Preliminary Treatment (1)

I stood silent, my heart a battlefield of turmoil as I watched Sebastian—my father, a title I loathed to utter—seal his fate with the contemptible wretches of House Faust. The way he shook hands with that devilish fiend, Draven Faust, sent a chill down my spine, and I felt a surge of anger threaten to spill over. I had to will myself to loosen my grip on my baby sister, Noelle, cradled in my arms. It was maddening to think that I could unintentionally crush her fragile spirit beneath the weight of my own disgust.

Draven's smug grin, so unfittingly triumphant, only solidified my resolve to despise him and everything he represented. I couldn't allow myself to rage against the man who had betrayed everything our house stood for, but the temptation was suffocating. Sensing my agitation, my mother squeezed my hand, her warmth grounding me in that moment of chaos. I met her eyes, and despite the pallor of her illness, that smile—fragile but radiant—was brighter than the sun. She looked like a delicate flower on the verge of wilting, and it stung to witness her sitting there, a mere shadow of the fierce warrior she once was.

But my mother's suffering would not be in vain. I would do whatever necessary to restore her strength, even if it meant grappling with the very darkness that had reduced the legendary Acier Silva, the dancing princess of the battlefield, to this pitiful state. I'd barter my soul, if need be, to see her rise again, to reclaim her rightful place among the stars where she belonged. Family was my heart, my reason for existence, and if that meant casting aside my principles and morals—my proud identity, the very essence of my being as a Clover Kingdom Royal, as a member of House Silva, and a loyal Silver Eagle—then so be it. The notion of being Wizard King felt irretrievably distant, perhaps even beyond my reach, in light of my current resolve. I could feel the taste of that ignominy in the corners of my mouth, bitter and acrid, and yet it was not enough to deter me.

I glanced to my side and caught Mereoleona's restless tapping, her impatience palpable even amidst this tragic gathering. She had made her decision to cooperate in this despicable alliance, to save the woman we revered, her mentor in every sense but title. Yet, I could see clear as day that the flames burning within her matched my own—a shared disdain for the common enemy we must now face. Our pride was at stake here, and though we stood on opposite sides of a bloody rivalry, beneath the veneer of formality, we shared a singular commitment: a fierce loyalty to our family and homeland.

Calamity in the air thickened as I steeled myself against the tide of dread. I would not falter. Even if my worth as a Wizard King was eclipsed by the very actions I was willing to commit, I would carry the weight of my family's expectations on my shoulders. I would not let the darkness consume my heart—not if it meant bringing back the light.

I let out a heavy sigh, settling on the edge of my mother's bed, a sentinel in this sea of uncertainty. My gaze drifted toward my father, Draven, and Nathan Agrippa, the head of the Agrippa family, as they engaged in hushed discussions. Their leaning figures and furtive gestures were reminiscent of a crowded theater, where the actors deigned to pretend they shared the same stage as my mother and me, when in truth, they were worlds apart. I couldn't muster the energy to decipher their murmurings, so I remained a silent observer, watching this farcical display unfold—a Royal, a Noble, and a Commoner, squabbling like children over who would claim the final piece of cake. Their heads shook in unison, a tedious choreography as they seemingly reached a consensus, their eyes flicking nervously toward my mother and me.

When my father finally took command of the room, clapping his hands to rally attention, it reminded me of a jester trying to captivate an audience with flimsy tricks. "Alright, everyone," he began, and though his tone echoed authority, it did little to mask the anxiety threading through his words, "I don't think I have to mention it, but just to ensure we're all on the same page… My son and wife have been cursed by the progenitor of all curses." A heavy pause hung in the air, thickening the atmosphere with the weight of our dire predicament. "This isn't a problem that can be solved in a day or two. Especially not Acier's curse."

A fresh wave of dread washed over me, crystallizing the reality that I would have to endure regular meetings with these heretics masquerading as healers. My mother, sensing my dismay deepening, tightened her grip on my hand, and a pang of guilt shot through me. I cursed myself silently. How could I allow despair to cloud my thoughts when she was fighting for her life? Dr. Owen and esteemed healers from across the Kingdom had assured us that she had little more than two weeks left. I could still hear the crude whispers of some insensitive guests, lacking any semblance of decorum, suggesting preparations for her funeral like it was a trivial arrangement. They spoke to my mother with a flippancy that ignited a fury within me, and I envisioned ridding the world of such contemptible souls with swift and merciless justice.

