Today was the day of the awakening ceremony.
Azriel woke to sunlight spilling across the polished floors of his chamber. He dressed swiftly, black tunic over the faintly armored vest of the Stark household, hair perfectly in place yet unruly enough to seem casual. A knock echoed on the door, soft but precise.
"Young master… it's time."
The voice was the same as yesterday — calm, reverent, yet carrying a hint of awe.
Azriel opened the door. The maid's gaze fell on him, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Her eyes widened imperceptibly at his beauty and presence, but she said nothing, no flinch of emotion betraying her inner thoughts. She guided him silently toward the waiting car.
The awakening ceremony for the children of House Stark was shrouded in secrecy. Anyone outside the family was ignorant of its location or its procedures. Once a year, every elder, hunter, and the patriarch himself gathered to observe the upcoming generation.
This year was exceptional. The patriarch's son — Azriel Stark — was to undergo the ceremony. His awakening alone was a spectacle; his sister had undergone hers two years prior and now studied at the World Academy, a symbol of the Stark legacy.
The ride was silent, punctuated only by the hum of the car and the occasional glance from Azriel's sharp crimson eyes, which seemed to measure and weigh the world even as he sat still.
---
He left the car and entered the hall. The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a pin-drop silence descended. It was not the silence of anticipation, nor that of politeness. It was an oppressive hush, a recognition of something dangerous, unapproachable, and beyond comprehension.
All eyes were on him. Some stared in fear, others with acknowledgment, a few with the raw edge of killing intent. And yet, despite the attention, he moved casually, almost lazily, to a chair at the center of the hall. A glass of wine appeared in his hand as if by habit, his crimson eyes scanning the room like a predator observing prey.
The elders whispered among themselves, exchanging glances. Hunters shifted slightly, uneasy but alert. This boy — this child — carried an aura no one had seen in decades. Even those who had witnessed legendary awakenings of the Stark line were unsettled.
Azriel sat, glass in hand, calm. Let them stare, he thought, tilting the wine slightly. They have no idea what is coming, and neither do they realize the chaos that already follows me.
---
The ceremony began. Hunters stepped forward, guiding children to sense the flow of mana around them. Candles flickered, casting shadows that danced across the hall, the faint hum of energy palpable. Azriel's crimson eyes flicked to the others — children who struggled, gasped, and trembled as their senses brushed against their nascent mana. Some could barely feel it; others flinched at its raw force.
And then there was him.
The chaos mark beneath his palm pulsed faintly, a quiet heartbeat in sync with the unseen energy threading through the hall. He could feel it flowing, not through the steps the hunters instructed, but in a way older, wider, and far beyond comprehension. It was familiar… terrifyingly familiar, yet he still did not understand why it was in him.
Whispers began. A few brave elders stepped closer, trying to gauge the boy's progress, but Azriel noticed everything — every glance, every heartbeat, every attempt at subtle control. He sipped from his glass and smiled faintly. Let them try.
---
The ceremony was not mandatory for him. He had the option to undergo the ritual voluntarily before fifteen, avoiding the risk of forced awakening. Yet the anticipation amused him. Observing the chaos of the untrained, the mistakes of the fearful, the awe of the weak… it was all a performance for him to study.
And while the ritual proceeded, subtle hints of his true power began to manifest. Shadows near his chair seemed to twitch unnaturally. Candles flickered without wind. The air itself felt heavier, almost as if bending toward him.
Some felt it, though few could place the source. A low murmur ran through the hall — curiosity mixed with apprehension, respect mingled with fear.
Azriel tilted his head, crimson eyes glinting. They are so small, yet so fragile. So predictable. How amusing.