"It's strange, isn't it?" one servant whispered, leaning toward another. "I saw the Lord earlier. Did something happen to him? He was smiling."
A line of servants stretched from the grand entrance, stopping just shy of the staircase. At its base stood Deckard, holding a glass case that cradled the sacred relics of the Welcoming.
His eyes scanned the room with practiced precision. The white curtains were drawn to perfection, the chandelier above glistened like ice, and the golden carpet unfurled in an unbroken ribbon toward the door. Everything was in order—except the table where Walas and Revel sat.
Two servants stood nearby, stiff as statues, ready to attend the two officials' every whim. Deckard noticed their trembling hands. Understandable. Commoners of the Hellean race, standing before members of a Major House—one misstep could cost them not only their livelihood, but their families' futures.
Walas sat in silence, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. Beside him, Revel was already deep in his cups, his glass refilled before it ever ran dry.
"What d'you think of him?" Revel slurred, hiccuping. "You know I wasn't serious about it."
"Oh, I know," Walas replied flatly.
"If that bitch hadn't shown up, I would've crushed him," Revel growled, slamming his cup on the table. "Caught me off guard, that's all. Who would've guessed? An Elementalist, using primordial magic—hiding right under our noses."
Walas gave him a long, unreadable look. "Even if you had tried, you would've only embarrassed yourself."
Revel turned toward him, eyes swimming, but something in Walas's gaze anchored him. A flicker of unease crossed his face. He blinked.
"What do you think of him?" Walas asked softly.
Revel's expression shifted. The haze of drunken arrogance thinned. For a moment, there was something closer to fear behind his bloodshot eyes.
"He's..." Revel reached for a keg and drank straight from it, spilling wine down his chin and onto the polished floor. "That old man'll send him to the front lines. Mark my words. Doesn't matter how he does it. Even with this Welcoming, that boy won't change."
He stood, wobbling, and raised the keg like a trophy.
"Even with the help of a god, that boy will stay the same! No matter what he does—he can't save him!"
The room fell still. All eyes turned to him.
Revel threw his head back and laughed—a bitter, echoing sound that filled the hall.
Then came the sound of footsteps from above.
At the top of the stairs stood a man cloaked in white robes, edged with intricate gold embroidery. A serene smile softened his face, but the air around him pulsed with quiet, undeniable power. One of the Holy Ones—newly arrived from Revelis, capital of the Hellean plains.
Beside him stood Leon, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"Shut it, you moron," Leon said coolly. "Don't ruin the mood just because your part didn't go so well. Impossible things only happen when you believe in uncertainties. I mean, look at you."
Revel's face reddened. A vein pulsed in his temple as he gritted his teeth and shifted his stance—cracks spidering beneath his feet.
"By the gods, you really need to work on that temper," Leon sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "I'd hate to embarrass you twice in one day. And how do you think the House would feel about that?"
He shrugged, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Or better yet—go ahead and pounce on me. Might make things interesting, wouldn't it?"
"Enough," Walas interjected, his tone flat but firm. "I suggest you proceed with the ceremony. All variables are in place. The sooner it's done, the sooner we're on our way, and our orders to get back."
Leon strolled over, dropped into a chair, and snapped his fingers. A servant appeared instantly, offering a glass of wine. He swirled it, studied the color, and took a slow sip.
"You really are certain, huh?" he said, eyeing Walas over the rim. "Because of you two, I've been sober for a week. That's a fucking tragedy."
Revel sat across him, grabbed the keg and drank it.
"You mustn't underestimate that fool. After all, he's a relentless one."
**********************************
Azarim sat beside his son, adjusting the boy's collar with practiced care. He picked up a comb and pulled Anzel's white hair straight back, smoothing out every rebellious strand.
Anzel glanced at the mirror and offered a shaky smile.
"Father... is this hairstyle really necessary?" he asked.
Azarim nodded, inspecting his work.
"I look like someone who hasn't taken their first woman," Anzel muttered.
Azarim froze mid-motion. Slowly, his hand lowered.
"What?" he asked, voice gravelly. "Taken. Their. First. Woman?"
Anzel shrank back a little under his father's gaze, lowering his head.
"Well... when a long-eared man came into the shop and went up to the register, Uncle Leon and the others said, 'That's the look of a man who's never slept with a woman.'"
Azarim stood abruptly and placed both hands on Anzel's shoulders.
"Did you already sleep with a woman?" he demanded.
Anzel tilted his head innocently. "Well, of course. Multiple times."
Azarim closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. The gratitude he gave earlier to Leon—that was a mistake. A terrible, foolish mistake.
"Is something wrong, Father?"
Azarim knelt in front of him, looking him dead in the eyes. "My son, whom have you slept with?"
Anzel began tapping his fingers together, deep in thought.
"Well… mostly Mother. But when she's too busy, the servants keep me company. Though mostly Deckard. The other guys laughed when I said I'd been with multiple women."
Azarim exhaled, long and slow. As if a great weight had been lifted. Thank the heavens. A misunderstanding.
His son's innocence was still intact.
"Are you going to laugh too, Father?" Anzel asked, blinking up at him.
"No," Azarim said, shaking his head and rising to his feet. "I do not think I will."
"But why not? The others did."
Azarim ruffled his hair gently, destroying his perfectly lined up hairstyle and gave no answer, only a soft smile.