In a rare moment of tenderness, my father moved to my mother's side and placed a gentle hand on her frail shoulder—a gesture so unexpectedly compassionate that it nearly knocked the wind out of me. As he leaned over her, his voice softened, carrying a strange warmth. "However," he continued, "extending your lifespan somewhat and getting your body back in decent shape so you can at least rise from this bed will be no issue in the short term. But completely removing the curse and 'her' influence on you..." He hesitated, as if the enormity of the task weighed heavy in the air, "... that will be another matter altogether."

A wave of relief coursed through me at his words, but I quickly masked it. My mother looked up at him with gratitude, her eyes a mix of hope and despair. It felt wrong to indulge in a fleeting sentiment of warmth toward him. The truth of Sebastian Silva often played like a twisted melody in my mind—many might have mistaken him for a devoted husband, but behind closed doors, whispers claimed he was just a means to an end, intended to produce heirs to extend the Silva bloodline. It wasn't a secret; it was an open wound disguised as familial loyalty.

So why now? Why had this man, normally so indifferent, suddenly taken to his role of a doting husband and father? Was this genuine care or simply a performance, a desperate charade to uphold his reputation among the nobles? I couldn't shake the feeling that this was some elaborate act, a show with the purpose of keeping the Silva name from further disgrace. Yes, I nodded to myself, grappling with the unfolding complexity of emotions. It was that simple. Or at least, I forced myself to believe it was.

I opened my mouth, feeling a simmering determination rise within me. "That's all we can ask for." With those words, I commanded the room's attention, capturing their gazes—Nathan Agrippa received a nod of gratitude from me, while my acknowledgment of Draven Faust came with far less enthusiasm. The two women, standing silently behind their husbands, faded into the backdrop of this desperate tableau. Why were they even here, I questioned, a sense of unease creeping in. Then an unsettling thought struck me: Sebastian had mentioned to Mereoleona that if the Agrippas and Fausts dared refuse to attend to my mother's needs, he wouldn't hesitate to hold them hostage until they acquiesced. But would these men bend so easily?

I let my eyes flicker to Jonna Agrippa and Lilith Faust, standing dutifully behind their husbands like shadows—an unsettling picture of loyalty that fueled my suspicions. What could they hold dear enough to make them cower, lest they find themselves in conflict? Perhaps the lives of their wives were the leverage Sebastian sought. It was a sobering tactic, a grim reminder that my father was a master of manipulation and control. I glanced back at him, his hands gently coaxing my mother, and a wave of resentment surged within me. No illusions here; Sebastian Silva had always been a cruel, calculating man, one willing to drag us all through hell to fulfill his desires.

Yet, infuriatingly, this time his desires aligned with my mother's best interest. I shook my head, forcefully brushing aside the dark thoughts swirling in my mind. "My 'situation,'" I carefully reframed the curse, speaking it as lightly as possible, for I feared mentioning it directly would awaken its malignancy, ready to consume me—"is of no immediate concern. Please, see to my mother first; I can wait my turn." It seemed the wisest course of action to advocate for her welfare, but the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

"Unacceptable." My father closed his eyes, shaking his head without a moment's hesitation.

"And why not?!" I shot back, incredulity spilling over like poison. For goodness' sake, Sebastian, your wife is dying! How could you prioritize my small dilemma above her life? Or was this yet another of your sadistic games—manipulating her feelings, forcing her to choose between her son's survival and her own? I could envision her agreeing, desiring to put me first, only for her own time to slip away and leave her lifeless when help arrived too late. The fury and disgust must have been written across my face, unfiltered and raw, as he cleared his throat.

But before he could utter a word, Draven Faust intervened, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade.

"Lord Nozel." I turned reluctantly to Draven Faust, appreciating the politeness he extended my way despite my unofficial status as the successor of House Silva. Ignoring him outright wasn't an option; I'd need his expertise to free me from my curse and, more crucially, to heal my mother.

"What?" I snapped, annoyance creeping into my voice as he disrupted the urgent conversation I had been gearing up to have with Sebastian.

Draven seemed undeterred by my impatience, speaking as if he was a common servant. "What Lord Sebastian was trying to allude to was the peculiar nature of your curse."

"Peculiar?" I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. Compared to my mother's dire straits, my curse was nothing more than an annoying hurdle—merely a prohibition against disclosing anything about the events leading to our current crisis.

