He came out of the bath hall full of steam, moist and with his thoughts buzzing. He never looked back, for one glint of a sisterly eye, it might seem, could shape him into something other than what he was. Dizzily he plunged down through the long curved corridors of the great house.
The floors were cool against his bare feet-smooth stone, well-worn-and he caught, on the morning air, the smell of fresh herbs burning in the courtyard far below.
His room was at the far end of the hall, and as he reached it, he pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside, embracing the comfort of his private sanctuary.
Morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows, illuminating runes carved across his neatly made bed and a huge wardrobe carved out of dark oak.
He strode over to the wardrobe and flung it open, revealing a few rows of exquisitely tailored clothes. He would wear today a dark green tunic, with intricate silver embroidery down the cuffs and around the collar, while his trousers were fitted black.
He buckled a silver buckle around his waist and yanked tough leather boots on. The clothes seemed to mold themselves onto his frame, revealing broad shoulders and a lean physique. Smoothing the high collar in front of the mirror, he made one final survey of himself.
"Almost ready," he muttered, running a hand through spiky black hair as if smoothing it down-a hopeless task.
He flung a dark cloak over his shoulder and stepped back into the hall, the boots sounding softly against the stone.
The mansion was in an uproar while one climbed the spiral case to the top floor where Lysander's private chambers were situated. The door was gigantic, and intricate carvings of very ancient symbols of power and protection were carved into it.
He stood there a moment, breathing deeply. Then he knocked.
"Enter!" a shrill, sharp voice commanded.
Azrael turned the handle, swung the door open, and stepped inside; he fixed his eyes firmly on the floor. There was an unseen weight to the air, some charged electric element dancing on his skin.
"Good morning, Mother. You requested to see me," he spoke low.
She found him sitting opposite, proud and commanding, the pride of the once smooth face now laced with fine lines; to that she added a severity: her silver hair pulled tightly back into a braid, her eyes-unnatural, burning brighter for the weight of her years-afeame with a resolution which had ruled, and ruled well, through life. She was power and command.
She eyed him narrowly, her eyes surveying him. "Tell me, Azrael," she began coldly, "what precisely is so good about this morning? Enlighten me, because I certainly can't figure it out."
Azrael's heart sank. "I'm sorry, Mother," he replied, his voice soft but steady. "I know I haven't lived up to your expectations, but I promise, I'm trying my very best."
Anger set Lysander's eyes hot and flared as she spat heavy on disdain. "Your best, most superior attempt?" she scorned. "Do you mean by 'very best', in fact bedding near to every sister in this sanctuary? Your best is just not good enough!"
She snapped her fingers, a surge of energy belched from her hand as it slammed Azrael against the wall. A grumble was low within his chest; invisible force pinned him into place several inches off of the floor.
"For near on two years," she continued, rising, her voice taking on a biting tone, "since you reached eighteen, you knew who you were, what you were- and yet you have learned nothing! Wasted! Sisters have taught you nothing. One such low-class witch will jerk you about like any baitfish!"
Azrael struggled against movement-but could not fight the force. Her words sliced deeper than a blade.
"We would have been better off if you had been born a girl," she spat. "Do you even know what the Great Mother expects from us? From you?"
"I didn't ask to be born," Azrael growled, storm-grey eyes flashing defiance. "I didn't ask for the destiny you chose for me. I didn't ask to wield some great power I never wanted! And I certainly didn't ask to be male!"
Her grip on him tightened. The pressure became unbearable, yet he refused to look away.
"We are to cage you, Azrael," she said slowly, her voice now cold as ice. "To protect you. To focus only that part of the One Power that we require, when we need it. You will be our most powerful tool in the Last Battle. Without the One Power, you are nothing. But first, you must learn control. You will turn twenty in two days. I would see some improvement by that time."
The tension in the room was like a storm ready to break.
"This isn't a conversation," Azrael muttered. "You made your decision about my life long before I was born."
A long, tense moment of silence fell between them, the only sound the steady crackling from a fire on the hearth.
Finally, the force that held Azrael gave, and he fell to the floor, landing on his feet. He grasped his fists, taking labored breaths.
With no other words spoken, he whirled on his heel and stormed from the room, billowing his cloak behind him. The thick door boomed shut with the deafening thud of its close, leaving Lysander to the silence, her face unreadable.