Azriel's Life
(The first few scenes may be boring for you all, but this entire chapter is based on Azriel's life as he grew up to the point where he entered the Academy. If you want, you can skip or wait for the next chapter, as he'll be in his 2nd year, and that's when Yumiella will appear.
I'd say skip the first 2 thousand words or skim through it.)
Azriel Valschein sat cross-legged on the plush carpet of his royal bedroom, surrounded by lavish gifts and decorations that adorned the grand space. Gold-trimmed curtains swayed gently in the soft breeze from an open window, letting in the scent of blooming jasmine. Balloons floated near the high ceiling, each one a vibrant reminder that today marked his fifth birthday.
Laughter echoed from outside as children played in the palace gardens, their voices carrying hints of joy that clashed with Azriel's growing sense of unease. He stared at the mountain of toys stacked beside him—wooden soldiers, plush creatures, and glimmering trinkets—each one more extravagant than the last. Yet none of them sparked joy within him.
A sudden wave washed over him. Memories flooded his mind, uninvited and chaotic. He blinked hard as shadows from another life flickered in his thoughts—a cramped room filled with nothing but a thin mattress on the floor, the distant sounds of conflict ringing through the air. The weight of loneliness settled heavy on his chest.
He felt a cold sweat trickle down his back as he remembered how he had survived on scraps, scavenging through alleyways while dodging those who sought to exploit the weak. Images rushed forth: friends lost to hunger or violence, the unrelenting grasp of despair gnawing at him day after day.
His fingers trembled as they traced over a beautifully carved wooden horse—one of many gifts from nobles eager to win favor with the first prince. But it was a mere shadow compared to what he once had—a worn-out toy he cherished because it was a symbol of companionship rather than wealth.
"Azriel!" His mother's voice cut through his reverie like a blade.
He turned to see her standing in the doorway, radiant in her flowing gown. A warm smile spread across her face, but Azriel couldn't mirror her happiness.
"Look at all your gifts! Aren't they wonderful?" She stepped closer, kneeling beside him as if trying to bridge an invisible chasm.
He forced a smile, but it felt foreign on his lips. "Yeah... they're nice."
She frowned slightly at his tone but brushed it off with practiced ease. "You should be out there celebrating with your friends!"
Friends? The word twisted in his mind like a thorny vine. He had friends once—real ones who understood hardship and fought alongside him against cruel fates. Now, he wore a crown crafted from expectations and judgment; now, he was expected to be someone else entirely.
"I don't want to," he mumbled.
Her brow furrowed in concern. "Why not? You're five years old! It's time for cake and games."
He looked down at his hands, remembering blood-stained fingers gripping weapons forged for survival—not toys meant for play.
"Azriel?" His mother's voice softened as she placed a hand on his shoulder.
A well of emotion rose within him; he could feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. The warmth radiating from her hand felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds yet couldn't penetrate the shadows creeping into his heart.
"What's wrong?" Her concern deepened.
"I just... I don't understand." His voice cracked as memories flashed by—faces of comrades long gone mixed with visions of feasts and laughter that felt alien now.
"Don't understand what?" She tilted her head slightly, studying him closely.
"Why me? Why do I have all this when others..." His words faltered under an unbearable weight. "When others are still struggling?"
Silence hung heavy between them as she absorbed his confusion and pain. Her fingers tightened briefly before releasing him like he had burned her.
"Oh, my sweet Azriel," she finally whispered, wrapping her arms around him tightly enough that he could feel her heartbeat against his cheek—a steady reminder that love still existed even amid chaos.
But even then, warmth couldn't drive away the chill settling deep within him—the knowledge that this luxurious existence bore no resemblance to what true strength meant: overcoming adversity while forging bonds born from shared suffering.
"I don't want presents or parties," he muttered against her shoulder. "I just want to make sure everyone is okay."
The light dimmed behind her eyes momentarily before she recovered with a gentle squeeze, masking her worry beneath layers of parental resolve.
"Well," she said softly after an eternity stretched between them, "you can always do good things when you grow up."
But those words barely grazed Azriel's heart; they echoed hollowly against memories steeped in darkness and struggle—the realization dawning upon him like dawn creeping through darkness: being a prince would never change what he'd endured before this life began.
