Azriel arrives infront of a heavy oak door, carved with beings with wings. He paused at the heavy oak door, raised one hand, and knocked twice—soft, deliberate, almost polite.
After a brief pause, Michael's voice came from inside:
"Enter."
Azriel pushed the door open and stepped in.
The office was modest and austere, tucked at the end of a long hallway far from any stairs or main thoroughfares. Polished oak panels lined the walls, absorbing the soft amber glow from two mana-lamps mounted on brass sconces. A wide desk dominated the center, its surface scarred from years of use—stacks of parchment, sealed scrolls, and a single heavy tome lay neatly arranged. Behind it, a tall window of frosted glass let in muted daylight, casting long pale rectangles across the dark rug. A low bookshelf along one wall held leather-bound volumes on law, history, and mana theory; a small side table held a basin of warm water and a folded towel. The air smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and polished wood.
Azriel entered without hesitation, the yellow vow-mark on his palm catching the lamplight for a brief moment before he lowered his hand.
Michael gestured to the single chair opposite the desk. Azriel sat—back straight, eyes level, expression blank.
Michael leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. His voice was low, measured, carrying the weight of command.
"Azriel," he began.
"You've been given a chance. A narrow one. This is what will happen from this day forward."
He held up one finger.
"First: you will learn mana circulation and mana control. Under my personal teachings. Every morning. Every evening. Until you master it. Not because I trust you, but because I refuse to let a weapon like you walk around untrained."
A second finger rose.
"Second: you will not leave this manor unless I say so. No exceptions. No excuses. You are confined here—for your protection, and for everyone else's."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"You will spend your days reading and studying in my library. Every book, scroll, and tome in there is yours to learn from. Guards will be stationed at the doors. Maids will attend to your needs—food, clothing, anything practical. They will watch you.
Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week."
Michael's blue eyes bored into Azriel's black ones.
"This is not a prison. It is a forge. I will shape you. Or I will break you trying. Do you understand?"
Azriel stared back, unblinking.
He did not nod.
He did not speak.
But the faint, insincere curve of his lips returned—just for a second.
Michael exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Good," he said quietly.
"Then we begin tomorrow at dawn."
He stood, signaling the conversation was over.
Azriel rose as well, turning toward the door without a word.
The yellow mark on his palm pulsed once—soft, steady, patient.
Outside the office, the guards waited.
Inside Azriel, the hunger waited.
Both were content to watch.
For now.
Azriel exited the office with a calm, unchanging expression, stepping into the quiet corridor beyond. He paused for a moment, taking in his surroundings with the same detached curiosity he applied to everything.
The front of the office opened onto a small, private courtyard garden—neat and orderly, the kind nobles kept to remind themselves of control over nature. Low stone walls bordered the space, overgrown with climbing ivy that framed arched trellises. A central fountain bubbled softly, its water catching the late-afternoon sun in faint silver ripples. Trimmed hedges formed geometric patterns around flowerbeds of white lilies and pale blue forget-me-nots, their petals perfectly still in the breeze.
Two maids in simple gray uniforms knelt among the blooms, pruning with careful scissors, their movements quiet and practiced. One glanced up briefly, saw Azriel, and quickly looked away, hands trembling slightly as she returned to her work.
A single guard stood beside Azriel—tall and sturdy, armored in polished steel plate with the royal crest etched on the breastplate. He held a halberd at parade rest, but his knuckles were white around the shaft.
Azriel turned his head slowly and met the guard's eyes.
The boy's gaze was empty—pure black, bottomless, reflecting nothing of the garden, the sunlight, or the man standing before him. It was the look of death itself staring back, patient and uninterested.
The guard stiffened instantly.
Sweat beaded beneath his helmet, trickling down his temples inside the armor. His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, though he tried to hide it.
Azriel spoke, voice soft and even, almost polite.
"Would you mind showing me the way to the library?"
The guard swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet courtyard. For a heartbeat, he couldn't speak—only stare into those hollow eyes and feel something ancient and wrong looking back.
Then, forcing his voice steady, he managed a curt nod.
"This way," he rasped, turning sharply and leading Azriel down the path.
The maids kept their heads down as the boy passed, scissors frozen mid-cut. Behind them, the fountain continued to bubble—innocent, oblivious, as if nothing at all had changed.
But the garden felt colder now. And the light on the lilies seemed just a little dimmer.
Azriel and the guard walked side by side down the wide, marble-floored hallway, their footsteps echoing softly in the quiet manor.
