Zaviel

Zaviel froze. That wasn’t a plea. It was a command. Smooth and sweet, like honey over poison.

He smelled it then—copper and salt, unmistakable. Blood. Fresh. zaviel

Every night, as the clock crawled toward twelve, the world turned strange. Shadows grew teeth. Silence developed a pulse. And if Zaviel so much as blinked with his eyes open past the witching hour, he would see them —the Weepers. Zaviel froze