The wind pulled at his cloak, cold and restless. Ahead, the white walls of Bellthorn rose high, cracked, weathered, and lined with banners bearing the nine-headed wolf.
Far beyond, the twin towers of Rheuk erected by the Archon stood like sentinels, guarding them from beyond. Their ever-burning beacon cut through the grey sky, calling to the bold, the desperate, and the damned.
This was the season when risk ruled everything—when life, death, and glory ran side by side.
Carriages rattled past on the frost-laced road, headed towards the gate, where a long line of adventurers carried their haul for the day.
Azarim stepped off the path, settling under the bare limbs of a dying tree. He dropped his pack with a dull thud and took out a flask. One swallow, then another. His throat eased, but he spat the last mouthful into the dirt.
Bitter.
He stared at the flask, fingers tracing the old maker's mark. It hadn't gleamed in months.
Digging through his pack, his hand found what he was looking for—a smooth, cold stone. A white orbital gem, dimly glowing in his palm.
"Those tales better be worth something," he muttered, "If not...."
Azarim clenched his fingers. The dim glow flickered in his eyes—echoes of long walks from city to city, of blurred faces drifting past, of sleepless nights spent with one eye open, guarding against the beast that prowled just beyond the dark.
"If this will not work, I do not know what will." Azarim took a breath, stood, and turned toward the city gates
Then he saw it—movement. Squinting his eyes to see a blur of white hair, bare feet pounding the road. A boy, shirt flapping in the wind, legs exposed for all to see.
"Father! You're back!" the boy cried, face glowing with joy.
Behind the child came a man in a sharp black tailcoat, golden hair tied back, long ears twitching in frustration. In one hand, he held a pair of pants, waving them like a surrender flag.
Azarim sat back down, checked his pack, and pulled out a small book. He tucked it under his cloak just as the boy collided with him.
The child clung to him tightly, burying his face into his chest like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
"Father," the boy said.
Azarim rested a hand on his back. "You have grown."
Two years ago, Anzel was barely able to reach his knees. Now he came up to his stomach.
At only five years old, Hellean genetics had already shaped him for combat.
Not far behind, the golden-haired man collapsed onto the road, gasping like a fish out of water.
"Just... one more year," Deckard wheezed. "Then I retire. That's a promise."
Anzel grinned at Azarim, full of pride and mischief.
Deckard, still catching his breath, took a long inhale, stood up straight, smoothed out his coat, and adjusted his monocle. He walked over and gave a formal bow.
"Lord Azarim. Welcome home."
Azarim nodded. "Deckard."
He had to give the man credit—moments ago, he looked half-dead. Now, he was back to acting like nothing happened.
"Father, where were you?" Anzel asked, pressing his cheek to Azarim's chest. "Mother's been a bit over it lately. She keeps walking around back and forth, mumbling to herself about what she'll do when you come back."
"Over it?"
"You know, biting her lip, walking in circles. I think she really missed you."
Azarim's brow twitched. Even in the cold, he felt sweat prickling on his skin. He could already picture the furniture flying at his head.
"Lord Azarim, if I may," Deckard said gently.
He knelt and held out a pair of pants, ready for Anzel to step into. The boy ignored him, clinging tighter to Azarim's chest.
"Young Lord, please. At least wear your pants," Deckard tried again.
"No," Anzel muttered, turning his face away.
"Young Lord!" Deckard snapped. "If you don't come now, your mother will be furious!"
"That is enough, Deckard," Azarim said, reaching for the pants. "Let me."
"You spoil him too much, Lord," Deckard handed them over.
Azarim helped Anzel with them. Still, the boy didn't let go.
"Why are you acting like this?" Azarim asked quietly.
Deckard stiffened. He looked at Azarim, then quickly glanced away.
"Did something happen?"
Before Deckard could speak, Anzel answered.
"They locked me in my room, Father. For three days, I was alone, I was sick of it. Mother would come visit to help me sleep, and when I wake up she's gone. Other than that, they'd only bring my food and leave. "
Deckard jumped in, "Young Lord, you know why that happened—"
Azarim cut him off with a sharp look. "You confined him?"
Deckard cleared his throat, kneeling beside them. He smoothed out Anzel's clothes and gently wiped his cheeks.
"My lord, we had no choice. Master Leon gave the order. If we hadn't followed it, things could've gone badly..."
Azarim clicked his tongue.
Deckard hesitated, then leaned in. "My lord, can we discuss this in private?"
