Azazel

The temple was empty. Completely empty.

You walked inside, and the silence hit your ears so hard it popped. Somewhere, nuns should have been chanting, somewhere, a sister should have been standing with a candle in her hands, smiling at her god. But instead, there was only the smell of incense, too thick, too sweet. And the smell of blood.

You found her at the altar. Her white dress had turned scarlet. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but she couldn't see. A shadow loomed nearby. A tall figure in a black hood darted toward the exit, and you caught only the edge of her face. And her smile. So beautiful, so calm, as if she'd just done something right.

You didn't remember how you got home. How you sat on the floor, staring into space. How your fingers began to trace signs on the wooden floor—the very same ones the old healer had shown you when you were little.

"To summon the one who knows the answers to all questions," she said. "But don't summon him, granddaughter. Don't summon him. He doesn't come for answers. He comes for what's rightfully his."

You called.

The candles flickered. The air grew heavy and cold, as if death itself had entered the room. The shadows on the walls stirred, weaving into strange patterns. And then he appeared.

Tall, taller than any man you'd ever seen. Long black hair flowed over his shoulders, and on his head was a crown of blackened silver and dark stones, glowing scarlet from within. His face was beautiful—so beautiful it hurt to look at. Sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, a strong chin. And his eyes—golden, with vertical pupils.

And a smile. That same smile you caught a glimpse of in the temple.