______
Azriel strolled through the royal corridors, their opulence lost on him as he navigated the familiar paths with an air of detachment. The marble floors gleamed under golden chandeliers, yet the beauty felt cold against his skin. He heard laughter echoing from the drawing rooms, bright and carefree, but it only deepened the shadows gathering in his heart.
Passing a group of nobles clustered near a window, he caught snippets of their conversation—a well-placed jab here, a hushed remark there.
"Can you believe he's the First Prince?" One woman's voice dripped with disdain. "He doesn't even have a magical affinity."
Another scoffed in agreement. "What sort of king cannot wield magic? It's embarrassing."
Their words sliced through him like icy blades, each phrase tightening around his throat. He pressed on, but every step felt heavier as whispers followed him like shadows clinging to the walls.
He pushed open the grand double doors leading to the gardens, hoping fresh air would ease his mind. Vibrant flowers bloomed in perfect rows, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within him. The scent of jasmine and roses wafted through the air, yet Azriel barely noticed; instead, he focused on how out of place he felt amidst such beauty.
He crossed the cobblestone path lined with hedges and approached an empty stone bench nestled beneath a sprawling willow tree. Its branches hung low like tendrils of comfort wrapping around him in their embrace.
His fingers brushed against the cool stone as he sat down heavily. The sound of laughter faded into an unsettling silence; loneliness wrapped around him tighter than any chain could bind.
"You're too quiet." A voice broke through his thoughts—a soft yet firm tone that belonged to Seraphina, his sister.
He glanced up at her graceful figure, framed by cascading golden hair and an aura that seemed to shimmer under the sunlight.
"I'm fine," he replied flatly, avoiding her gaze as if it held answers he didn't want to confront.
She perched beside him, her presence both calming and unsettling all at once. "You're not fine." Her eyes sparkled with concern mixed with resolve—the same determination she always carried.
"I hear what they say." Azriel finally met her gaze, his voice barely above a whisper.
Seraphina frowned deeply, lips pressing together in disapproval. "They don't know you like I do."
"But they're right." The admission felt heavy on his tongue—an undeniable truth rising from depths he struggled to suppress. "I'm not fit to be king."
"Don't say that!" Her voice rose slightly before she steadied herself again."That's not true!" She leaned closer now; warmth radiated from her as if she could shield him from everything gnawing at his spirit. "You've worked hard for everything you've achieved!"
Azriel dropped his head again—shame washed over him like cold rain trickling down a windowpane. No matter how much she believed in him or how many lives he'd saved across lands and villages during secret midnight quests, the voices still echoed within these gilded walls.
He pressed his palms against his eyes for just a moment—a futile attempt to erase memories that continued resurfacing uninvited: moments filled with laughter from friends turned into echoes of silence; whispers now deafening roars reminding him that every time someone questioned his worthiness as future king it chipped away at something fragile deep inside him—his sense of belonging slipping further into obscurity.
"What if they're right?" The question slipped out before he could catch it; vulnerability hung heavy between them now—a raw honesty settling like dust upon their shared space under swaying branches overhead.
Seraphina hesitated briefly before responding softly. "They're wrong if they can't see your strength beyond levels or magic."
Yet even those words faltered against doubt's insistent clamor clawing at Azriel's heart—the weight growing ever heavier as silence reigned once more amidst blooming flowers framing their secluded haven within an empire crafted by expectation and legacy intertwined with longing for acceptance among peers who never understood true resilience came not solely from powers bestowed but rather forged through struggle endured alongside love shared...
______
The grand royal library loomed before Azriel, a sanctuary draped in shadows and the scent of aged parchment. Towering shelves filled with leather-bound tomes reached toward the ornate ceiling, each volume whispering secrets of the kingdom's past. The flickering candlelight danced along the spines, casting long shadows that swayed like specters watching over him.
Azriel stepped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind him. He had learned to find solace here, away from judgmental eyes that scrutinized his every move. The hushed silence enveloped him, and he relished the reprieve it offered.
