The Duke's Slave Daughter

Discovery in the Snow

Duke Azrael’s nights had been tortured by dreams—dreams that blurred the line between reality and nightmare. Images of his late wife, Cytherea, haunted him, entwined with the memory of a girl he once knew: Urania. Her face appeared in his mind, as vivid as ever, and each time, a coldness spread through him.

Enough was enough.

The Duke stood in the dim light of dawn, the air crisp with the cold bite of winter. His breath came in short, visible bursts as he prepared to leave his chambers. The time for questions, for fleeting doubts, was over. If this madness—this confusion—was a trick, a manipulation by Urania or some darker force, he would end it.

I must end this, Azrael muttered, his voice hoarse with frustration as he adjusted his cloak. This madness must stop. I will not let her haunt me any longer.

His knuckles tightened around the hilt of his sword, and his mind was set. The winter forest—silent and unforgiving—was the place he chose to confront his confusion. He would seek clarity, a final answer, and perhaps, even peace.

The forest was still and desolate. Snow clung heavily to the branches, and the distant howling of wolves seemed muffled by the thick fog that blanketed the land. As Azrael trudged deeper into the forest, the cold gnawed at his bones, yet his mind was colder still. His boots crunched in the snow, breaking the silence as he ventured further, his thoughts clouded by the haunting images of Cytherea and Urania.

Then, ahead in the clearing, he saw her.

A figure stood against the storm, bathed in a strange, unnatural light. She was a girl, no older than he remembered her being, with hair as white as the snow around her. Her ruby-red eyes shimmered like jewels, contrasting sharply with the bloodstained clothes that clung to her small frame. In her hand, she held a monstrous beast by the throat—its form distorted and grotesque, but lifeless nonetheless.

Azrael's breath caught in his throat, and without thinking, the word slipped from his lips.

“Cytherea?”

He took a cautious step forward, but the girl turned slowly toward him. The resemblance was uncanny—the same delicate features, the same ruby eyes that once looked so lovingly into his own. But this girl, this creature, felt wrong. Her presence sent a shiver down his spine.

The beast she held in her grasp was massive—a testament to the deadly power she possessed. It was a monstrous thing, and yet there was no warmth in her expression. Only cold.

Cytherea? Azrael whispered again, his heart pounding in his chest. What… what is this?

The girl’s lips barely moved as she spoke, her voice cold and empty, like the winter winds that howled through the trees.

“I am Urania.”

Azrael stumbled back, his mind scrambling to comprehend. Urania? The name fell from her lips like a lifeless thing, but it was enough to bring him to his senses. This girl—this woman—was not Cytherea. She was the girl who had caused so much turmoil in his life. Yet she didn’t look the same. Her eyes, once full of fire and joyful thoughts, were now vacant. Empty.

"Urania… but you... you shouldn't be alive. You were dead. How is this possible?" Azrael muttered, his voice filled with disbelief as he struggled to make sense of the vision before him.

Urania’s gaze remained blank, her blood-streaked skin pale against the snow. She didn’t respond, her eyes glazed over as though she didn’t recognize him—or perhaps she didn’t care to.

"I don't understand..." Azrael whispered to himself, a cold dread settling in his chest. "How could you have survived? How could this be?"

Before Azrael could process what was happening, a low growl broke through the air. The snow shifted at the edge of the clearing, and from the shadows emerged a massive white wolf. Its fur gleamed against the darkness, and its eyes, too, were an unnatural shade of gold, glowing faintly in the dim light. It growled once more, a deep, primal warning, its body rigid and protective.

Azrael froze. The wolf’s gaze locked on him, sharp and calculating, and its growl deepened.

“This… this cannot be happening,” Azrael muttered to himself, taking a cautious step back. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword. “How did you survive? Why didn’t you die?”

The wolf, still guarding Urania, took a step forward, its movements graceful and lethal. It stood beside the girl, its eyes never leaving Azrael, daring him to approach.

