—Is this how I die?
He felt warm liquid cover the floor, pooling beneath him like a grotesque bed. The smell was sharp—metallic, pungent. Iron. Blood. Unmistakably his own.
—I need to get up… I can't die here. Not after everything…
His body failed him miserably. All sensation in his lower body had long since vanished. Only a faint tingling stirred in his fingers, brought on by his frantic, futile attempts to move.
It was no wonder he couldn't move. His upper torso had been severed, violently torn from his lower half, almost like the aftermath of a high-speed car accident. But that was impossible here.
The cathedral's vast interior bathed in dim moonlight through stained glass, casting faint colors on the marble floor and art-covered walls, silent witnesses to the horror.
—Water. Please… just a little water…
He muttered under his breath, weakly and with a trembling voice. Every ounce of strength he had left was spent just to keep his head lifted, just enough to stop himself from drowning in his own blood.
The church bell rang; it was nighttime now, thus the ringing was irregular. It should only ring at 9 a.m., noon, and 3 p.m. as a call to prayer, yet it was already dusk.
—Am I hallucinating?..
By then, he had passed the point where his senses could be trusted; it was likely all in his head.
"Azrael."
A woman's voice called for him—high-pitched, soft, and velvety.
This too, he thought, was definitely a product of his imagination—but strangely, it brought him a trace of comfort.
"Azrael!"
This time, the voice called out more strongly, yet its softness and warmth remained.
Azrael wrestled his fading consciousness back for a fleeting moment, summoning the last of his strength to search for the woman. When nothing met his gaze, he surrendered once more.
"Quickly come find me!"
At that moment, Azrael Cromwell drew his final breath.