To dream of death is to dance with none other than a prince of Hell.

At least that's what Azima's mother always told her... before she was run through by the barbed tail of a biju demon.

Regardless, Alara Rousseau was nothing if not dramatic, even after her death, and her warning remained with Azima well after the funeral pyre's ashes were cold and scattered.

The dawn. The dusk. Heaven. Hell. The forest. The seas...

The impact of the flat of the broadsword against the back of her knee caught Azima off-guard, and the sound of steel against leather reverberated throughout the wooded clearing. The instinctual defensive swing of her own sword carried her forward, almost to the point of falling into the dirt.

Chey, her mother's Imerman—chosen by her for procreation and partnership— was Azima's mentor by default, and he scowled at her from across the training circle. He watched her with a judgmental gaze as she straightened up and readied herself to parry his next attack.

"Where did you go last night?" he asked, remaining where he stood instead of making an advance, the sound of metal sliding against leather audible as he sheathed his sword.

"I didn't go anywhere," she countered, catching his gaze with her own.

Beyond, Azima Rousseau. He awaits you beyond.

You've already taken one of us, she had heard herself say into the darkest corner of her room while the soft tendrils of death wafted through Azima's bedroom window. But she didn't need to see the black serpentine arms spiraling through the dense evening air to know she was dreaming. The candle had died down hours ago, only moonlight shining through the room's single window.

I am not here to take another Rousseau, a hoarse whisper hissed from that dark corner. I am here to warn you.

Consider this as you will, Azima Rousseau, the voice had purred along her skin like a lover's caress.

Who? she asked, her voice unnaturally steady even in the dream.

You know I cannot tell you that.

Then why come at all?

You deserve time to prepare, for what awaits you beyond.

"Azima?"

She blinked and realized Chey hadn't moved one inch from where he stood across from her. His brawny arms crossed over his chest while his sword hung from his belt.

Though she hadn't received the naturally dark tan of his complexion, his eyes were a mirror of her own, an inheritance of midnight flecked with golden stars. With his dark curls falling in his face from where they had escaped from the tail at the nape of his neck, and his teeth so perfect she wanted to punch them in just out of spite...

"What are you doing?" she snapped incredulously. "You're supposed to help train me to fight. So... help!"

He raised a brow, and she debated throwing her sword at his face.

"I'll train you when I know you're actually here to be trained," he said. "You had a dream last night, didn't you?"

"So what if I did?" she countered defensively, shaking her head as if to rid it of the memory of the dark wisps.

"It's in your stance," Chey observed. "You're distracted."

"So?"

"So?" he scoffed.

"It was just a dream." But she hadn't had a dream like that for the last two years, not since her mother died. For it to be so lucid, and for it to specifically mention her mother's demise...

"You're beyond your eighteenth year," Chey continued to prattle on. "You should have been on the road seeking out your own Imerman months ago."

"Perhaps I'm just content to stay here with you." She grinned deviously, ready to change the subject.

He pursed his lips. "You understand we are sworn to serve. To protect. To—"

"Don't." She had heard it too many times before.

"The line will end with you, Azima, if you don't start putting in the effort."

She scowled at him. Mainly because he was right.

The Rousseaus, like all great Venandi families, relied on the Imerai to not only train and mentor them throughout their lives as demon hunters but also to help carry on their bloodline. Just as the Imermen depended on the hunters to continue their own lineages, so too did the hunters require such a service from the Imerai. And no others. Those touched by the heavens had strict obligations to one another, and only to one another. Rumors circulated of Venandi and Imerai who dared lay with one other than those chosen, and their lines were never carried on after. So, with each dependent on the other, the female offspring hunted the denizens of Hell while the males journeyed to the Parish for their own training. At eighteen, male and female alike left home to meet, procreate, and train their own line to deliver the Venandi's brand of peace to the world. Azima, closer now to nineteen than eighteen, should have left months ago.

The dreams, however... they had kept her home. Or at least the threat of them returning had. They were an excuse to keep her close to what was familiar, and away from the unknown.