Azarim didn't respond right away. Instead, he shifted Anzel onto his lap. The boy sat quietly, staring at the book Azarim pulled from under his cloak. He watched as the drawings inside moved, shapes flickering like dreams.
Azarim flipped it open. The page showed a man sitting on a rock, fishing in a lake of swirling quicksand.
Azarim turned the page. A warrior stood mid-swing, his sword wreathed in blazing wind, clashing with a golden-winged woman whose radiant whips tore through the air.
Anzel's eyes sparkled. He flipped to another page, revealing a busy harbor scene—burly men loading cargo onto massive ships.
"What is this, Father?" he asked, wide-eyed.
Azarim handed him the book. "Is it to your liking?"
Anzel nodded quickly, holding it close.
"By the gods…" Deckard asked, reaching cautiously for the book.
"It is devoid of mana," Azarim replied, noting his concern. "It contains either mine or the crafter's. Merely a souvenir I picked up during my visit to Ainstruval."
Deckard's brow tightened. "Giving him an artifact Lord? At least take some precautions. You, of all people, understand that it's poison to those who cannot see it."
He reached for the book, but Anzel pulled it close, scowling.
"Give it to him, Deckard," Azarim said, a glint of command in his eyes. "I have checked it thoroughly, every corner, every page."
Deckard stood still, frozen in place.
Azarim, rising to his feet, walked past him. "Unless you doubt my capabilities… let us talk."
Deckard gave the boy one last look before following. With a snap of his fingers, his monocle glowed, and a thin shimmer of mana manifested around them, silencing their voices from the outside.
A silencing barrier? Azarim narrowed his eyes, inspecting the thin threads of mana woven through the air.
Deckard straightened with quiet pride and said, "Lord Azarim, an emissary from the Major House has arrived."
Azarim's brow furrowed.
"For what reason?" he muttered. "Not a single House came when Belthorn was overrun, when the abomination from beyond broke through the towers of Rheuk."
Deckard paused, then said, "I think you already know why."
Across the Hellean plains, nine noble Houses ruled the land. The Major House, The Revlesi stood above them all.
They never came for trivial matters. Land disputes, bloodline bickering, territory swaps—yes. But Bellthorn? They'd thrown it to his wife and Leon for a reason.
It was isolated. Half-ruined. Filled with peasants and border trash. No glory. No recognition.
The only value they could get from here was a stain thrown to their fancy garments by what they deemed unruly.
They gave it to halflings because no full-blood would take it.
So if they came now… it meant one thing.
"They have known about the prolonged Welcoming."
Deckard gave a solemn nod.
The Welcoming, a rite of passage. A long-standing tradition. Where it meant gaining blessings from the ones who hails from above.
Also a tearing moment of vulnerability to the soul.
"I thought Angelica agreed that we would take the more natural approach," Azarim said.
"Lord, I mean no disrespect, but this isn't Creshire. Here, traditions are bound by blood. I agree that most of the Helleans act before thinking, but they hold this custom in the highest regard."
"How long have they known?"
"Well, it was only a matter of time. Three months overdue, in fact," Deckard sighed. "The Lady's protest bought you more time to return. But it also drew their attention to you, scouring your study, reading your notes, even compiling the grimoire she forbade us to touch. She objected, of course. But one of them... is different. Even Lord Leon minds his tongue around him."
Azarim's glare burned into Deckard as he stepped forward—slow, deliberate, every footfall a warning.
"I gave Angelica an artifact to contact me at any time, should there be a sudden emergence," he said, voice low and sharp. "You knew this. I even offered one to you. So tell me, why was it not used?"
Deckard took a step back, lowering his eyes, biting his lip. "She refused to use it."
"Refused?" Azarim halted.
"That's just how she is." Deckard's head hung lower, guilt clouding his face. "I tried to use it myself, after they threatened to report her. But she stopped me. She said, 'Azza has the harder task. This is nothing compared to what he has to face. Don't use that thing, Deckard, because I know Azza will be back here in a heartbeat if that thing rings."
Azarim placed a hand to his head, eyes clouded with guilt. He closed them—and in the darkness, he saw her saying those words, smiling as she did. That hurt more than anything.
"So, Deckard," Azarim exhaled, easing his stance, though his gaze remained fixed. "When did they start visiting?"
Deckard hesitated, surprised by the sudden shift, then straightened and cleared his throat.
"Three months back. The Helleans are woven with order and discipline—everything must be in its place. When they sense a disruption, they move to correct it, no matter the cost. Especially when it involves one of the Revlesi's children. Competing for the position of Major House has always been their priority. And seeing an unordained child, especially a halfling, is an eyesore they won't ignore."