He navigated through narrow aisles until he reached his favorite corner—a small table nestled between bookshelves crammed with volumes on history and combat strategies. Dust motes floated in the air as he settled into a chair, pulling a hefty tome titled The Kingdom's Chronicles toward him.
Hours passed as Azriel pored over tales of valor and tragedy, of kings and queens who had shaped their fates through battles won or lost. He traced his fingers along the faded illustrations of monsters that once roamed the land—beasts fierce enough to bring kingdoms to their knees.
As he flipped through pages, he discovered something more pressing: a section detailing the kingdom's leveling system. Each level gained required more than mere skill; it demanded relentless effort and sacrifice. He read about how slaying monsters increased one's level, but it also revealed an unsettling truth—progression grew exponentially harder after each threshold.
"Tenfold," Azriel muttered under his breath, furrowing his brow as he absorbed this harsh reality. Each level-up required vanquishing an ever-increasing number of foes. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach—a gnawing sense of determination igniting within him.
With newfound focus, he continued his study of various monster types: goblins skittering in caves, wyverns soaring above treetops, trolls lurking beneath bridges—all chronicled meticulously within these ancient texts. Strategies for defeating them jumped off the pages like battle plans ready for deployment.
He envisioned himself stepping onto those treacherous battlegrounds again, muscles tense with purpose as he faced down creatures that terrorized innocents. The thrill coursed through him—the desire to protect overshadowing any doubts that clung to his mind.
Azriel immersed himself deeper into these accounts until a soft rustling interrupted his concentration. He glanced up to see Edwin standing at the entrance, small and hesitant in the doorway.
"Azriel!" His little brother's voice broke through the stillness—a melodic sound that contrasted sharply with the weight pressing against Azriel's heart.
"What do you want?" Azriel replied curtly, unable to mask the edge creeping into his tone. A flash of coldness swept through him—an instinctive reaction laced with emotions not entirely his own; envy flared like fire against Edwin's innocence.
"I thought maybe we could play?" Edwin's hopeful expression faltered under Azriel's gaze; uncertainty flickered across his face like candlelight struggling against wind.
"No." Azriel turned back to the book before him, pretending to lose himself in words once more. His brother's presence felt like an unwelcome distraction—a reminder of everything he couldn't be: carefree and loved without question.
"But..." Edwin shifted on his feet, uncertainty rippling through him as he ventured further into the library's depths where shadows intertwined with knowledge gathered over centuries. "You never want to play anymore."
"Because I have things to do," Azriel shot back, frustration rising like bile in his throat—he felt trapped between two worlds: one filled with expectations and another tainted by haunting memories that reminded him daily of failure and inadequacy.
"But I miss you," Edwin persisted, voice softening yet tinged with determination despite Azriel's cold dismissal.
"Miss me?" He scoffed lightly but inwardly regretted letting disdain seep into his words; there was a truth buried beneath those syllables—the realization that while Edwin played freely within their gilded cage of privilege—Azriel struggled beneath its weight.
The moment hung heavy between them—a palpable tension tightening like a noose around Azriel's chest. Forcing himself to glance at Edwin again brought forth emotions he wanted buried deep: irritation mingled with guilt while envy stirred uneasily just below consciousness—the original prince's resentment boiling just beneath skin taught by circumstance alone.
Edwin shuffled closer; hope glimmered in those wide eyes, which only stoked frustration further within Azriel—he couldn't afford such weaknesses if they ever stood a chance against judgment awaiting them outside these walls filled with endless stories yearning for freedom...
Azriel clenched his jaw tight against unwelcome thoughts circling like vultures overhead—the stark contrast between childhood innocence lost somewhere along the way warring against burdens carried too long...
"Leave."
______
The moon hung high in the sky, casting silvery light across the secluded forest that bordered the palace grounds. Shadows danced among the trees, cloaking Azriel Valschein as he slipped into the underbrush. The cool night air enveloped him, mingling with the scent of damp earth and moss.
He crouched low, his heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. This was no mere adventure; it was a declaration of his intent to break free from the shackles of noble expectations. As he had learned from his past life as a soldier, every battle fought honed not just skill but resolve. He would start from scratch, rebuilding himself in this strange world.
