azazel exhaled, the weight of the day pressing on him. "I hope it's enough."
Eirik's gaze flicked to the dark forest. "If Mizan attacks, it won't be enough. But at least now, we'll have a fighting chance."
"Azazel," a quiet voice spoke behind them. Alva approached, her hands still stained from tending to the wounded. Her eyes held a deep weariness but also something close to resolve. "We're ready for whatever comes, but you must know something. Mizan isn't just a threat to this village. He's after you."
Azazel frowned, confusion tightening his chest. "Me? Why?"
Alva's gaze dropped to the mark of Valhalla. "Because of your power. Mizan seeks it, craves the strength you hold. He'll stop at nothing to claim it. You're the key to his dominion or his downfall."
Azazel's heart twisted. So it wasn't just about the village—it was about the fate of everything. He clenched his hands, a cold determination settling in his bones. "Then we won't let him win."
Alva placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "We're counting on you, Azazel. The mark you bear… it may bring darkness, but it can also bring light. You must choose which to embrace."
Azazel nodded, feeling the enormity of the choice. "I'll fight for the light," he vowed. Shadow leaned into him, a silent vow of its own.
A sharp howl cut through the night, freezing every heart in the village. The air trembled with an approaching terror, and Azazel turned toward the darkness, feeling Shadow's fur bristle.
"Mizan," he whispered, fear and resolve clashing inside him.
Beside him, Eirik drew his sword. "Here we go," he said, and his voice was both a challenge and a prayer.
"Ready, Shadow?" Azazel asked, his own hand gripping his knife tightly. Shadow's growl was the only answer he needed.
"Let's face him," Azazel said, and together, they stepped into the coming storm.