The Hall of Dawnfire burned with splendor. Chandeliers of crystal cast rivers of light upon a floor of polished marble, and the banners of Varethia—scarlet lions crowned in gold—fluttered high above the vaulted ceiling. Long tables groaned beneath mountains of roast pheasant glazed in honeyed spice, silver trays of jewel-bright fruits, and goblets brimming with starwine that shimmered like liquid moonlight.
But beneath the glitter of silk and steel, the air was thick with venom.
Azrael entered first, dressed in black trimmed with silver, his broad frame a wall of unyielding steel even without armor. At his side, Elvira glided like frost-bound moonlight, sapphire gown flowing in silent defiance of every whisper that curled like smoke through the hall. And trailing behind, in garments of white and gold, walked Belial, his crimson eyes wide, drinking in the brilliance of the world he had never known.
The music faltered. The nobles rose, bowing with painted smiles that hid sharpened fangs.
But as the family crossed the hall, the whispers began.
"…The sellsword Duke…"
"…His witch-wife…"
"…And that child. Do you feel it? The air thickens when he passes."
Elvira heard every word. So did Azrael.
At the high table, seats awaited beside the King. Azrael pulled out Elvira's chair with a quiet grace that belied his war-forged hands, then settled opposite her with Belial between them. The feast began—silver lids lifted, wine poured, laughter echoing too loud to be sincere.
And then the poison bared its fangs.
A man rose from the far end of the table—Duke Rhaemond, draped in midnight silk stitched with pearls, his smile as thin as a blade's edge.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice honeyed with contempt, "none doubt your wisdom. But we… humble servants of the crown… find ourselves puzzled. A sellsword made Duke? A sorceress raised among the highborn? And now—" his gaze slid like oil to Belial "—a child, already the subject of rumors. Tell me, Lionheart… does ambition taste sweeter than loyalty?"
The hall stilled. The music died. All eyes turned to Azrael.
Elvira's hand brushed his under the table. A silent plea: Not steel. Words.
Azrael's lips curled—not in rage, but in something colder.
"Ambition?" His voice rolled like distant thunder. "I've seen ambition, Rhaemond. In the eyes of men who begged for their lives on blood-soaked fields. In the generals who traded their soldiers' lives for a chance at glory. And do you know what ambition tastes like?"
Rhaemond smirked. "Enlighten us, Duke."
Azrael leaned forward, his gaze like a blade.
"Like ash on a corpse's tongue."
A ripple ran through the hall—soft gasps, choked laughter. Rhaemond's smile twitched.
Before he could reply, Elvira rose, her crimson eyes glittering like frost-laden amethysts.
"My, what a curious world we live in," she said softly, her voice slicing through the hush like silk over steel. "Where men fattened on the toil of others dare sneer at those who earned with blood what others inherited with breath."
Her lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Tell me, Duke—when was the last time your sword saw battle? Or do you polish it only for feasts like these?"
The laughter that followed was no longer hidden. Rhaemond flushed crimson, his lips parting—only for the King to rise with a clap of his hands, laughter booming like a lion's roar.
"Enough!" Daeron's voice shattered the tension like steel splitting stone. "This is a feast, not a cockfight. Drink, dance, and remember your place—or you'll find it on the training field at dawn."
The nobles stiffened, bowing their heads. The music struck up again, though the notes trembled like birds in a storm.
Later, as the feast rolled on and laughter dulled to the hum of wine, a voice murmured in Azrael's ear.
"Come," Daeron said, rising from the dais. "I would speak with my old friend."
Azrael followed through a side door into a quiet chamber where moonlight spilled across maps and steel. The King dropped into a chair, loosening the crimson cloak that hung like a storm from his shoulders.
"How are you holding up, Az?" Daeron asked, his voice stripped of crown and court, worn with the weight of a thousand nights.
Azrael exhaled, sinking into the opposite chair. "Better than the last time you asked that."
Daeron chuckled, leaning back. "Ah, the Siege of Black Hollow. You looked ready to gut me for suggesting we charge the eastern flank."
"You were a prince with more courage than sense," Azrael said dryly.
"And you were a bastard with more steel than fear," Daeron shot back, grinning. "Gods, those were days."
The silence that followed was warm, easy—the silence of men who had bled together.
Then Daeron's smile softened. "Azrael."
"Hm?"
The King hesitated—then laughed under his breath, almost shyly.
"She's here. My daughter. Born three nights past."
Azrael blinked—then a slow smile tugged at his lips. "So that's why you're drinking like a man condemned."