With each step deeper into the woods, memories flooded back—battles fought under starlit skies, comrades at his side. But here, he stood alone, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The rustle of leaves drew his attention to a cluster of bushes nearby. Azriel squinted into the darkness and spotted a low-level slime glistening in the moonlight. Its gelatinous form wobbled gently as it absorbed ambient light like a living jewel.
"Perfect," he murmured to himself, determination coursing through him. He focused his mind on the slimy creature, visualizing its shape and texture. The subtle pulse of magic swirled within him—a sensation he had come to understand despite lacking an affinity for conventional spellcasting.
He extended his hand toward the slime, channeling telekinesis through sheer willpower. At first, nothing happened; frustration crept in as he felt sweat bead along his brow. The creature remained stubbornly rooted to its spot.
"Come on," Azriel growled softly under his breath.
With grit tightening around his resolve like a vice, he envisioned himself lifting it—gripping it with invisible hands woven from threads of determination. A spark ignited in him; he could feel it gathering strength as if each heartbeat fueled the magic itself.
Suddenly, he felt a shift—the slime began to quiver before slowly rising off the ground. His fingers trembled; a strain pulsed through his arm like fire creeping up a mountain slope.
"Not now," he gritted through clenched teeth, focusing all energy into that single point of contact between him and the slime. It rose higher still until it hovered just above head height—a translucent orb shimmering against the dark canvas of night.
With all that he could muster coiling within him like a taut bowstring ready to snap, Azriel clenched his palm into a tight fist. The tension exploded forth; an unseen force slammed down onto the helpless creature with overwhelming intensity.
The slime popped—an explosion of gooey substance splattering against nearby tree trunks and foliage—a burst of color against shadows draped thickly across everything around him.
Azriel fell back on his heels, breathing heavily as triumph washed over him like warm sunlight after an unrelenting storm. A smile crept across his lips despite fatigue wrapping around him like tendrils from creeping vines—the realization settling deep within: Just because I don't have an affinity doesn't mean I'm weak.
He savored that moment for what it was—a victory not merely against a creature born of this world but against every whispering doubt echoing inside him since childhood.
As remnants of victory clung to him sweetly like honey on parchment paper, thoughts danced through Azriel's mind about how far he'd come since first donning royal robes—how relentless training would hone both body and spirit beyond anything expected by those who looked upon him only as 'the prince.'
But there was no time for complacency now; each victory would lead him further down this path—every monster faced molded not just strength but confidence too: one step closer toward claiming his destiny—not dictated by nobles' whispers or royal lineage—but forged through battles fought in solitude beneath midnight skies...
The night still beckoned beyond these trees, filled with promises waiting to unfold...
______
The dimly lit hallway of the palace stretched like a shadowy serpent, its walls adorned with ornate tapestries depicting the kingdom's storied past. Flickering torches cast wavering light, creating an atmosphere thick with tension. Azriel, now nine years old, darted through the corridor, his heart pounding in rhythm with the echo of his footsteps.
A sudden crash shattered the stillness, followed by muffled voices that sent adrenaline surging through him. He skidded to a halt just outside the door to his sibling's chambers.
Azriel's instincts kicked in. He pushed the door open, eyes wide as he took in the scene: two dark figures loomed over Edward, who was unconscious. A chill gripped him; he had to act.
He spotted a chair nearby, its wooden legs sturdy yet vulnerable. In that moment of clarity amidst chaos, Azriel focused his energy. He felt the familiar pulse of magic surge within him as he grasped at the wood with telekinesis. The chair shuddered and lifted off the ground as if compelled by an unseen force.
"Get away from him!" he shouted, rage igniting his voice.
The assassins turned at his command, surprise flickering across their faces. But it was too late; Azriel had already thrust the splintered wood toward them. It shot forward like a bolt of lightning—sharp and unforgiving—impaling one assassin through the heart with a sickening thud.
The second attacker barely had time to react before Azriel unleashed another piece of wood from the chair—a jagged shard that struck true and knocked him off balance. The intruder crumpled against the wall, lifeless.
Silence fell over the room as Azriel stood frozen amidst the chaos he had wrought. The weight of what he had done crashed over him like a tidal wave—sorrow mingling with horror twisted in his gut.