"Yes, peculiar." He nodded sagely. "If what Lord Sebastian just informed me and Sir Agrippa is accurate, then it would seem that after your mother heavily wounded the devil host responsible for this incident, she was forced to flee in haste, only remembering to curse you as well to prevent any knowledge of her crimes from leaking."

I nodded slowly, my thoughts a tumultuous storm beneath a calm facade. It was one thing for Sebastian to be aware of the curse, but how did he know the details of the battle? Had he had eyes on the villa? No, that couldn't be. Mother would have sensed any prying eyes and made sure to keep them at bay, even if it was from her own husband. Had he witnessed the confrontation first-hand? If so, why had he simply stood by, doing nothing? Even a man as cruel and indifferent as he shouldn't have been able to overlook the suffering of his wife and child. What of noble pride? Shouldn't he have intervened against the marauder who dared to invade the Silva estate? Or was he simply a coward, too afraid to confront the threat that had forced Mother into such a desperate position? A sneer curled on my lips in silent disdain as I awaited Draven's next words, eager to peel back more layers of this unsettling mystery.

I scanned my mother's expression, searching for any sign of understanding or agreement with my thoughts. But her face was an impassive mask, leaving me in the dark about her feelings. Draven, for his part, displayed no awareness of my growing dread. Perhaps he simply didn't care; he pressed on without missing a beat.

"In her haste, the Devil Host cursed you with, quite honestly, a regulation so feeble and unworthy of someone capable of wielding the power of a Supreme Devil and the Mother of all curses."

"So?" I arched an eyebrow, an incredulous frown creasing my brow. Wasn't that a good thing? Shouldn't it mean that the priority should be my dying mother, not me?

"So," Draven continued smoothly, unperturbed by my skepticism, "this puts you in a peculiar situation. Devils are notoriously fickle and often driven by petty whims. Once 'her' host heals, 'She who should not be named' might use the curse she left on you as a tether to inflict even greater misfortune upon you—or even end your life outright if she's in a particularly merciless mood. It is truly remarkable for standard curse users to execute such acts from afar, but for her, it's merely a matter of disposition."

A cold churn rippled through my stomach as dread pooled within me. Sweat broke out on my forehead, and instinctively, I turned to Nathan Agrippa. If anyone could lend credibility to Draven's alarming claims, it was the head of a family renowned across the kingdom for their expertise in curses, particularly those tied to this very devil. But heaven did not favor me today; he simply offered a somber nod, validating Draven's words. My heart sank—Draven Faust was telling the truth.

A wave of guilt washed over me, my shame evident on my face. I could feel heat creeping up my cheeks as I cast a glance at my father, whose expression now held genuine concern. Biting my lip, I slightly bowed my head and mumbled an apology. "I'm sorry for my outburst."

Anticipating a smug, derisive response when I looked back up, I was taken aback by the soft, understanding nod he offered instead. "It's not an issue warranting an apology." I felt momentarily tongue-tied, an array of conflicting emotions bubbling within me. Fortunately, my mother chose that moment to shatter the awkward silence, her presence a welcome distraction.

Squeezing my hand anxiously, my mother gazed at me with an intensity that suggested I might vanish from her life at any moment. "Nozel, you need to be treated first." Without waiting for my response, she jerked her head toward Nathan and Draven, transforming her concern into a demand. "See to my son first." Her insistence echoed my earlier words of concern for her wellbeing, stirring a complex mix of anxiety and warmth within me.

Draven and Nathan exchanged a glance with my father, who nodded in agreement, offering no counter to my mother's request as they stepped toward me. Ignoring the decorum of the situation, Draven casually grabbed the chair Mereoleona had been sitting on and positioned it directly in front of me. Without hesitation, he pointed to the chair and spoke with an authority that suggested he believed he outranked me.

"Hand your sister off, take off your top garment, and sit down so we can examine your throat."

In the wake of the emotional whirlwind I had just experienced, I found no offense in his brusque tone and simply nodded in response. But as I approached Noelle to pass her to someone else, I hesitated. My mother was too frail to hold her; I could never trust a wild Vermillion child with my precious baby sister. Even Fuegoleon, one of the most composed Vermillions I knew, treated infantile Leopold like he was impervious to harm. There was no way I'd hand Noelle over to the beast that was Mereoleona—especially considering her unstable mental state. As for the Agrippa and Faust matriarchs, I still held reservations about their motives, despite having accepted their assistance.

