Page 76 of The Heart of Nym (The Twisted Roots Duology #1)

Hilla was an herbal witch. They'd known one another from spending time together in the courtesan wing, but had never spoken beyond rudimentary subjects.

Nymiria certainly never would have suspected that she would have done any type of magic at all.

Even Lorelei, the woman who accompanied her, dabbled in the art of witchcraft. Nymiria was surprised.

According to Aziel, Hilla had been supplying him with salves for his scars for years and she'd even been the one to slip tonics into the drinks the other night.

He still hadn't explained where the scars came from, but it was not her place to ask.

Especially not at a time like this when they'd both worn their souls ragged with truths.

Although Hilla explained that the Rune Witch was within the palace, they were taking extra precautions to conceal her identity. She was young—a child, really, and Lorelie and Hilla had risked their own necks just to be able to speak to her.

"She's protected by an old woman who runs a pastry stall in the market." Lorelei explained. Nymiria's heart sank, Dieve's image filling her mind. Aziel looked over at her, seemingly already knowing exactly who they were talking about as well.

From Dieve's insinuations, she had a rather close relationship with Aziel. "Has she ever mentioned anything to you about a witch?" Nymiria asked.

Aziel ran a hand through his hair as he shook his head. "I knew she was a Mystic, but she'd never said anything about being a witch."

"She's a kitchen witch." Hilla amended.

Nymiria sighed, smirking. "That sneaky little devil."

Hilla looked between the two of them, fingers knotting in front of her. “The Rune Witch is an important witch to any coven, sometimes groomed to be Mistress depending on their skill level. Only one is birthed every three hundred years.”

“Who was the last?” Nymiria asked.

Lorelei was the next to speak, trembling and nervous as she took to her friend’s side. “We are not certain. It seems that they—Dieve—does not want anyone to know. She won’t tell us.”

“And Dieve is that revered in your community?”

“She’s the eldest. She is what one would consider to be our record keep and our scribe, but also our greatest protector.

Though she is but a kitchen witch, her capabilities are not limited to just that.

” Lorelei explained. “She has studied every craft and has enough knowledge of them to help all of us perfect.”

Aziel released a sigh, fingers digging into the inner corners of his eyes. Nymiria tracked his movements as he walked to the large crushed velvet chair on the far side of the room and took a seat. The life seemed to deplete from him, his shoulders sagging.

“Are you alright?” Nymiria asked. He nodded silently.

“Is it your hands?” Hilla chimed. Nymiria’s gaze flickered between the two, her brow furrowing when she saw the look of intense worry on the witch’s face. Aziel still remained silent, but his eyes were now open and he was glaring in Hilla’s direction. “Forget I asked.” She grumbled.

The witches dismissed themselves not long after, leaving Nymiria and Aziel to themselves. She waited until footsteps could no longer be heard before turning to him, eyes trailing from his face to his hands as he thumbed through a book on the desk.

“So, the two of you are close?” She huffed.

Aziel frowned. “Not in the way you think. Aside from her helping me manage my… hands,” He grumbled. “We don’t do much else.”

Nymiria rolled her eyes before fixing him with them, arms folded perfectly across her chest. “You’ve bedded her.”

“A momentary lapse in judgment on my part, if we are being honest. I feel awful about it, truly.”

“You should.”

“Why?” He smirked. “Does it bother you?”

Nymiria wanted to throttle him. Not just for his cocky demeanor, but for the irritating truth that, yes, it did bother her. And it had since the moment she saw them together. “Do you want it to bother me?”

Aziel shrugged. “Yes, I do.”

They stared at one another, unblinking, until her skin felt as if it would burst into flames. She didn’t know much about the inner-workings of a mating bond, but she was almost certain that this new heat in her body was to blame for it.

She was finally able to look away from him, clearing her throat as she stepped closer to him. "Thank you," Nymiria whispered. "For helping me find the witch I needed. You didn't have to, considering you have no idea why I need one."

Aziel flicked the book closed, his blue eyes clouded with a rage that was not directed towards her.

She'd seen this look before, already knowing that he was hurting for her.

Again. Willing to tear the world apart to defend her without question.

