"That's enough, Azriel."
Michael exhaled heavily, the wooden sword slipping from his sweat-slick fingers and clattering to the training ground. He wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, chest rising and falling from the two-hour spar. Sweat darkened his tunic in wide patches, his golden hair plastered to his forehead.
He looked at Azriel with a mix of admiration and quiet satisfaction, a slow smile forming on his lips.
"You've grown stronger day by day," he said, voice rough but warm. "In the span of three years—you managed to outlast and finally beat me."
Azriel had started weak, yet strong in ways most could not comprehend. Now he stood as someone capable of beating—and outlasting—a knight who had once been stronger than almost anyone. Michael hadn't been serious in the final exchanges, holding back just enough to test limits rather than break them. Even so, the feat was undeniable. Something any young warrior should feel proud of.
Yet Azriel felt only boredom. A quiet, hollow sense of loss rather than the triumph of a victor.
He lowered his own wooden sword, the faint silver threads of mana before, now a black thread fading from his arms. Without a word, he turned and began walking the perimeter of the training hall—slow, deliberate steps, as though the space itself were merely something to pass through.
The hall was open-sided, framed by tall stone pillars and wide window walls that looked out onto the manor's inner courtyard. Sunlight streamed through the openings, illuminating the dust motes that drifted in the air.
As Azriel passed one of the window walls, his gaze drifted outward.
Two high-ranking knights stood in the courtyard below—armored in polished plate, cloaks bearing the royal crest. They had cornered a poor, low-class civilian—a thin man in ragged clothes, probably a servant or day laborer who had wandered too close to the noble grounds.
The knights laughed, loud and cruel, as they shoved the man back and forth between them. One kicked dirt at his feet; the other grabbed his collar and spat insults.
"Filthy rat—think you can walk where nobles train?"
"Look at him tremble. Pathetic."
The civilian shrank back, hands raised in surrender, voice trembling with apologies that only drew more mocking laughter.
Azriel paused at the window wall.
His black eyes watched without expression—no anger, no pity, no interest. Just quiet observation, as though the scene were a mildly curious insect under glass.
The boredom in him deepened slightly.
He stood there a moment longer, eyes fixed on the scene below—the knights' mocking laughter, the civilian's shrinking form, the casual cruelty dressed in authority.
Then he turned away from the window.
A single philosophical thought drifted through his mind, cold and clear as the mark on his chest:
Corruption is not the sin of the powerful. It is the moment the powerful convince the powerless that their suffering is divine order.
He slowly continued his walk, this thought lingered in his mind. He continued to ask himself: What is the righteous, who are the righteous? Over the span of three years, he gained knowledge through the books in the library. Philosopies from famous philosophers, logic and basic knowledge; magic, cities, kingdoms and its history. Even the bible, he learned them all and yet he saw evil in all of them. He concluded that there was no such thing as being 'righteous' or being 'good' at all—he concluded that in every good lies the deep desire of evil, corrupting them and slowly that good turns into something evil—something mad and destructive.
He thought to himself again and asked: Why do people do good?
He let the question sit in the emptiness of his mind, turning it over the way one might examine a worthless coin before discarding it.
Is it for happiness? For peace and prosperity? No. Those were excuses. Surface rewards. Bait dangled by the world to keep the weak moving forward. The real answer was simpler, crueler, and far older. People do good because they are terrified of the alternative. They fear the mirror that shows them exactly what they are when no one is watching. They fear the silence that follows when they stop pretending virtue is a shield. They fear the day the mask slips and the thing underneath—no different from the villains they condemn—stares back with the same hungry eyes.
Good is not a virtue.
It is armor.
A performance.
A desperate attempt to prove to themselves—and to the world—that they are not already monsters.
He concluded.
Azriel's lips curved—just a fraction, the ghost of a smile that never reached his eyes. With this he ended his thought as he wandered around the manor.
He kept wandering, before finding himself at the front gate. Three guards stood there. Two were slacking off—playing cards, laughing carelessly—while the third worked diligently alone, standing tall behind a pillar beside the heavy iron gate.
Azriel observed silently. There it was again—a thought forming once more, cold and precise: Why do they differ from each other when they're entirely the same?
He looked at the diligent knight standing tall behind the pillar, then turned his gaze to the two slacking off with their cards.
The diligent one worked without complaint, posture rigid, eyes fixed forward. The other two laughed carelessly, cards slapping down, voices loud in the quiet courtyard.
Azriel approached the diligent guard first.
The man stiffened at once, eyes widening as Azriel drew near.
His hand twitched toward the spear, but he did not raise it—fear and duty warring in his expression.
"Why do you not join them?" Azriel asked, voice soft, flat, almost polite.
The guard stumbled back a half-step, sweat beading on his brow despite the cool air.
"I... I have to work hard," he stammered, voice cracking slightly. "I'm low-class."
Azriel nodded once—small, mechanical, no judgment, no sympathy.
Then he turned away from the diligent guard and approached the two playing cards.
The laughter died instantly.
They looked up, cards frozen mid-play, faces draining of color as Azriel's dark, empty eyes settled on them.
The black voids stared without blinking, reflecting nothing—no anger, no curiosity, no humanity. Just endless, patient nothing.
One guard dropped his cards; they fluttered to the ground like dead leaves. The other swallowed audibly, hand trembling on the hilt of his sword.
Azriel stood there a moment longer, silent, unmoving.
The two guards said nothing.
They could not.