That left only Alfred. Determined, I made my way to the other side of the bed, intending to hand Noelle off to the chief butler. But just as I reached out, a broad arm unexpectedly intercepted my path, halting me in my tracks.

"

"Yes?" I looked at my father, puzzled, as he stopped me, an expression of annoyance—or was it offense?—crossing his face for reasons I couldn't comprehend. Strangely, he hadn't seemed to take my earlier rudeness to heart.

He extended both arms, bending them to cradle Noelle, which made me tense up instantly. "I'll take her," he declared.

"You?!" I couldn't contain my disbelief. The silence that filled the room confirmed my absurdity; even my mother, Alfred, and Mereoleona were staring at my father as though he had grown a second head. It was astonishing—Sebastian Silva had never once held one of his children. He hadn't even met Noelle until yesterday, a whole year after her birth, and he'd been entirely absent during her birth (Solid was the only sibling who had the 'honor', of his attendance, at his birth).

His absence would likely have continued, had my mother not fallen ill. He had come solely for her, and Noelle had simply been an afterthought. So why this sudden interest? I wanted to voice my question but noticed the veins on his forehead bulging with frustration, his patience visibly wearing thin—a sight unbecoming of someone from the composed House Silva, especially its Patriarch. I sensed I had already pushed his limits for the day.

Unconsciously, I loosened my grip on my baby sister just enough for him to snatch her from me. I watched in stunned silence as he expertly positioned one hand under Noelle's head and neck. He cradled the back of her head with his fingers while supporting her neck with his palm. Without a moment's hesitation, he slid his other hand underneath to secure her bottom. Gently, he brought her toward his chest in a way that seemed all too natural for him, holding her precisely as she liked—her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her body resting along his forearm while he used his other hand for support.

Noelle squirmed a bit, her eyes widening in surprise at the unfamiliar man holding her. As I opened my mouth to placate her, fearing she would cry, I was left speechless yet again. Sebastian began to rock her gently back and forth, humming softly and shushing her. To my astonishment, she paused, letting out a delighted giggle and a bright smile.

My mouth fell agape in shock, mirrored by Alfred and Mereoleona. Strangely, my mother seemed less bewildered than the rest of us. She let out a soft sigh, her expression a complex blend of emotions as she looked at my father before allowing a fond smile to emerge at the sight before her. He lifted his gaze to us, and the gentle warmth he had shown Noelle evaporated into an irksome frown.

"What?" he snapped, irritation evident in his voice. "Is it such an inconceivable spectacle? Holding a child isn't rocket science."

But you've never done it before! I wanted to shout in indignation. Even if you've witnessed others do it countless times, shouldn't there be some hint of awkwardness the first time you try? I sighed in frustration, turning away to see Draven and Nathan awkwardly pretending to be invisible, wishing they hadn't seen this unfolding drama.

I paused to unbutton my shirt, laying it neatly on the edge of my mother's bed before sitting half-naked in the chair before them, resigned and ready for my examination.

"Raise your head," Nathan mumbled his first words in what felt like ages. I complied, lifting my chin to expose my throat for examination. Indifferently, I observed as Draven and Nathan bent down, scrutinizing my immaculate neck as if they were uncovering some hidden truth. The curse I had believed to be invisible, felt only in the depths of my being, appeared to them like an open book, ready for review.

Draven shot Nathan a peculiar look, prompting Nathan to glance at Draven's right wrist for some inexplicable reason, his mouth tightening into a frown of clear distaste. A sense of foreboding washed over me as I watched them straighten up, Nathan taking a considerable step back behind Draven.

"What'd you find?" Mereoleona growled from my side. I didn't turn my head; instead, I kept my focus on Draven, who seemed to hesitate.

Rather than responding right away, Draven rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a stringed bracelet adorned with what looked disturbingly like teeth, dangling like grotesque beads. "Instead of telling you, it's better to show you." That was all he said before he raised his hand.

Mana began to channel into the bracelet, and his grimoire floated in front of him, while his dark, shadowy mana twisted and curled like tendrils of despair, thickening the tension in the room.

In an instant, Mereoleona was in front of me, her back facing me, as flames flickered menacingly on her fists and sparks danced beneath her feet. "What do you think you're doing?!" she demanded, her voice imbued with excitement. If I weren't so preoccupied, I might have felt touched by her fierce protectiveness. But the exhilaration in her tone, coupled with the wild grin I could easily imagine on her face, told a different story.

