The sun barely broke through the iron-gray clouds above Danigrasse Hold, casting long silver slants through the sparring yard. Mist clung to the stone walls, and the breath of morning was cold, sharp, biting through the bones of those who dared be outside before the tribal fires were lit. Azrael stood barefoot in the dirt, his training axe clutched in his callused hands, knuckles white.
Barek, his older brother, circled him like a hawk.
"Try again," Barek barked. "You call that a stance? That's a pigeon trying to walk like a wolf."
Azrael shifted his weight, adjusting his footing, only for Barek to step forward and thwack his shin with the shaft of his axe.
"Wrong again."
"Gods," Azrael muttered under his breath. "You love hitting me."
"I love when people learn. Sadly, that excludes you."
Azrael rolled his eyes, then immediately winced as Barek faked a swing and jabbed him in the ribs.
"I was adjusting!"
"You were being lazy."
"I haven't even eaten!"
"You haven't earned it."
"You sound like Father."
"I am what Father wishes you were."
Azrael's jaw clenched. "You know, you're not nearly as clever as you think."
"And you're somehow even worse than I feared." Barek smirked, his dark hair tied back in a warrior's knot, his breath fogging as he took a dominant stance. "Let's go again. From the top. You're lucky we're using practice weapons."
Azrael raised his axe, his grip tight and stiff.
"Too tense," Barek said immediately.
"You know what? Maybe shut up for once!" Azrael snapped, eyes flashing beneath his mop of dark curls. His eyepatch itched from sweat.
Barek lowered his weapon. "There it is. The famous Azrael fire. Shows up only after he's insulted. Pity it never shows up during a hunt."
"Because I don't want to be like you," Azrael spat. "Always shouting, always proving, like life is one endless fight."
"In our family, it is. That's what you still don't get."
They stood in silence, the sound of ravens cawing from the tower rooftops.
Finally, Barek sighed and shouldered his axe. "You're not weak, Az. You're just not ready. And that's worse. Because you've had years to be."
He walked away, boots crunching frost beneath them.
------
The rest of the day passed in silence. Azrael wandered between training drills and errands, face hot with embarrassment. Around him, the Danigrasse warriors moved like living steel—strong, practiced, brutal. They laughed with the same mouths that kissed death. Even the children threw spears with purpose.
He caught glimpses of Janis, his cousin, arguing with a quartermaster about bowstrings. She gave him a quick wave, but he couldn't even muster one back. Every time he looked someone in the eye, he saw the same expression: concern wrapped in disappointment.
His father, Varros Danigrasse, stood at the cliff edge that afternoon, speaking to the council. Azrael didn't dare approach.
By dusk, he sat alone on the outer wall, a chunk of blackbread in hand. He didn't eat it.
Janis found him there.
"Training again?" she asked.
Azrael didn't look at her. "Something like that."
"You look like a kicked dog."
"I feel like one."
She sat beside him, hands resting on her knees. "You know Barek only pushes you because he sees what you could be."
Azrael let out a short, humorless laugh. "What he sees is a failure who might get the whole name disgraced tomorrow."
"Don't say that."
"It's true." He turned to face her, the wind tugging his hair. "You think they'll let me live if I return empty-handed?"
Janis hesitated. "They'd have to."
"They won't. Not with tradition. Not with eyes watching."
"You're not weak, Azrael. You're just…"
"Wrong?" he offered.
"Different."
"Same thing in this place."
She reached for his hand. "Then maybe we need to change what it means."
---
Night came quickly. Fires lit along the pathways as snow threatened to fall. The Hold sang songs of battle and courage; drums echoed from the main hall where the elders feasted.
Azrael stayed outside, wrapped in his cloak. The stars above flickered through gray veils. Cold settled in his bones, but he didn't move.
He sat by the edge of the southern wall, looking over the valley. Forests stretched for miles, shadows thick and wild. Somewhere in that black expanse, his trial beast awaited unaware that its hunter was barely a shadow himself.
Behind him, the Hold roared with life.
Inside him, silence.
"Why am I like this?" he whispered to the dark.
The wind answered with a howl.
"Why am I afraid?"
He didn't cry. He hadn't in years. But his throat tightened, and his breath caught.
"I want to be strong. I want to make them proud."
He stared at his hands—thin, trembling, scarred from too many clumsy drills.
"But I don't feel like me when I fight. I feel… wrong. Like I'm pretending to wear their skin."
Above him, the moon pushed through the clouds.
"I don't want to die tomorrow."
He waited for an answer, for some voice from the dark, for the gods to reach down and touch his soul. But nothing came.
Only the cold.
Only the stillness.
He stayed there until the fires went low. Until the guards changed shifts. Until his eyes burned and his legs went numb.
He stood slowly, breath heavy. And with one last look over the edge of the Hold, he whispered:
"Please let me be enough."