Azarim bit his lip, his frustration tightening his jaw.
"Strength is everything to their race," Deckard continued. "You must've understood that when you first came to these lands. You came from a place that believed the same. You've seen manaless children crumble in the streets of Creshire, how they're treated, used, manipulated. You know what happens if they find out."
In these lands, where even basic nutrition came at a price few could afford, no one fed a child who lacked potential. If Anzel remained unable to summon even the faintest flicker of mana... he would be branded a cripple for the rest of his life.
If not, if there was potential, they'd keep him. Use him. Leverage him to turn Azarim into their hound.
Azarim exhaled slowly.
"Deckard," Azarim said, his voice firm. "Return now and tell Angelica, I am coming home."
Deckard hesitated. "Lord, if they learn the young lord was outside, it will undo the purpose of his confinement."
"I think that they have already discovered his secret," Azarim glanced at Anzel, still lost in the book, flipping pages with wide-eyed wonder. He turned back to Deckard, his expression unreadable, yet, a softness in his usual cold voice. "Allow me to have a moment with him. I will take care of the rest."
"I understand." Deckard started to argue but bowed nonetheless. He walked over to Anzel. Though the boy remained defiant at first, Deckard ruffled his hair and whispered something to him—words that made him light up. Anzel clung to Deckard, then turned to Azarim with a beaming smile.
Deckard weaved a slow hand through the air, dispersing the magic barrier, and walked toward the boy.
Anzel dropped the book and flopped flat onto the ground, grinning up at him.
Perhaps that was his magic—his charm.
Azarim hovered a hand above the boy's head, hesitating.
If the ritual fails, they will take him.
The thought clung to Azarim, his eyes shadowed with desperation.
But before the weight of that fear could settle, Anzel reached up and tugged Azarim's hand to his forehead, nuzzling into it.
Azarim's breath caught in his throat, then eased as warmth flooded his chest. For a heartbeat, the walls around his heart gave way.
No. Even if they came for him. Even if they dared. They would burn first.
He ruffled the boy's hair, then lowered himself beside him. Anzel scrambled into his lap and eagerly reopened the book.
"Father, what is this place?" he asked, pointing at an illustration: a golden plain, wheat stretching endlessly beneath a vast, empty sky. No buildings, only a solitary figure walking through the field, his fingers grazing the tall stalks.
"That was Tapas," Azarim said, lifting Anzel onto his lap.
"Where's that?"
"To the east of here," he replied, nodding toward the road that snaked beyond Bellthorn's walls. "If you followed that path long enough, you'd reach it. Two months on foot."
"Really?" Anzel's eyes lit up. "Then where is Bibiryan Dugo?"
Azarim blinked. "Remember the harbor you saw earlier?"
"Yeah! The one with the big ships and the muscly guys carrying crates."
"That is the one. That's how you'd get to Vriddivian Dugo—by the Blood Sea." Azarim corrected. "How do you know that name?"
"Oh! Oh! Uncle Leon said the food there is weird, and the women always carry these huge, juicy melons. Not the sour ones in Bellthorn, but the sweet and juicy ones!"
Azarim stared at him. "...What?"
"Father? Do you think one day you can take me there? So I can see their... juicy melons?"
"Absolutely not."
Anzel frowned. "So... was Uncle Leon lying? The Melons aren't good?"
"Just..." Azarim exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "You are too young for that."
"For melons? Why not?" Anzel tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Deckard served me a slice of it, it was delicious. Its juices were kinda sticky though."
Azarim clenched his jaw. Of course, it would be Leon. Filling the boy's head with nonsense and laughing about it afterward. Teaching him about melons, of all things.
He didn't answer, only stared off, quietly plotting all the ways he would make Leon regret this conversation.
Anzel's questions tumbled out one after another, his curiosity endless. Carriages rolled past, their wheels clattering on the stone, while the child's laughter rang through the fading light, echoing with every tale Azarim offered.
As the sun dipped low and shadows stretched across the road, the boy's eyelids grew heavy, his head nodding gently with sleep. Finally, he surrendered, nestled in Azarim's arms, breathing slow and deep.
Azarim slipped off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy, drawing him close.
A bell rang out from within the city, calling home those still lingering beyond its walls.
He lifted his gaze to the star-strewn sky and gave a quiet, resolute nod. He was ready.
The confrontation was no longer a question of if, only when. With that, he walked off.