Trumpet blasts gave Azazel a startled awakening.

The angel flailed about on his bed, his wings knocking things off his shelves and dresser. Tangled in the blankets, he fell onto the floor in a heap. The sound of breaking glass, followed by the burning stench of hard alcohol reminded him of the whiskey bottle he’d accidentally left wedged between the headboards and the wall.

He recalled that the castle guard had told him before about the different trumpet blasts and what they meant, but at the moment he couldn’t recall. The arrival of refugees, an approaching enemy army, and a monster in the castle were just a few among many possible meanings the signal could have.

Thinking quickly, Azazel decided it was best to prepare for the worst of these possibilities and, if it were something less dire, he could breathe a sigh of relief once he knew for sure.

Stumbling around the room, he scrambled to open his wardrobe and throw on his trousers and tunic. His wings tore the fabric of the top, causing the holes once just big enough for his pinions to squeeze through to stretch down to the hem below his waist. Hoping to cover up this embarrassing gaffe, he fumbled with his breast-plate, but the straps wouldn’t connect right, so he threw it on the ground and draped a red cape over his back.

With no armor, he’d need to be especially careful if it was, indeed, an attack. He picked up his sword belt and strapped it around his waist, then tied his seleni pouch to the belt.

Outside, he could hear the marching footsteps of the castle guard assembling in the courtyard.

Boots…

The first boot slipped on easily, but the second caught on his heel, and he hopped around on the other foot as he tried to force the boot on. Just as the boot finally gave way, he lost his balance and tumbled out the front door of his room, toppling over the tower’s battlements.

His wings spread wide, he caught the wind and slowed his fall, though not enough to land on his feet. He crashed into a wagon full of hay beside the stables, sending golden straw into the air in an allergenic cloud.

With watery eyes and a running nose, Azazel clambered out of the wagon and to his feet. He caught sight of his own reflection in a puddle on the ground and knew he was a ridiculous sight for one who was supposed to be king. Bits of straw stuck in his bird’s nest hair, neither his tunic nor his boots were laced, and the cape he’d thrown over his back now draped over his chest.

“Your majesty,” came a low, metallic voice from nearby, just as a coat slipped around his shoulders and over his folded wings. The Knight of Thorns stood beside him, one gauntlet on Azazel’s shoulder.

“Thank you, sir,” said Azazel, picking the hay from his hair.

“You needn’t have hurried so,” said the Knight of Thorns. “That’s the signal that a desperate visitor has arrived.”

“...Oh…”

The Knight of Thorns helped Azazel fix himself up a bit, lacing up his tunic. “Still, it’s good to see you’re a king who cares more about helping his people than about looking good.”

Azazel chuckled. “After what happened to me in Godsmouth, not sure I can afford to worry about looking good anymore.”

The Knight of Thorns stared at him, his steel visor as unreadable as ever.

Azazel turned to the guards entering through the gate, with three people walking between them with ragged cloaks on their backs. All of the travelers were pale and dirty, their hair a tangled mess on their heads, and their eyes exhausted. The king made his way over to them, making a few more adjustments to his clothing as he went.

“Can we… I mean…” Azazel considered his words for a moment. Then, in a more commanding voice, called out, “Get these people water, and prepare guest beds for them in the great hall!”

“Yes, my liege!” the servants called back.

As they scrambled to fulfill Azazel’s orders, he approached the three strangers and placed his hands on the shoulders of the older man and the older woman. “I assure you, you’re safe now. Whatever has brought you here, it will not trouble you any longer.”

The youngest of the travelers, a boy of about 14 winters, stared down at the ground and mumbled to himself. Though his voice was low, Azazel caught the words, “If only… the memories will never leave me…”

The angel king looked upon this young traveler with sympathy. “What happened to you?”

The older woman looked up at Azazel, and as her eyes met his he realized that in spite of her wispy, white hair, she was only in her thirties at the oldest. Whatever she’d seen had done this to her, made her old far before her time.

“A garden of jidra… well-fed on the flesh of… of men and women… oh, gods! It’s the end of the world!” She trembled and lost her balance. Azazel caught her just before her knees hit the ground.

The older man fell to his knees and wept aloud. “Oh, sweet Enlil, return to us! Without you, Sygin has won! Such evil… such evil in the world…”