He staggered back into the hallway, breath hitching in his throat as images from his past life flooded back—faces of fallen comrades and cries for mercy echoing in his mind. The bloodied hands stained with memories resurfaced like ghosts haunting him in this moment.
"Azriel!" His mother's voice pierced through his turmoil as Elara rushed toward him, her warm amber eyes wide with concern.
He looked up at her, tears streaming down his cheeks—each drop a testament to his inner turmoil and confusion about princely burdens that felt increasingly unjust.
"Why?" His voice cracked as he choked on words heavy with emotion. "Why does it have to be me? Why do I have to bear this weight?"
Elara knelt before him, her graceful presence radiating comfort even amid fear and chaos. She reached out to cradle his face in her hands, her touch gentle yet firm against his trembling skin.
"It isn't fair," he whispered brokenly. "I didn't want to hurt anyone."
"I know," she murmured softly, brushing away tears with her thumb as she held him steady against her warmth. "You did what you had to do to protect your siblings."
"But they're dead because of me!" His voice rose in anguish as he pulled away slightly—his small frame shaking under the enormity of it all.
Elara's heart clenched at seeing her son so distraught; she wrapped her arms around him tightly and drew him close once more.
"It wasn't your fault," she whispered fiercely into his hair while holding him against her chest—the rhythmic rise and fall of her heartbeat grounding him amidst despair.
Aldric appeared at that moment, urgency etched across his features as he surveyed the scene—the bodies sprawled on cold stone floors—and then quickly turned toward Elara and Azriel.
"What happened?" His voice was low but commanding; worry flickered across his brow upon seeing Azriel's tear-streaked face.
Elara shook her head slightly but didn't let go of Azriel; she understood that words could wait for now while comfort enveloped them both like a protective cocoon against the darkness looming around them.
As Aldric stepped closer to inspect what remained of those who threatened their family—a mix of disbelief and sorrow filled him upon seeing how brutally they had met their end at their son's hands—the sight of Azriel crying shattered something deep within him.
He knelt beside them and opened his arms wide; without hesitation or thought for rank or title, Azriel fell into that embrace—finding solace amidst chaos within strength radiating from both parents who stood steadfast together against whatever storm lay ahead.
In that moment—amidst lingering shadows—the prince found refuge not just from fear but also from doubt: knowing that even when burdens felt insurmountable or unfair... love would always remain ready to catch him when he stumbled through darkness alone...
______
The bustling city market thrummed with life, a cacophony of vendors hawking their wares and townsfolk bartering over fresh produce. Colorful stalls dotted the streets, their canopies flapping in the gentle breeze, while the scent of baked bread mingled with spices that wafted from nearby shops. Azriel Valschein wandered through the crowd, his keen green eyes scanning the scene, absorbing every detail.
His gaze landed on a scrawny boy darting between stalls, his thin frame agile and quick. Clyde was a blur of motion, deftly snatching a piece of fruit from a distracted vendor before disappearing into the throng. Azriel's heart tightened as he recognized something familiar in the boy's actions—a reflection of his own past life as an orphan.
Moments later, Azriel watched as a group of older boys cornered Clyde near a fruit stall. Laughter erupted as they shoved him around, taunting him for his audacity. Anger surged within Azriel; he couldn't stand by and watch another child suffer like he once had.
With determined strides, he approached the scuffle.
"Hey!" His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
The older boys turned at the sound, surprise flickering across their faces. They hesitated, then stepped back as they recognized the prince standing before them—his regal presence commanding respect even among those who dared to mock others.
"Leave him alone," Azriel ordered, his tone brooking no argument.
The boys exchanged glances before muttering curses under their breath and retreating into the crowd. Clyde remained on the ground, dirt smudged across his cheeks and fear evident in his wide eyes. Azriel extended a hand toward him.
"Get up."
Clyde hesitated but accepted the help, scrambling to his feet. His posture shifted from defensiveness to cautious curiosity as he looked up at Azriel.
"Why'd you help me?" Clyde asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Azriel studied him for a moment, recognizing not just vulnerability but also potential—the spark of resilience that could be honed into something greater.
