As if the loss of her arm meant nothing, Amandine charged forward. Her eyes burned with madness, a dangerous blend of fanaticism and frenzy. Azrael, already savoring the triumph in his mind, grew careless. He realized too late the threatening kick that struck him hard, sending him tumbling backward.


    Before he could regain his footing, Amandine was already on him. She moved with terrifying speed. As though she felt no pain, as if she were no longer human. Lyren followed her with wide, disbelieving eyes, too stunned to react immediately.


    Azrael''s heart raced. "Calm down," he told himself as the blade of the kitchen knife shot toward him with deadly speed. There was no escaping. In a desperate reflex, he twisted his torso to the side. But the knife found its mark. A searing pain exploded in his shoulder. The knife sank deep. His sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the floor.


    With a scream, half from pain, half from rage, Azrael slammed his fist into Amandine''s stomach. The impact caused her to stagger back briefly, but that maddening smile never left her lips. Her eyes sparkled with manic joy. "Die, die, die!" she gasped hoarsely. "Solaren wants it... HE wants it!"


    Suddenly, two curved swords pierced her body. One blade protruded from her chest, the other from her abdomen, and the horrible smile froze. Her eyes widened with the last spark of life as Lyren appeared behind her, breathing heavily but determined.


    Azrael breathed shallowly, his shoulder throbbing with pain. For a brief moment, there was silence, broken only by the irregular drip of blood from Amandine''s blade onto the floor.


    "We can''t contain her. It doesn''t matter if we sever her limbs. She''s completely consumed by madness," Lyren''s voice came from behind the twitching Amandine, who was still impaled on the swords.


    "Solaren wants it. He''s with me... You must die. For him... HE wants it," Amandine croaked. Saliva uncontrollably dripped from her mouth, while fresh blood streamed down her body, pooling on the floor in a dark red stain. The metallic scent of iron hung heavy in the air, sharp and unmistakable.


    Suddenly, she tore herself free, as if propelled by an invisible force. With a crazed leap, she launched herself forward, her eyes wide open, fixed on Azrael. She had long forgotten the knife—now it was purely her instincts driving her, her teeth bared, ready to bite, to tear apart.


    "Just like I remembered you," Azrael murmured coldly. Without hesitation, his sword sliced through the air, severing Amandine''s head from her body. The head rolled with a dull thud across the blood-soaked floor, while her lifeless body crumpled. "As if I’d be careless twice. I learn from my mistakes."


    Inside, he felt a sense of relief as he retrieved his sword once again.


    A confident smile spread across his lips. He cautiously nudged the lifeless body with the tip of his boot to make sure. No movement. Finally, she was truly dead.


    "Shame we didn’t get any information," Azrael remarked, wiping the blood from his blade.


    "Not necessarily," Lyren intervened, rubbing the blood from his hands. "We could search her house. Maybe we''ll find something interesting."


    Azrael nodded curtly. "True. Let’s split up."


    While Lyren went into the living room, Azrael entered the kitchen. He quickly rummaged through the cabinets and drawers. Lyren’s voice called from the next room: "Just a few coins here, nothing else."


    Azrael''s gaze fell upon the kitchen table, and suddenly his stomach churned. There lay the aforementioned neighbor, lifeless, grotesquely displayed. A large chunk of flesh was missing from his rear. Now simmering in a steaming pot on the stove. The biting smell of roasting human flesh and the sight of blood slowly dripping from the table sank deep into Azrael’s senses.


    A wave of nausea rose in Azrael, and he staggered backward, his face twisting in disgust. "This abomination..." he gasped, bending forward as he retched onto the kitchen floor. The acidic remnants of his last meal burned in his throat. The thought that someone had consumed this... it made him shiver.


    Still queasy, he forced himself to search the room as quickly as possible, suppressing the nausea with every movement.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    They systematically searched every room of the house. The bathroom, the clothing room—nothing. No matter how thoroughly they searched, there was simply nothing to find. Only one room remained. The bedroom.


    As Azrael and Lyren stood side by side, a strange feeling of discomfort overtook them. With each step toward the door, the nauseating stench grew stronger. The smell of decay was so intense that it constricted Azrael’s throat, making him gag. It was a sickly, rotting odor that reminded him of spoiled meat and wrapped itself like a heavy veil over his senses.


    "Decay," Azrael murmured, a shiver crawling down his spine. He nodded curtly.


    Lyren gave him a brief, meaningful look. "I opened the front door. I’ll gladly leave the first step to you," he said with a smile, though the expression seemed less than genuine. The tension in his eyes was unmistakable.