Mereoleona was a force of nature, never the type to sit idle. Watching a neighboring royal family negotiate with beings like these must have been unbearable for her, and the chance to unleash her pent-up frustrations in battle was a godsend.

Draven looked taken aback, his usual air of confidence wavering for a brief moment as Mereoleona's fiery mana threatened to consume him. He opened his mouth, likely to justify his actions, but someone beat him to it.

"Wait." My father's voice cut through the tension, urging me to turn around and face him. I resisted the impulse; any distraction might render me vulnerable to a sneak attack from the Faust heir. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed forward, anticipating that he would reprimand Mereoleona or urge her to calm down once more. Yet, this time, that reprimand never came.

"You can't just do something like that and expect us to understand without explaining yourself, can you?" he questioned Draven, his tone adopting the cadence of a teacher addressing a wayward child. I nearly stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it. "I know your two families aren't the best socially, but for the love of God, you should at least retain some common sense. What did you think was going to happen?"

Draven ceased channeling his mana, his presence dwindling as he appeared sheepish, an amalgam of shame and embarrassment washing over him. He began to speak softly, "I was about to—"

"Summon your devil, I know." My father cut him off, and it took a moment for the weight of those words to sink in. In disbelief, I shot up from my chair, my grimoire at my side, mercury swirling around me as I instinctively positioned myself protectively in front of my mother.

"You want to die?!" Mereoleona shouted at Draven, her earlier excitement morphing into blazing fury. It was inconceivable that he would be so audacious as to summon a devil in front of royals, especially knowing he was already exposed as a devil worshipper. Even alluded to binding one himself! Did he truly lack the insight to recognize our disdain for their kind? Though we had agreed to shelter his family and cooperate, that didn't mean he could act recklessly. This kind of boldness was baffling.

I heard a sigh from behind me, and despite my resolve, I couldn't help but glance back. My father sat at my mother's bedside, Noelle comfortably nestled in his arms. He opened his mouth once more, maintaining unwavering eye contact with Draven as he posed the crucial question, "Why do you need to summon your devil?"

Draven shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck as he explained. "To make the curse visible to everyone, so I can clarify its effects. I also want to ensure I'm not missing any vital details for my judgment by examining it more closely."

I wanted to shout in indignation, "So just tell us, don't keep up your mysterious vibe!" But yet again, my father beat me to it.

"Next time you pull a stunt like this," he advised, "try to give a heads-up to avoid any grave misunderstandings, alright?"

Draven nodded before asking, "So, may I resume?"

I watched as my father likely shook his head in refusal before continuing, "Just a moment. I need to know the rank of the devil you're intending to summon. Anything above mid-rank, and I cannot condone this form of examination in good conscience. My reasons should be clear. If you attempt anything with my wife in her current condition, no one here would be able to stop you."

I silently cursed myself for missing such a vital detail. Shaking off the self-deprecating thoughts, I turned my focus back to Draven, my tension resurfacing and my guard instinctively rising again.

Draven shook his head, clearly denying the implication, which brought me a sense of relief. "I'm only contracted, or rather 'bound'—that's the better word—to a singular mid-rank devil. His name is Azazel. He is connected to me through this medium." He gestured to his peculiar bracelet, continuing, "To summon him, I need to channel my mana through it." [1]

"Very well, you may proceed." My father's voice was firm and unwavering, and he directed his gaze toward me. "Nozel, get back on the chair," he ordered.

"But Father—" I began to protest, knowing a mid-rank devil was still a devil. This was too dangerous, especially with Mother and Noelle in the room.

"Nozel." I felt a jolt as my father effectively shut down my argument without allowing me to voice it fully. His expression was devoid of amusement, and I could see his patience wearing thin with my refusals. But then he paused, softening his demeanor slightly as he continued, "If we want to see any results, we have to take risks. Nothing else will cure you and save your mother. Have faith in Mereoleona... and... have faith in me. Please?"

I bit my lip, watching him plead with me, the hurt in his eyes clear as he sought my trust. It frustrated me; how could he expect me to believe after being essentially a stranger for the first fifteen years of my life? He waltzed back in yesterday and expected me to follow his lead blindly?

