Azriel leaned his back against the wall, basking in the gentle warmth of the morning sun. Around him, the townspeople began opening their doors, stepping cautiously into the new day. Standing outside the inn, Azriel held the [Crazy Flask] loosely in his right hand, his gaze fixed on the feather drifting lazily before him, dressed only in a single black robe.
He reached out with his free hand, attempting to grasp the elusive feather, but it effortlessly dodged his fingers. Clicking his tongue in irritation, Azriel muttered under his breath,
"You would have made more sense as my soul echo rather than my soul weapon."
After all...
[Said to have once been the final feather of a divine bird that mocked the gods—cursed to never sing again, only obeying the whistles of the one soul worthy of its arrogance. Many had tried to control it; all were ignored or torn apart, as it laughed.]
