MistNovel - Read Web Novel Stories & Fiction Online

The evening light was dying when Azrael returned. Trixie had spent the day oscillating between panic and desperate exploration. The bathing chamber, all marble and candlelight, had no lock from the inside. The wardrobe held a dozen gowns in black, burgundy, and forest green, along with underclothes and slippers. None of her own things. Everything fit perfectly, as if made specifically for her. She had chosen a deep emerald gown that brought out the honey gold of her eyes, then hated herself for caring what she looked like. A brief glimpse of her reflection in a polished sconce showed a pale stranger with wide, defiant eyes staring back, fragile and ethereal in the rich fabric, a stark contrast to the churning fury inside.
When he arrived, he was no longer dressed casually. He wore an immaculate black coat over a white shirt, his dark hair tied back with a cord of black silk. He looked like a figure from a Gothic novel, dangerous and beautiful in equal measure.
"You have changed," he observed, his gaze sweeping over her.
"It seemed preferable to wearing a nightgown all day," Trixie said coolly.
He inclined his head slightly, conceding the point. "Come."
"Where?" she asked, but found herself already moving, compelled by a dangerous curiosity that warred with her instinct for self-preservation.
"I have a gift for you."
He led her down candlelit corridors, through passages that twisted and turned. The manor was impossibly vast, a reality she attributed to magic. The library, she noted as they passed a towering portrait gallery, lay three corridors west of her chambers, a small detail she filed away for her mental map of this opulent prison.
They arrived at double doors carved with astronomical symbols. Azrael pushed them open, revealing a vast library. The room was cathedral-like, shelves rising three stories high, a ladder on wheels running along the towering rows of books. The air smelled of aged paper, leather, and something ancient and unknowable. Candelabras cast warm light over reading tables and leather chairs.
"Oh," Trixie breathed, genuinely stunned. This was a place she could lose herself in.
"You enjoy reading, yes? I noticed you had a Shakespeare anthology in your apartment when Kai was courting you." The casual mention of Kai's surveillance made her skin crawl, but her eyes were already scanning the shelves, drawn to titles in languages she recognized and others she did not: poetry, philosophy, grimoires bound in what looked like bone, manuscripts predating the printing press.
"This is incredible," she said quietly.
"Yes." Azrael moved toward one of the tables. "I have brought you here for a reason beyond indulgence, however."
Trixie's brief moment of wonder evaporated. Of course there was a reason. Of course nothing came freely from him. This was a test, a calculated move. Was he genuinely impressed, or was this all part of a larger plan to control her? That uncertainty, that lack of clarity, was more unsettling than any direct threat.
"I wish to test something," he continued. He placed a small, ancient-looking book on the table. Its cover was bound in silver, symbols covering every inch, some familiar, others utterly foreign.
"A test?" she asked.
"A riddle, to be precise. One asked by my kind for three thousand years. Few humans have solved it. I am curious whether you possess the intellect I believe you possess." He opened the book to a page of dense script in an unknown language. Below it, in flowing English, was a riddle:
*"I am not alive, yet I grow. I am not a voice, yet I speak the truth. I exist in all things, yet I am seen by few. What am I?"*
Trixie read it thrice. It was the kind of riddle she loved. She moved to a nearby shelf, pulling down volumes of philosophy and mathematics, cross-referencing theories. Azrael watched, silent and unreadable. An hour passed. Then two. So absorbed, she nearly forgot he was there until she suddenly stood, turning to face him, her honey eyes bright.
"Death," she said. "The answer is death. It is not alive, but it grows in time. It is not a voice, but its truth is undeniable and universal. It exists in all things, all living things, and everything that has ever been alive carries it within them, yet few people acknowledge it or face it directly. Most of us live in denial of it until the very end."
For a long moment, Azrael simply stared at her. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not kind, but filled with satisfaction, and something like hunger.
"Remarkable," he said softly. "Not one human in ten thousand would connect the riddle to mortality. The intellect required to make that leap is rare indeed." Trixie felt a flush of pride despite everything. She hated herself for it immediately. She was his captive, yet she still craved his approval, a dangerous, insidious shift in her mind.
"Your reward," he continued, moving to the shelves for a volume bound in dark leather. "Knowledge is power, little one. The more you understand about my kind, the better equipped you will be to navigate your new circumstances. This text will be particularly illuminating for someone of your burgeoning capabilities."
He placed the book in her hands. The cover read, in gold lettering, "The Celestial Pact: A History of Demon-Kind and the Ancient Wars."
"This is yours to read. All of it. You may spend as many hours in this library as you wish, provided you do not attempt to breach its wards or take anything beyond its threshold." He paused. "The library is one of the few places in the manor where you have genuine autonomy. I suggest you take advantage of it." He turned to leave. "You will continue to impress me, or you will become merely beautiful," he said without turning around. "Decide which you wish to be." The doors closed silently behind him.