"I know exactly why you need one." It was all he said before closing the space between them, drawing her close enough so that their lips brushed when he spoke again.

"I'll tell you again something that I have said from the beginning.

Whenever you are finally free from the evil that binds you… aim for the heart."

"I will." She pressed a smile onto her face, hoping that it would be enough. Knowing that she was close to having her powers returned should have been a comfort, but there was an inexplicable fear inside of her—a fear of the unknown, a fear of the responsibility that would follow.

His finger pressed against the underside of her chin, gently forcing her to look up at him. "I have somewhere I need to go." Nymiria frowned. "I'll be back before sunset."

Being the God of Death came with great responsibility.

One of those responsibilities being that he was in charge of keeping the Otherworld in order.

It wasn't too hard of a job and it often came with perks—whether it was contacting deceased friends or torturing some bastard that had caused immeasurable amounts of pain on the corporeal plane, he rather enjoyed both.

A few months prior, he'd had a run-in with a Necromancer that was trying to resurrect the brother of the woman he loved.

Aziel didn't usually allow necromancy in his realms, but the poor bastard seemed desperate.

He could allow it a few times. Plus, whoever this Necromancer was, did a pretty good job at taking care of the hell hounds.

Every time that Aziel traveled to the realms of hell, it’d always been with the purpose of inflicting pain upon those who most deserved it.

It only bothered him sometimes, that he was the one who decided the punishments for those depraved souls.

He felt it instilled in him a sort of confidence that had the potential to become quite dangerous.

There was a fine line when it came to power and there were many who crossed it completely, without an ounce of remorse or humility.

The realm of hell that he was now standing in was his humility—a prison fortified by the nightmares of his own making.

A realm for the lost souls who were still tethered to the earth or earthly things.

But not all the souls who wandered this prison were lost, some of them remained with a purpose from their past life that’d followed them to their graves.

Owen Dochartaigh was not a hard man to find.

As a form of gratitude for protecting someone that meant the world to him, Aziel had given Owen one of the most honorable jobs in all the realms of hell.

He was right where Aziel had left him—in that small cabin on the banks of the river of souls, his vacant eyes keeping a close watch on each soul that passed through on their journey.

Some of them would pass through the realm, drifting so far that their souls would eventually vanish into the ether.

The others would veer right, towards the large mouth of the caves that would ensnare them for all eternity, haunted and tortured by sluaghs and other fomorians of the sort—monstrous creatures, really.

Even Aziel felt fear when looking upon their grotesque forms.

He drew in a deep breath, removing the gloves from his hands and stuffing them into his pocket before falling into place beside Owen.

Both of them watched as a soul drifted past them, her hands outstretched and gripping at the surface of the water, as if she were still trying to grip onto the memories of the life she was leaving behind.

Owen acknowledged him after a few more moments of silence, eyes flickering from the curved black horns on Aziel’s head to his scarred hands before settling on his face.

In hell, Aziel took his godly form, his hair turning black as night and those curved horns sprouting from his head.

He wasn't too thrilled with how it made him look, but Teigh claimed that it was necessary—that the creatures of the Otherworld need to know who was in command. “Haven’t seen you around these parts in quite some time.”

Aziel nodded. “I’ve been particularly busy.”

“Aye,” Owen smirked. “Liberating the Mother’s Devils, or so I’ve heard. Founding your own kingdom, too.”

“Thorn is founding the kingdom. I am just delivering his people.” Owen didn’t respond to this. He just kept his gaze fixed on the souls passing through. “How has the weather been?” Aziel sighed.

A smile spread across Owen’s face. Even in death, his dimples were as charming as ever. “Quite dreary, I must say. I haven’t seen the sun in what feels like years.”

Aziel huffed, folding his arms over his chest as he looked at the dark horizon with thoughtful eyes. “Perhaps I can work some magic and make that happen for you, old friend.”

Old friend.

The words lingered between the two of them, both with arms folded across their chests. There was enough tension between them that you could nearly see it.

Owen knew why he’d come.

He looked solemn as he stared out at the open waters, grey eyes that were once a vibrant green narrowed at the storm roiling just over the mouth of the cave. “You best get out with it,” Owen started. “Storm’s blowing in quickly.”