The air crackled. Not just with the clash of steel, but with a suffocating, almost tangible pressure. Azrael Lionheart, my father and the man who could probably punch a hole through a mountain if he felt like it, had just unleashed his aura.
It was deep crimson, like dried blood, and it pulsed with the rhythm of a vengeful heart. The friendly sparring match we'd been having for the last hour, the one filled with his usual bad dad jokes, was gone. This wasn't about teaching me swordplay anymore. This was a test. A test I was currently failing spectacularly.
I parried a strike, the force of it sending a jolt of pain up my arm. My own nascent aura—a faint, hopeful flicker of silver—was overwhelmed. I felt like a paper boat in a typhoon. He moved with a speed that defied physics, a blur of crimson as he closed the distance.
This is it. This is how I die, I thought with a grimace, tightening my grip on my sword. And I still haven't figured out how to use ice spear yet what a tragedy.
Then came the final strike. It wasn't a killing blow, but a concussive force that shattered my guard. The flat of his blade slammed into my chest, and the world became a blur of blue sky and green trees. I was a human cannonball, hurtling backward.
My flight path ended with a resounding crash. I didn't just fall; I demolished a doorway. My body, a surprisingly durable piece of furniture, skidded across the smooth wooden floor of the parlor, coming to a shuddering halt when I collided with something precious.
A porcelain vase. A terrible, wonderful, cherished, hand-painted vase.
It erupted in a shower of white and blue ceramic, scattering its beautiful, clumsy floral design across the floor like confetti at a very sad party. The silence that followed was louder than any of the sword clashes.
And then, the voice.
"Oh, Belial. And here I thought you were finally getting the hang of opening doors without your face."
I peeled myself off the floor, a shard of porcelain stuck in my hair. My mother, Elvira Lionheart, stood there, a teacup held delicately in her hand. She didn't look at me, nor at my father who was now standing awkwardly in the shattered doorway, his crimson aura gone. No, her gaze was fixed on the shattered remains of her vase.
A single tear—a perfectly timed, comedic tear—traced a path down her cheek.
"My… my anniversary vase," she whispered, her voice trembling with mock tragedy. "The one your father gave me on our first year. The one that means everything to me."
My father, the man who could take on a dragon, paled. "Elvira, my love, you said that was a knock-off you bought at the market for two copper pieces because you liked the colors."
My mother turned her gaze, an expression of pure, unadulterated menace on her face. Her voice was as sweet as poison. "Oh, darling. I have to maintain my mystique. Now, which one of you is going to pick up all these pieces… with your teeth?"
Azrael and I exchanged a look of sheer, unholy terror. The fight was over. The real one, it seemed, had just begun.Mixing those elements would create a great continuation. It allows for a humorous scene of Belial and Azrael attempting a ridiculous task, all while Elvira's sharp wit and unyielding demands drive the action.
"Azrael," Elvira's voice was a silky, dangerous whisper. She held up a small, jagged piece of porcelain. "This one looks like a dragon's tooth. You can start with that."
My father's face, usually a mask of stoic battle-hardened resolve, was now a portrait of a man staring into the abyss. "Honey, the floor is dirty. We should just sweep—"
"A dragon's tooth, dear. Remember that time you spent a week 'training' in the mountains and came back with a scar from a baby griffon?" Her smile widened. "This seems much less painful."
My own internal monologue was in full panic mode. She's going to make us eat the vase. This is it. My life ends not in a blaze of glory, but by choking on a cheap piece of ceramic. At least it's a dramatic end.
I watched as my father, the great warrior, slowly knelt. He eyed the small, lethal piece of vase on the floor, his aura nowhere to be seen. He looked at me. "Belial, son. This is a lesson. A lesson in… humility."
"Humility is the word you're using for 'choking hazard'?" I muttered, still on the floor, trying to carefully dislodge the ceramic shard from my hair.
Elvira turned her gaze to me, her smile gone. "Belial, sweetie. You're the one who crashed into it. You get to be the 'collector.' Find me all the pieces that have the red flowers on them."
I sighed dramatically and started crawling. My father, with a sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper, gingerly bent his head toward the "dragon's tooth." Just as his lips were about to touch the shard, Elvira spoke again.
"Azrael. Darling. With your hands. You'll ruin your beard."
My father's shoulders slumped in relief. He carefully picked up the piece with his fingers, looking at it like it was a live grenade.
"And Belial," my mother continued, turning her attention back to me. "Don't you dare drop any. We wouldn't want the little ones to find a piece and think it's a new toy. Would we?"
I knew who the "little ones" were. The giant, slobbering direwolves my mother kept as pets, who were currently whining at the back door, desperate to get in and "help." I shuddered at the thought of them swallowing a piece of porcelain. They'd probably be fine, but the vet bills would be astronomical. And the vet was also our neighbor, who charged extra for "being woken up by a panicked Azrael."
"On it," I said, now moving with a newfound sense of urgency, scrambling to pick up the floral pieces.
Azrael, meanwhile, was carefully placing his shards in a pile. "Elvira, I have an idea. What if we just go out and buy you a hundred new vases? We could fill the entire house with them!"
My mother smiled sweetly. "Oh, Azrael. Don't be silly. That would be completely inefficient. Besides, a hundred vases wouldn't have the same sentimental value as this one."
She then pulled out a small, ornate dagger from her sleeve and started scraping at a tiny, almost invisible stain on the floor. "See, this is why we can't have nice things."
My father and I exchanged another look, a silent agreement passing between us. We'd been through worse. We'd faced down goblins, trolls, and the occasional grumpy griffon. But this was different. This was a force of nature. This was Elvira.