Chapter 2: Between Silence and Shadows
The dim glow of the second moon filtered through the cracked roof, casting faint silver lines across the worn floorboards. Azeroth lay awake on the threadbare mattress beside the hearth, arms folded beneath his head, listening to the rhythm of his sister's soft breathing.
Liora always fell asleep quickly, as if darkness itself cradled her.
But for him, sleep came slowly, dragged down by thoughts too heavy to forget.
He stared at the ceiling and whispered, "One more day."
Then closed his eyes.
⸻
Morning.
Azeroth rose silently before the sun.
He pulled the patched blanket higher over Liora's small frame and moved to the corner shelf, where a single dry loaf of bread sat wrapped in cloth. He broke it gently, placing half into a wooden bowl beside a cup of water. A folded note lay next to it, scrawled in his uneven hand:
Eat this. Don't wait for me. I'll be back before dusk. — Zer.
He glanced back once before stepping outside.
The chill of morning air greeted him like a slap. His breath fogged the space before him as he tightened his worn cloak and walked briskly toward the schoolyard gates.
⸻
The Academy loomed ahead — five tall spires of steel and crystal, humming faintly with energy conduits visible beneath their transparent skin. A marvel of modern magitech, built to train the best of the Awakened youth.
And somehow, he was here.
He didn't belong, and everyone knew it.
⸻
He took his seat in the back of the dim lecture hall just as the day's first lesson began. The room glowed with pale-blue glyphlight, illuminating glass screens suspended in the air. The instructor — a sharp-eyed woman named Professor Keir — was already deep into today's theory on "Dimensional Pathways and Power Scaling."
Azeroth didn't take notes.
Not because he didn't understand. But because he didn't care.
There was no pathway for someone like him.
All around him, students in tailored uniforms sat straight-backed, glyph-tattoos shimmering faintly along their necks and hands. Some glanced at him. Most didn't bother.
One boy — Riven, a baron's third son — chuckled under his breath and whispered something to the girl beside him. She laughed.
Azeroth stared straight ahead.
He had long since stopped hearing their voices. They were just static now — background noise.
The lecture droned on. He endured.
⸻
Afternoon brought Combat Class.
Outdoors, under the blazing sun, with reinforced stone platforms set up across the training field. Most students paired off in light duels, using flashy but controlled skills under the supervision of Professor Varn, a grizzled ex-Warrior whose left arm had been replaced by a living metal construct.
Azeroth waited alone, as usual, until someone made a show of "volunteering."
Riven again.
"Let me give the cripple a fair fight," he said with a smirk.
Professor Varn didn't blink. "No killing intent. Begin."
Riven moved fast — quicker than any mortal should — striking low, then high. Azeroth dodged the first, blocked the second with his forearm, and stumbled back.
Laughter from the sidelines.
Another blow — this one clipped his shoulder hard enough to bruise.
Azeroth gritted his teeth but stayed silent.
Riven's smirk widened. "Still no system? Or are you just too weak to wake it up?"
Before the third hit could land, Professor Varn stepped in between them, catching Riven's fist midair.
"Enough. Rules are rules."
Riven huffed and turned away.
Azeroth stood alone once more, silent and sweating.
⸻
Above, in the tinted windows of the headmaster's tower, a figure watched the boy below.
The man was tall, silver-haired, and wore a long coat lined with navy-blue trim. His eyes — weary and old — followed Azeroth's every movement.
Headmaster Lucien Kross.
He exhaled slowly, resting one hand on the windowsill.
"He has her eyes," he murmured. "And his father's spine."
A younger teacher beside him shifted uncomfortably. "Should we intervene?"
Lucien shook his head. "Not yet. His time will come. We owe him that much."
He didn't say what he really meant:
We failed his father. I won't make the same mistake again.
⸻
By dusk, Azeroth was home again.
He stepped inside and immediately smelled the faint aroma of boiled roots. Liora had warmed some of the dried leftovers using the tiny spirit flame in the hearth.
She sat at the table, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
"You're back," she said with that familiar calmness.
He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see. "Yeah. I'm back."
She tilted her head toward him. "Rough day?"
He gave a short laugh. "Same as always."
She held out the half loaf he'd left. "I saved some. Thought you might want it warm."
He took it, heart heavy, and sat beside her.
They ate in quiet companionship, the soft clinking of wooden spoons the only sound between them.
Afterward, she leaned against his side, small and warm.
"Going out again tonight?"
He hesitated.
"Yeah."
She didn't ask why. She never did.
Just whispered, "Be careful, Zer."
"I always am."
She smiled gently. "No, you're not."
⸻
Later, as the stars bled into the sky, Azeroth prepared for the hunt.
He packed his gear — the knife, the coil-rope, a flask of water. Slipped his cloak on. Checked the edge of the blade by candlelight.
His reflection in the window was pale, tired, and gaunt. But his eyes — they still held something.
Resolve.
He looked back at his sister one last time, asleep again on the couch, curled beneath their mother's old shawl.
"I'll come back stronger," he whispered.
But tonight, the forest had other plans.