Azrael's Whisper

Deep in a nameless forest, where the moon refuses to shine, lived Azrael, a demon made of shadows and with eyes that burned like coal. His existence was a cursed echo: condemned to wander among twisted roots, feeding on the fear of those who dared to cross his realm. But Azrael did not roar like the beasts of hell; his power lay in poisoned verses, rhymes that chained souls to his will. Until one night, a different voice echoed among the trees.

"I am the shadow that dances in your sleep, the dark verse, the eternal master, but today, light-footed traveler,
why does your soul not cry out... nor fear me?"

The intruder was a young woman with a star-studded cloak tangled in her hair, barefoot and unarmed. In her hands, she held an empty book, with pages as white as the snow that had never fallen in that place.

Azrael, intrigued, raised his claw, but she didn't back down. Instead, she opened the book and murmured, "I will write your story, demon, but only if you find a rhyme that doesn't speak of pain."

"A rhyme without tears? Insolent creature!

¿Do you not know that my tongue is bitterness?"

"Try it," she said, "perhaps in your verse, there is a true name... not just evil."

Azrael roared, and the forest trembled. Words were his prison: every poem he created was a noose of thorns. But as he looked at the book, he felt something forgotten: the weight of a name he no longer used, "Luciel," whispered in a time before his exile. With a broken voice, he recited:

"I am Luciel, who once sang to the light. I fell out of pride, today I am guardian of the cross, but if your pen absolves me with ink, perhaps this shadow... will learn to be virtue."

And so, between rhymes and silences, the nameless forest began to vibrate... with hope.