I huffed a sigh, unable to meet his gaze. Instead, I turned to Mereoleona, who shot me a confident grin while pointing to Draven. Flames danced at her fingertips as she declared, "Just trust me, kid. If he tries anything, I'll smoke him, devil and all."

Reluctantly, I let out another sigh before looking back at my father, his gaze still locked on me. I gave him a wordless nod, signaling my reluctant acceptance. Turning back, I made my way to the chair and seated myself. The temperature in the room dropped as Mereoleona's flames extinguished, and I watched as Draven began channeling his mana into his bracelet once more.

His shadowy mana began to intertwine with an otherworldly presence, manifesting in dark specks around him. I watched with undisguised curiosity as a pitch-black, impish creature materialized before us. It was so indistinct that you could hardly make out any defining characteristics, save for an outline of its form. Small enough to fit in my palm, it had two goat-like horns atop its head, a pair of angelic wings that exuded a malevolent air, two pupilless white eyes, and a stubby tail resembling that of a goat.

Despite its diminutive size, the dread it instilled in me was palpable. If a mid-rank devil possessed as much mana as this creature, which was more than that of the average royal, just how terrifying must the devil bound to the wretch Mother faced be?

I observed Azazel float in front of Draven, bowing his head in submission. "How may I serve you, Master Draven?" It was a bizarre sight, witnessing a devil—one that education and the church had consistently branded as a vicious beast, filled with malice and cunning—addressing Draven as if he were a common servant.

Rather than responding to Azazel, Draven looked toward us. "I'm about to channel his power through me to begin the examination. Is that alright?"

"Proceed," my father's emotionless voice came from behind me, stirring a strange mix of apprehension and confidence within me. I watched Azazel bow once more to his master before hopping onto Draven's shoulder and tapering off into shadow.

"Mode: Insight," Draven spat out.

In that instant, it happened. Draven's Faust mana surged upward, his presence intensifying with every passing moment. I watched, cold sweat trickling down my back, as a pair of black goat horns—Weg, the wicked symbols that supposedly manifested on those who dabbled in forbidden magic—erupted from his forehead. His eyes narrowed, pupils becoming sharper as his face morphed beneath a strange goat-like mask, revealing fangs as his teeth erupted into vicious points. His ears curled outward, and from his back, wings just like Azazel's unfurled. But unlike Azazel, Draven bore not one pair but six: twelve wings sprouted evenly from both sides of his back, resembling those of an angel cast out of paradise.

A longer tail emerged from him, weaving through the air with an unsettling grace. His form bulked up, muscles expanding as his hands and feet turned more claw-like, nails elongating into menacing talons. The transformation was both awe-inspiring and terrifying, leaving me unsure of what to expect next.

I felt my dread swell as I examined him, his presence evoking memories of the witch who had cursed my mother. Though not on her level, he was disturbingly close. What did that mean? The Faust house, often regarded as a joke in the noble realm—noble in name only—had quietly birthed a powerhouse at least on par with a magic knight captain. With my mother in her current condition, there were arguably only two individuals capable of stopping Draven: Conrad Leto and Julius Novachrono. If he were to lose control, the havoc he could wreak upon this kingdom was unimaginable.

As he stepped closer to me, I noticed Mereoleona watching him intently, her gaze hawkish yet betraying a mix of nervous excitement as sweat beaded on her brow. My earlier assessments were proving to be far more accurate than I had hoped. Draven slowly narrowed his eyes, looking down on me with cold indifference, and an unsettling realization set in. Perhaps my father had made a mistake? Perhaps we were not the predators here, but rather the prey—or worse, the hostages. I gulped, steeling my resolve while desperately trying to mask the fear coursing through me.

For the first time in years, I found myself silently wishing that my father was right and that I was the one who was wrong

Author's Note:

[1] Regarding Azazel: In the Hebrew Bible, the name Azazel (Hebrew: עֲזָאזֵל ʿĂzāʾzēl) designates a desolate location to which a scapegoat, laden with the sins of the Jewish people, was sent during Yom Kippur. In the late Second Temple period, following the compilation of the Hebrew Bible canon, Azazel evolved in interpretation to be seen as a fallen angel, who was believed to have imparted forbidden knowledge to humanity, as referenced in the Book of Enoch. This portrayal of Azazel as a fallen angel continues to influence both Christian and Islamic traditions. In these narratives, he is often depicted as a formidable figure with seven heads, fourteen faces, and a human-like form adorned with six wings on each side.