Shattered Line

Chapter 32: The Lost Name

"Azrete." The word sounded in a low musical tone. "Azrete," the voice repeated.

The stranger uttering the word felt close, but distant, like a haze fogged her perception. Her mind formulated a thought, an answer, anything capable of responding, yet sound fled. The stranger reiterated their words, the tone soft, soothing, and warm, almost familiar. But deep within, a sorrow dwelled, quiet but real. One built upon knowing love, loss, and suffering.

"Azrete."

"Why are you calling the dead? Try her real name," a hard voice criticized.

"My daughter's not dead you lout. Did your father forget manners in his teachings?" The pleasing sound morphed into a feral roar, pricking her eardrums.

"Azrete, your daughter, is dead. Get over it, old man."

A harsh smack echoed throughout the hollow basin. "Silence."

"How shocking," the man spat, "my father clearly forgot to teach me your manners."

"It's called the manners of the wise. Do you plan to make enemies every which way and back? You'll do good to watch your mouth. Especially if you desire a longer life than your Human counterpart."

Isla inched open her heavy eyelids. Curiosity beamed from her pores, every ounce intrigued from their talkative smattering. She wanted to know. Who exactly were these two men? Were they Nobles? They had to be, only a fool like herself would roam the Chaos Realm an enemy.

Still, a Noble possessing a charm inducing voice who pronounced words with silken bliss. Each enunciation glissaded over the man's lips, loving and alluring. The name he spoke entranced her, but not a woman's heartthrob. No, he produced her ideal comfort and relaxation. She thought of home or the closest to it.

Azrete. Why did this name evoke such deep feelings?

Her eyes revealed the molten cavern, her body no longer hanging from rust crusted manacles. Instead, her head rested upon a muscular thigh, tough but radiating warmth.

She stared into the Demon cradling her. Strands of black hair drooped forward as he tilted his head, rich velvet eyes peering back. His gaze softened, searching hers. A frown adhered to his face, but the corners tugged upwards.

Lucifer.

Her voice eluded her mind. A parched desert scorched her throat. The heat wrapped her insides, penetrating and dehydrating her cells.

"No need to speak, my dear. Relax." Lucifer patted her head.

"We don't have much time. If they find us here and now, we'll lose our chance," commented the Noble squatting next to her.

"Now, now. There's plenty of time." His body shifted and his free hand returned with a topped metal cylinder. "Drink now, and freshen up." Lucifer tilted her chin and leaned the drink towards her.

Icy water flowed down her throat, the liquid placating the dryness. She inhaled the contents, consuming the overflowing drink. Isla coughed, water streaming from her chin, forcing Lucifer to remove the container.

"Easy, dear."

She breathed deep, clearing her throat. "How?" Her voice cracked.

"The same way the others found you. Your aura. I would say it's not a commonality here."

"But how did you know it was me?" she questioned.

She understood the meager amounts of aura attached to the Rat-Bats had located her. But could he not have assumed any other being who exploited magic? Could her soul have been exposed? No, impossible, not even the assumption held substance.