"Ha!" Daeron roared, pounding the table. "Aye! Condemned to sleepless nights and the wrath of a woman fiercer than any demon we faced!"
Azrael chuckled, shaking his head. "Welcome to fatherhood."
Daeron leaned forward, elbows on knees, grin fading into something almost boyish. "Tell me true, Az. How in the hells do you do it? You've got Belial, and he… gods, that boy has eyes like tempered steel. How do you raise a son when the world wants to break him?"
Azrael's gaze drifted to the window, to where the lights of the feast shimmered against the dark. His voice, when it came, was low.
"You don't let the world break him," he said simply. "Even if you have to break yourself first."
The King was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, slow and solemn.
"Aye," he murmured. "Aye, you're right."
And in the shadows beyond the door, unseen by either man, a whisper curled like smoke:
"The world won't have to break him… when we take him first."
The doors to the banquet hall swung open as the King and Azrael returned, laughter lingering like smoke from a dying fire. The music dipped, nobles rising to bow once more, their jeweled smiles stretched tight as strings.
Daeron climbed the dais in measured strides, his golden cloak trailing like spilled sunlight. He raised his goblet high, voice ringing with the weight of a crown and the warmth of an old friend's pride.
"Tonight," he declared, "we celebrate not just a victory, but a bond. When demons clawed at our gates, when darkness sought to swallow our flame—it was not silk nor silver that saved this kingdom. It was steel. It was blood. And it was men like Azrael Lionheart, whose name will echo as long as Varethia stands!"
The hall erupted in cheers—loud, dutiful, and hollow in the throats of those who seethed behind smiles.
Azrael inclined his head, the picture of a warrior who wore honor like iron—not for pride, but because it was earned. Beside him, Elvira lifted her goblet with quiet grace, her crimson eyes cutting through the false laughter like moonlight through fog.
And at her side, Belial sat small and still, crimson eyes sweeping the hall. His fingers gripped the stem of his goblet too tightly. Something was wrong.
That presence again.
Thick. Cold. A weight pressing against his skin like unseen chains. It slid between shadows like a serpent through grass, coiling tighter, closer—until it brushed the edge of his mind.
Belial's breath caught. It's here.
His gaze darted—there! Near the great columns veiled in crimson silk, a figure lingered. Cloaked in gray, masked in black. Watching him.
Their eyes met.
And then—gone. Like smoke torn by wind.
Belial's small hands trembled beneath the table. Why… why does it feel like it's inside me when it looks at me?
Before fear could root deeper, the King's voice boomed once more:
"This night, the Lionheart family stays under the royal roof. Rest well, my friend," Daeron said, his gaze locking with Azrael's. "Tomorrow will bring its burdens soon enough."
Azrael inclined his head in gratitude. "Your Majesty—"
"Daeron," the King cut in softly, his voice for Azrael alone. "Just Daeron. Tonight, let the crown sleep."
Azrael allowed the faintest smile to break his steel-hewn features. "Then I'll drink to that."
The music swelled again, softer now, as servants swept the tables clean of jeweled plates and spilled wine. One by one, the nobles drifted from the hall like shadows bleeding from torchlight—smiles carved too deep, whispers coiled too tight.
But the venom lingered.
Later, moonlight spilled silver across the marbled corridor as Azrael carried Belial in his arms, Elvira gliding at his side. The weight of the day hung heavy on his shoulders, though the warmth of his son's drowsy breath eased it, if only slightly.
The chamber doors loomed ahead—massive oaken gates carved with roaring lions. Two royal guards flanked them, their armor gleaming in the torchlight.
"Your rooms, my lord," one said, bowing low.
Azrael entered first, placing Belial gently on the silk-draped bed before unfastening the cloak from his shoulders. Elvira swept to the window, gazing out over the moonlit sprawl of Vaeloria—its towers rising like silver spears, its streets glowing with lantern-light like a river of stars.
"Beautiful," she murmured. Yet her voice carried no ease.
Azrael stepped behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "You're thinking of the banquet."
She exhaled slowly. "Of what hides behind smiles sharper than any blade."
Azrael's jaw tightened. "Let them whisper. They'll choke on their tongues before I let harm touch you—or him."
From the bed, Belial stirred. His crimson eyes opened a slit, catching the pale spill of moonlight—and beyond it, in the darkened corner of the room, a flicker of something that wasn't shadow.
He blinked.
Gone.
But the whisper lingered in his mind like a phantom breath:
"Soon."