The butler who had been guiding him glanced over, putting on a nervous smile as he sweated profusely beneath his crisp uniform, beads of perspiration sliding down his temples despite the cool air. Maids and other attendants paused in their duties—dusting vases, carrying trays, or polishing silver—and looked at him with expressions that shifted between nervous unease, open fear, and barely concealed anger. Their eyes darted away the moment Azriel's gaze brushed past them.
Azriel's own face remained perfectly blank, almost serene, but beneath the surface a faint boredom had settled in like dust on untouched shelves. His black eyes drifted lazily over the ornate moldings, the polished banisters, the framed portraits of stern-faced Vanor ancestors staring down from the walls—none of it held even a flicker of interest.
His steps were unhurried, mechanical, as though the manor itself were a mildly tedious dream he was waiting to wake from.
They arrived at the library Michael had mentioned—a vast, soaring chamber that stretched upward like a cathedral of knowledge. Towering oak shelves lined every wall, climbing five full floors high, each level connected by narrow iron walkways, spiral staircases, and rolling ladders that glided along brass rails. Sunlight poured through tall arched windows set high in the walls, turning the air golden and motes of dust into drifting sparks. The scent of aged leather, ink, and polished wood filled the space, thick and comforting to anyone else, utterly indifferent to Azriel.
The guard cleared his throat, voice low and cautious.
"This is the library, young master. Thousands of volumes—history, philosophy, mana theory, even some restricted treatises on the lower floors. But…" He hesitated, glancing upward.
"You are only allowed on the first and second floors unless authorized. The third and fourth are limited to approved scholars, and the fifth floor is strictly off-limits. That's where the Vanor family techniques are kept—sealed wards, private grimoires, the core secrets of the bloodline. Only Lord Michael or those he personally permits can go up there."
Azriel tilted his head slightly, the gesture slow and almost absent-minded. His boredom did not change.
The faint curve of disinterest lingered at the corners of his mouth, as though the warning, the rules, the entire towering room of secrets were merely background noise to something far more interesting happening inside his own head.
He turned his gaze from the shelves to the guard.
"What is your name?" Azriel asked, voice soft and even, almost polite.
The guard blinked, caught off guard. Sweat glistened on his brow again.
"…Elias, sir," he answered after a short hesitation, voice rough. "Elias Zelon."
Azriel nodded once—small, mechanical, as if filing the information away without any real interest.
Then he stepped forward into the library without another word.
The guard—Elias—stood frozen for a moment, watching the boy disappear among the shelves. The butler's nervous smile twitched once more before he hurried away.
Somewhere above, on the upper walkways, a maid froze mid-step, clutching a feather duster like a weapon.
Azriel did not notice. Or perhaps he noticed everything—and simply did not care.
Azriel wandered the lower shelves of the library with slow, unhurried steps, black eyes sliding past row after row of leather spines without interest. The boredom inside him lingered like a low, constant hum—nothing in this vast room of words felt worth the effort of reaching for.
Until he stumbled across two volumes that briefly caught his gaze.
One was titled World Histories, a thick, weathered tome bound in dark calfskin, its edges worn from countless hands. The other was simply Mana and Mana Circulation, a slimmer but heavier book with silver-embossed runes on the cover.
These two were the only ones that piqued his curiosity, however faintly.
He reached up and pulled them down. Both were wide and large, heavy in his arms like stones. Azriel carried them to a nearby reading table, set them down with a soft thud, and opened the first one—World Histories—to the title page.
"The Beginning."
He hadn't intended to read it. He flipped the first page out of mild curiosity, expecting the usual dull chronicle of kings and wars.
But in just a few paragraphs, the words began to pull at something deeper.
Ancient lines about two primordial wills—Light and Darkness—existing before time, shaping the void between them.
A brother's betrayal.
A shattering.
Fragments scattered across a newborn multiverse.
Azriel's heartbeat grew louder—slow at first, then steady, insistent, like a drum in an empty hall. He turned page after page, eyes locked to the text, unable to look away.
The mark on his chest pulsed in quiet rhythm with his pulse.
When he reached the passage describing the final dissolution of Light into his creations, Azriel paused.
He stared at the words for a long moment.
Then, in the silence of the library, he asked himself—voice soft, flat, barely above a whisper:
"If I was a God… will anything actually change?"
He let the question hang, listening to it echo inside his own emptiness.
Then the answer came—equally soft, equally flat, as though it had always been waiting:
"If I was… then the true evil lies in good."
He closed the book gently.
The boredom was still there, patient as ever. But beneath it, something else stirred—small, curious, amused.
Azriel set the book aside and opened the second one—Mana and Mana Circulation—with the same mechanical calm.
He began to read again.
The library remained quiet. The guards on the upper walkways watched him without speaking.
And somewhere deep inside the boy who felt nothing, a question emerges in himself.
"Who am I?"