It was also why she continued to train with Chey. And often. Not only to maintain her physical prowess as a Venandi, but to prepare her for the day she could finally deliver vengeance on those responsible for the death of her mother. Whoever they were. Wherever they might be.

Beyond...

"How did my mother find you?" she asked suddenly, halting Chey's reprimands.

"You know well enough–"

"Tell me again." She knew their story, but the dream from the night before rattled her enough to ask again.

Sheathing her sword into the scabbard along her back, she shrugged the tension from her shoulders. Her movements were as clear as a spoken request—she would not continue until he gave her the information she was looking for.

The Imerman sighed and began buttoning his long, dusty brown jacket over his chest, a sign that he, too, would no longer be training if she insisted they talk instead. Azima used the hem of her loose linen shirt to wipe the sweat from her brow, rubbing her palms over her leather pants before she bent over to retrieve the skins of water waiting for them.

Her braid fell over her shoulder, golden brown in the afternoon sun, and she threw it behind her back. She cursed her hair for always being in her way. She knew she should have cut it years ago—its length was a liability. All it would take was one ill-placed demonic claw...

But it was the same shade as her mother's. And her mother had always loved her hair, and to cut it off would sever the last physical bond she had with her.

Straightening, she brought the skins of water to where Chey sat along the outer edge of the training circle. Delineated by logs placed years ago, it resembled a diamond more than a ring. It served its purpose in the clearing behind her mother's cottage, far enough away to still see the small homestead but not so close the sounds of late-night or early-morning sparring would bother any sleeping inhabitants. Not that there was anyone other than Chey and herself. But it was home, and when she left to set off on her own path when Chey grew old enough to retire to the Parish, she hoped someone else would appreciate its solitude as much as she had.

"We were on our own separate missions," Chey said as she took a seat next to him. "I was traveling south from the Parish, and she towards it. She promised to find me when she was finished, and she did."

Of course, she promised.

Alara Rousseau never broke a promise. Above all else, it was the one true virtue her mother instilled in her.

"Never make a promise you can't keep." Azima sang her mother's mantra with a dramatic gleam in her eyes. "And when fate crossed your paths, you both knew it was meant to be."

"You know as well as I do that's not how it works."

"But wouldn't it be nice if it did?" She stretched her long legs out in front of her. "A Venandi and an Imerai, falling passionately in love, fighting and training and living side by side until Heaven or Hell decides to take them."

True, such a romance was a cliché and yet, deep down, she longed to hear a story of a Venandi truly in love rather than one filled with only pragmatic reality.

"Get your head out of your dreams, Azima," Chey chastised, standing from his spot on the log. From this angle, she could see the tattoo that ran along the nape of his neck. The wings of an angel spread along his tanned skin, meeting at the bold letter 'I' that represented his origin. All Imermen possessed the mark, or so Azima had been told. She'd never met another Imerman, but then again, she hadn't met another family of Venandi hunters either. She just assumed they were there, hunting demons like it was their God-given right, and she had yet to be proven otherwise.

"I work in the business of dreams," she corrected with a smile on her face, which dropped when she realized Chey's attention was wholly focused elsewhere. She was about to say something witty to counter his inevitable quip that all she had in her head were dreams when she saw a flicker in his dark eyes. Before she could spin around, the explosion of heat at her back was enough to send her staggering forward.

The dawn. The dusk. Heaven. Hell. The forest. The seas. Beyond, Azima Rousseau. He awaits you beyond.

Chey was already running at full speed towards the cottage, unbuttoning his jacket and drawing his sword. Azima was on her feet not a moment later, pulling her own sword from the sheath strapped to her back in one smooth movement, cursing as she raced to catch up.

The heat of the blazing inferno, so hot its flames burned blue, had already seared the lining of Azima's lungs. As she doubled over in a coughing fit, holding herself as she tried to regain her breath, her eyes watered as she realized what was happening.

The cottage was ablaze with demonic fire, and Chey had just run inside.