    Azrael hesitantly approached the door. The smell had become unbearable, and he felt the urge to vomit again. He took a deep breath, trying to fight off the rising nausea. With a loud bang, the door flew open as he kicked it with all his strength, determined not to touch it.


    The musty stench of decay enveloped them like a thick blanket, so overpowering that their throats involuntarily tightened. It was as if death itself was seeping from the walls. The smell of rotting flesh, mixed with something metallic, hit them full force. Their stomachs rebelled. They clearly didn’t want to find out what lay hidden in the room.


    The skeletons hung on the wall. They were not merely attached but impaled, their bones pierced by long, rusty nails driven through their joints with cruel precision. The creaking of the wooden wall seemed to echo with each step they took closer, a faint reflection of the madness that had once ruled here.


    On some bones, decaying scraps of flesh clung. Tinged green and gnawed away by bites that were unmistakably human in origin.


    Azrael forced himself to focus on the words above each of the skeletons, written in disturbingly childish script with dried blood smeared across the wall.


    “Leon. Fatty meat. Good for roasting. Especially delicious are the thighs.”


    The words echoed in Azrael’s mind, their meaning searing into his thoughts. The notion that someone had carefully written such a gruesome note with the meticulousness of a cook made his skin crawl. His breath became shallow as he continued reading:


    “My son. Perfectly bred. Tender muscle meat.”


    A gagging sound escaped his throat. He could no longer bear the sight, his eyes squeezing shut as he turned his head away, the air growing thin. The horrifying certainty that madness had not only claimed one person, but also children, weighed heavily on him.


    But Lyren''s voice pulled him back into the hell of the room. “Look at this,” he murmured, his voice faltering. He pointed to the opposite wall, where another message, clearly more incoherent and desperate, was scrawled in deep red lines.


    Azrael swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he forced himself to decipher the scrawled letters:


    “Hunger. Kill. White hair smells so delicious. Not yet. Not the time. Stay calm. Be nice. HE wants it this way. Soon, soon we will feast. Soon.”


    The words dripped with madness, each one seeming to speak of a mental abyss that Azrael could scarcely imagine. The uncontrolled handwriting, the feverish haste with which it had been smeared onto the wall, left an echo of madness hanging in the air.


    Lyren said nothing, his eyes wide, his hands clenched around his sword. The thought that this place was not just a site of murder, but of complete mental decay, made the horror nearly unbearable.


    Azrael felt his hands grow damp and cold. The stench, the sight of the skeletons, the words – it was more than he could bear. The madness that had reigned in this room was palpable. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in every piece of rotting flesh.


    The two boys stood there in silence, the oppressive atmosphere of the room heavy on their shoulders. Azrael and Lyren exchanged a wordless look, both feeling the unrest stirred by the recent events. “It seems our fear is true,” Lyren began quietly, his voice serious and thoughtful. “Soon something big will happen.”


    Azrael’s gaze hardened. He nodded. “The word ‘we’ implies the others are holding back as well. The question now is: why? What is the trigger? What is the reason?”


    Lyren snorted softly. “That’s what we need to find out. Did you notice during the fight that she didn’t use any abilities?”


    Azrael thought for a moment, the memory of Amandine''s frenzied attacks coming to mind. “Yes, strange. Her agility and strength were above average, but she didn’t use any abilities. It’s as if she couldn’t.”


    Lyren nodded. “Seems so. We shouldn’t complain, but it raises questions.”


    Silence stretched between them as they cautiously moved through the room. Azrael’s eyes darted around, his senses on high alert. Something made him pause, his attention drawn to the bed.


    Carefully, he crouched to look underneath – and froze. Glassy eyes stared back at him, vacant and dead, yet still penetrating. A chill ran down his spine, his heart raced as he recoiled in shock. For a moment, he felt as if he were staring into the soul of the lifeless figure.


    “Just another dead one,” Azrael whispered to himself, as though trying to calm his own nerves. His grip on the sword tightened, and with a swift motion, he slid the blade under the bed. A dull thud sounded, and a skull rolled out. His eyes scanned the bone, and there he noticed something unusual. Tiny, barely legible letters etched into the surface of the skull.


    “08. August. 1015,” he read aloud, his voice thick with astonishment.


    Lyren stepped up beside him, his brow furrowed. “Do you know what this date means?” he asked, his tone now insistent.


    Azrael continued staring at the inscription, unable to tear his gaze away. Then, he felt a wave of shock wash over him. “Not really... but… that’s my birthday.”