If he explained now, it would lead to more questions—dangerous questions. Questions with answers that would tear away that fragile innocence.
Some truths could wait. And this one could wait a very long time.
"Are you boys ready?" Angelica stepped into the room, her hourglass figure framed by a dress that shimmered like gemstones. Her silver hair was elegantly styled, her silver eyes sharp and bright, and her plump lips painted in a deep, striking hue.
Azarim froze as he looked at her, completely still.
Anzel noticed her a second later and rushed toward her, his earlier question forgotten as he hugged her tightly.
"You smell funny," he said, nose crinkling.
"You like it?" Angelica asked with a smile, caressing his hair—then pausing when she noticed it. "Your hair's still uncombed?"
She knelt down and shot a sharp glare at Azarim.
"Azza! What have you been doing in here? I asked you to handle this. By the gods, you're hopeless."
"I…" Azarim stood there, still staring, mesmerized.
"What are you looking at me like that for?" Angelica exclaimed, biting down on the comb while applying ointment to her hands.
"You are…" Azarim murmured as he stepped closer. "You are beautiful. A beauty that surpasses the golden sunsets of Creshire."
Angelica froze mid-motion. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly covered her face with her hands. Then, with a quick flick, she hurled the comb at him.
"Why are you joking around at a time like this?!"
Azarim barely dodged. The comb whizzed past his face and shattered the mirror behind him.
Anzel looked from one to the other and grinned. "Mother's blushing, Father!"
"Shut up, I'm not!"
"You are, Mother. Your face is red!" Anzel laughed.
Angelica dropped her hands from her face and grabbed Anzel's cheeks gently.
"Look at me. I'm not blushing!"
"You are! You're totally blushing!" Anzel giggled, leaning into her.
Azarim watched the chaos unfold, his chest warm. He really is her son, he thought. And she really is his mother. He would give up anything—everything—to keep this moment alive. A beating heart. A joyful laugh. A home filled with light. What else could matter?
He walked over to them, knelt down, and pulled both into a tight embrace.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For everything."
He ruffled Anzel's hair one last time before standing.
"He's perfectly fine as he is."
Angelica opened her mouth to respond, but Azarim offered his hand before she could.
"Come. Let's not keep them waiting."
She smiled, placed her hand in his, and he gently lifted Anzel by the armpits, settling him onto his shoulders.
"Hold tight," he told the boy, before clasping Angelica's hand firmly.
Together, they exited the room and stepped into the hallway—united, warm, and ready.
************************
They stood at the great door. Angelica's hand was damp with sweat as she gripped his tightly.
"Azza," she whispered, "after this… we'll teach him how to use his mana. Together."
Azarim smiled and nodded. The boy on his shoulders beamed with excitement.
With that, they pushed the door open.
The waiting servants bowed their heads in unison. As the family stepped onto the golden carpet, the servants glanced up and smiled warmly at the boy. In response, Anzel stretched his cheeks wide and offered the biggest grin he could muster.
"Is all this really necessary?" Azarim muttered, uncomfortable under so many eyes.
"It's our custom," Angelica replied, waving graciously. "They're celebrating him—his Welcoming is complete. Every Hellean child goes through it at five. Maybe not this grand, but it's tradition."
Azarim sighed and kept his gaze low, avoiding the crowd. His eyes drifted toward a side table where Walas, Revel, and Leon sat.
Walas met his eyes and gave a slow, almost mocking wave, a thin, sinister smile curling on his lips. Leon raised a bottle in greeting, unreadable as always. Revel was slumped forward, half-conscious in a drunken stupor.
Azarim leaned in to Angelica, lowering his voice. "That Holy One—do you trust him? Where's he from?"
"I saw him once in the capital, with Grandfather," she replied. "I believe his name is Fortim of Shibal, from the Sophian Plains."
Azarim frowned. "Do you know anything about him? Any records?"
Angelica smiled calmly. "No need to worry. Leon recommended him—right after he learned Walas had selected one of his own."
Azarim started to speak again, but she gently pressed a finger to his lips.
"Azza, this is our moment—given by the gods for everything we've endured. Trust me. After this, we'll have our family here in Bellthorne. And we will be happy."
She caressed his cheek. Azarim leaned into her touch and nodded, offering a quiet smile.
A nearby servant whispered, "So it's true. He can smile."
"Shush—he's right in front of us. The lady might hear," another said, covering the first's mouth.
Anzel turned toward them. "Father might not be good at smiling yet, but he has the biggest heart. You'll see."
Azarim lifted the boy down from his shoulders, ruffled his hair, then stretched his own cheeks outward in a mock grin, staring at the crowd.
But his eyes told a different story—sharp, dry, unamused. He glared at anyone who dared twitch their lips, daring them to laugh.
The servants' smiles faded. Unease crept in. A few began to sweat.
Is this a test? Azarim wondered.
He released his cheeks and scanned the hall like a hawk, noting every twitch, every breath held too long.
Did I do something wrong?
Then laughter burst from the table. Leon was doubled over, clutching his stomach.
"Who could've predicted this?" he wheezed. "Kid's right—looks like your father really does have the biggest heart."
Some servants chuckled nervously—until Azarim shot them a glare. Silence returned instantly. One even muttered an apology.
Angelica let out a small laugh, just as Deckard approached.
"Seems the young lord is right," he said, smiling with a chuckle of his own.
Anzel turned to Azarim, glowing with pride. "See, Father?"