Instead, I've been mostly silent. Moving through my own tasks with mechanical precision while trying to sort through why this human has taken up so much mental space in less than two weeks.
Irritation flickers every time I look at her. That much is consistent. The way she moves too confidently around the beasts. The casual defiance in her posture even when she's being careful not to speak out of turn. The fact that she looked at Azhrael on her first day andsmiled, like the most dangerous creature in my stable was something to be approached with warmth rather than appropriate caution.
But then I remember the dream. Her laugh. The way she felt in my arms.
And the irritation tangles with something else I don't have a name for.
Focus. I have actual work to do.
Azhrael has been temperamental as fuck since yesterday. Worse than usual, refusing commands he's never refused before, snapping at me when I try to adjust his containment field. The beast needs to get out of his enclosure—no creature, no matter how dangerous, should be confined indefinitely. The volcanic pastures beyond the estate exist specifically for this purpose, giving the beasts space to roam under controlled conditions.
But getting Azhrael out requires bridling him first. And bridling him requires cooperation I'm clearly not going to receive today.
I approach his enclosure with the containment bridle and he immediately backs away, his massive form shifting into a defensive posture. His eyes—those luminous voids that registertoo much awareness—fix on me with what can only be described as resentment.
Oddly, it does not feel with the same emotion as it does when Lenna looks at me that way.
"We're doing this," I tell him. Firm. Direct. The tone that has always worked before.
He growls low, the sound reverberating through the stone.
I step closer, maintaining eye contact, projecting authority through posture and presence. "You need to feed properly. That requires leaving this space. Which requires the bridle. You know this."
Azhrael is the only beast I own completely. He is not one I am moving, training, or mending. He is mine and mine alone because I am the only one who can handle him. Who will care for him.
Apparently, he's decided one-sidedly that we are done with that arrangement.
Another growl, deeper this time. He shifts his weight, and I can see the tension coiling through his form. Ready to resist.
Fine. We can do this the difficult way.
I extend my power, reaching for the binding threads that anchor him to my authority. They're still there—I can feel them—but they'redifferent. Looser. Like he's testing the limits of his obedience rather than accepting it as absolute.
The bridle moves forward, suspended in my magic, and Azhrael snaps at it. Teeth like obsidian blades close on the containment field instead, and the wards flare bright enough to make me squint.
"Stop."
He doesn't.
I push harder, forcing the binding threads tighter, and he roars. The sound fills the entire stable, making the other beasts react with agitation of their own. Vexris slams into her barrier.Khorvas rears back from his feeding station. Even Sythrak, usually calm, begins pacing.
This is getting out of control.
I try again, approaching from a different angle, but Azhrael's resistance only intensifies. He's not just refusing the bridle—he's refusingme. Actively pushing back against my authority in ways that should be impossible for a bound beast.
After the third failed attempt, I step back and exhale slowly through my nose.
This is her fault. Has to be. Ever since Lenna arrived, Azhrael has been different. Like her presence shifted something fundamental in how he responds to containment, to control, tome.
I glance toward where she's working near the supply station. Still quiet. Still deliberately not looking my way.
An idea forms. One I immediately hate.
If Azhrael responds to her—and he clearly does, given how he calmed instantly when she approached—then maybe she can get close enough to allow the bridling. It's practical. Efficient. Makes use of the strange connection between them that I still don't fully understand.
It's also potentially suicidal for her.
The thought makes something stutter in my chest. A skip-beat of alarm that has no logical basis because if she dies, she dies. One human laborer is replaceable. I've lost dozens over the years to various stable accidents. Her death would be unfortunate but ultimately inconsequential in the larger scope of operations, especially since she's the one that has insisted on getting near them.