Azriel turned away without a word, walking back toward the manor.
The diligent guard watched him go, breath held.
The two slackers remained frozen, cards scattered at their feet.
The courtyard fell quiet again.
On Azriel's mind, he created yet another philosophy: Hierarchy is not the difference between men. It is the lie they tell themselves to pretend the diligent one is noble while the lazy ones are merely fortunate.
In truth, they are identical—same flesh, same fear, same hunger. The diligent guard stands tall not from virtue, but from terror of falling lower. The slackers laugh not from freedom, but from the comfort of knowing someone else is beneath them. Remove the ladder they cling to, and they all collapse into the same screaming heap.
They are not different. They are simply arranged, and arrangement is the cruelest illusion of all.
He continued to walk along the halls, the reality settling over him like cold dust: the weak were seen as insignificant—slaves, cowards, mere entertainment—while those at the top chased each other, dragging rivals down, devouring them, only to be devoured in turn.
Those fools who view one another as food will never rise to a throne where they stand truly above the rest.
This is the cancer of society—how foolish.
"Mr. Azriel, the manor master is looking for you."
The butler's voice cut through the thought, low and respectful. He bowed deeply, almost folding himself in half.
Azriel exhaled—a soft, annoyed sigh that barely disturbed the air. He turned without a word and walked toward Michael's office, footsteps silent on the marble. He arrived at the heavy oak door and knocked twice—soft, deliberate.
The door swung open almost immediately.
Inside stood Michael, armor half-shed, tunic sleeves rolled to the elbows, expression serious but not grim. Beside him was a woman around his age.
She had the same golden-yellow hair as Michael, worn long and loose, catching the lamplight like molten sunlight. Her face was strikingly beautiful—high cheekbones, full lips, flawless skin—but the beauty was edged with ferocity. Her eyes were sharp, piercing blue, narrowed in quiet appraisal, as though she measured every soul she met and found most wanting.
A faint scar traced her left jawline—thin, precise, the mark of someone who had fought and won. Her posture was tall, unyielding, shoulders squared like a blade ready to draw. She wore a fitted leather tunic and dark trousers, practical yet elegant, a short sword at her hip that looked well-used and perfectly maintained.
She turned her gaze on Azriel the moment he entered. The look was not hostile, not kind—simply evaluating, fierce and unflinching, like a hawk studying prey that might yet prove dangerous.
Michael cleared his throat. "Azriel," he said, voice steady.
"This is my niece, Maria Vanor."
Maria inclined her head once—minimal courtesy, no warmth.
Her eyes never left Azriel's.
The room felt smaller, the air heavier.
Azriel stepped inside without hesitation, the yellow vow-mark on his palm flickering faintly in the lamplight.
He met her gaze—black void to piercing blue.
Neither blinked.
The silence stretched.
And in that silence, something unspoken passed between them: recognition of a predator looking at another predator,
each wondering who would strike first.
"May I ask why I was called here?" Azriel cut the silence with his heavy, deep, ragged voice. "I assume this is important."
Michael nodded once, gesturing toward the woman beside him.
"Maria has news that concerns you."
Maria stepped forward, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes fixed on Azriel with that same unflinching appraisal.
"I am the student president of the Royal Academy," she said, tone clipped and direct. "Michael has decided to enroll you there as a first-year. Starting next term."
She watched him closely, waiting for a reaction—curiosity, gratitude, resentment, anything.
Azriel's expression did not change.
His black eyes drifted from Maria to the window behind her, then back again. He showed no interest in the academy, no spark at the mention of prestige or opportunity.
Instead, his gaze lingered on Maria herself—on Michael's niece. Not with desire or threat. Just quiet, detached observation, as though she were a new object placed in a room he had already cataloged.
He tilted his head slightly.
The yellow vow-mark on his palm pulsed once—soft, almost imperceptible. "I see," he said, voice flat.
No questions about the academy. No curiosity about classes, ranks, or peers. Only that faint, lingering look at Maria, as if the real puzzle was not the school, but the woman standing before him.
Michael cleared his throat, breaking the moment.
"You'll be under my supervision there as well," he added. "This is part of your training. Discipline. Control. Exposure to the world beyond these walls—under strict rules."
Azriel nodded once—small, mechanical. His eyes never left Maria.
"You may leave first, Azriel. I'll handle the papers, and I'll tell you the day of departure—who will be guarding you."
Michael waved his hand dismissively. Azriel turned and walked out without a word, the door closing softly behind him.
Maria watched him go, then turned her head sharply toward her naive, kind uncle.
"Be careful, Uncle," she said, voice low and edged. "That isn't a dog you can tame. It'll still bite even if you feed it."
Michael sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew Maria was only looking out for him, but he trusted his own judgment more than anyone else's—like a fool following a pirate's rule.
"I know, Maria. Over the past three years, he seems like an odd kid with those dark eyes, but he'll be the hope we've always wished for. A gift from God: His messenger."
These were Michael's judgments. His hope.
But in Azriel's eyes, these words were merely words to ease their own worries. True hope isn't given—it is taken.
And in the hope Michael spoke of, people must be trampled on, crushed beneath heels, used as stepping stones, discarded when they no longer serve. It is the same cancer in society Azriel had seen in the diligent guard and the slackers—in the false hirarchy—the devilish actions of the people above: the illusion that climbing higher requires lifting others up, when in reality every ascent is built on broken backs and silenced screams.
Hope, like light, casts shadows and the shadows remember who stepped on them.