The Duke’s mind raced. The forest was known for its dangers—few came out alive, and those who did were marked by the harshness of it. Yet Urania stood here, alive, untouched, and—strangely—protected by a wolf that seemed more than just an ordinary animal.

Urania... Azrael whispered, but his voice cracked. This was not the girl he remembered. Her transformation was too much to comprehend.

Azrael’s mind buzzed with suspicion and confusion. Something was wrong. There was no logical explanation for this—Urania should be dead, and yet here she was, standing before him, as though she had never left.

He glanced down at her bloodied form. The forest was treacherous, known for taking even the strongest down. But she had survived. How?

His gaze shifted back to the wolf. Its stance was protective, almost as though it had been waiting for him to make a move. It was unnatural, a warning he couldn’t ignore.

“Take her,” Azrael commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the cold air. His mind was spinning, but he knew one thing for sure: something was wrong. “We will return to the Duchy immediately. She is to be questioned and treated for her wounds. No one survives the winter forest unless something aided her survival.”

The knights who accompanied him nodded in unison, their expressions taut with tension. They slowly approached the girl, and though the wolf growled. As the knights cautiously approached Urania, their eyes fixed warily on the massive white wolf beside her, tension filled the air. The wolf stood like a sentinel, its hackles raised and eyes glowing with an eerie intensity, clearly sensing the knights' intent. The soldiers instinctively tightened their grips on their weapons, ready for a fight if the wolf lunged at them.

Azrael, sensing the brewing conflict, raised a hand to halt them. His voice was firm but measured as he addressed his men.

"Hold," the Duke commanded. "Do not provoke it."

The knights froze, their eyes shifting between the Duke and the snarling wolf. Azrael stepped forward, slowly lowering himself into a cautious bow before the wolf, his movements deliberate and respectful. His mind raced as he tried to calm the beast without appearing weak, yet aware of the danger it posed.

"We will not harm her," Azrael spoke gently, though his words were a lie. "We are only concerned for her well-being. She is gravely injured, and we wish to treat her wounds."

The knights hesitated, their motions slower now, taking heed of the Duke’s unspoken command to tread carefully. One of them took a tentative step forward, keeping his distance from the wolf but trying to approach Urania. The wolf’s stance tensed immediately, its body language shifting from defensive to threatening, but it did not move.

Azrael’s eyes flickered to the wolf, his gaze steady. "We’ll treat her wounds, nothing more," he repeated softly. "Allow us to care for her. She is in no condition to resist."

With the wolf’s attention momentarily distracted by Azrael’s calm demeanor, the knight took another careful step forward, this time with a gentler approach, moving slowly toward Urania’s side. The wolf’s eyes never left him, but its posture relaxed, ever so slightly.

Azrael kept his distance, knowing the wolf’s wariness would not subside so easily. But for now, the tension between them had eased—if only for a moment. The Duke’s thoughts remained focused on what lay ahead, the truth that Urania held, and the dangerous unpredictability of the forces at play.

Urania didn’t resist as the knights carefully bound her arms and began to lead her away. Her body was limp, her eyes unfocused, as though she were nothing more than a hollow shell. She didn’t speak, didn’t react to the world around her.

Azrael's frown deepened. She was so different now—like a shadow of her former self. She had once been full of life, full of fire. But now, she was nothing more than a puppet.

The wolf, still watchful, moved alongside them, keeping a close distance, but it never strayed too far. Azrael felt the weight of its gaze, cold and calculating, as if it were measuring every move.

“Let’s go,” Azrael ordered, motioning for the knights to proceed. He couldn’t afford to hesitate. The Duchy awaited, and with it, answers.

As they moved through the snow, the silence between them was palpable. Azrael's mind was consumed by questions. Why had Urania survived? Why was she so different? And what had happened to her?

For now, there would be no answers. Only the cold, and the quiet, as they made their way back to the Duchy.