"I see something in you," he replied simply. "Come with me."
Clyde's brow furrowed as uncertainty crossed his face. "Where?"
"To my home." Azriel gestured toward the palace looming nearby. "I'll feed you, clothe you... give you purpose."
The promise hung in the air between them like an unspoken bond—one forged in shared experiences of hardship and survival.
"Why would you do that?" Clyde's skepticism was palpable.
"Because I can," Azriel answered matter-of-factly. "And because I want to help."
With that declaration echoing in both their minds, Clyde nodded slowly, hope flickering behind his guarded expression.
As they made their way back through the market and toward the palace grounds, Azriel felt an unfamiliar weight settle on his shoulders—a responsibility he hadn't anticipated when he'd set out that morning. He pushed open the grand doors of the palace and led Clyde inside.
The opulence struck Clyde immediately; gilded ceilings soared above them while marble floors gleamed underfoot. They walked through dimly lit corridors until they reached a cozy sitting area where only maids and butlers lingered about—no sign of King Aldric or Queen Elara yet.
"Who's this?" Aldric's voice broke through their momentary silence as both parents entered from another room.
"This is Clyde," Azriel announced smoothly, confidence spilling forth despite its fragile roots. "He'll be my future aide."
Clyde squirmed under their scrutinizing gazes; he bowed deeply to both royals with an awkward gracefulness born from years of evasion rather than etiquette training.
"It's nice to meet you," he stammered politely, eyes darting nervously between them.
Aldric raised an eyebrow while Elara offered a warm smile tinged with curiosity—a silent question lingering between them about this unexpected addition to their family dynamic.
Azriel turned toward Alfred—the head butler standing nearby with an air of authority honed over years of service.
"Clean him up," Azriel instructed briskly. "Treat him nicely and prepare food for him."
Before either parent could interject or question further about this new arrangement—before they could even utter words meant to probe deeper into what lay behind such decisions—Azriel began to walk away.
"I'll handle his education," he stated without looking back over his shoulder. "And if any central nobles have issues with it... I'll deal with them."
King Aldric exchanged glances with Elara; concern etched itself upon their features as they observed their son retreating down another corridor—growing up too fast for comfort while shouldering responsibilities that seemed far too heavy for one so young to bear alone.
"He seems determined," Aldric remarked quietly after a moment's hesitation.
Elara nodded slowly; worry painted her expression deeper still as she watched Azriel disappear from sight—a boy who bore burdens beyond what should ever rest on youthful shoulders...
______
The sun dipped low over the horizon, casting a warm glow across the kingdom as Azriel Valschein, now fourteen, rode through various villages. Each town he visited bore witness to his valor; tales of his bravery spread like wildfire. He defended settlements from monstrous hordes and distributed healing potions—precious commodities that saved countless lives. Nobles began to take notice, their respect for him solidifying into a powerful backing that would shape his future.
On this particular evening, the royal palace buzzed with excitement. Servants scurried about, arranging decorations and preparing lavish feasts for the shared birthday celebration of Edwin and Seraphina Valschein, both turning thirteen. Laughter echoed through the grand hall, but an unexpected hush fell when a subordinate of Count Arlen entered, his expression grave.
"Your Majesty," he bowed deeply before Aldric and Elara. "I apologize for interrupting the festivities."
"What is it?" Aldric's voice cut through the merriment like a knife.
"Prince Azriel is currently in one of the villages under Count Arlen's jurisdiction." The subordinate hesitated, gauging the King's reaction. "He's helping to fend off a horde of monsters alongside Clyde and the count's soldiers."
Aldric stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. "What is the situation there?"
"The majority of threats have been dealt with," the subordinate replied quickly. "Thanks to His Highness's magic and strength, many lives have been saved. They plan to remain for an extra day to assist with recovery efforts."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered nobles like a wave crashing against rocks. Whispers of admiration filled the air as they exchanged glances laden with respect.
"Skipping a party for his siblings to help save innocents," one noble remarked, shaking his head in disbelief.
Another chimed in, "And he hasn't even entered the Academy yet! What remarkable capabilities he possesses."
A noble near the front raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Are you certain about this? His magic? His strength?"
Before anyone could respond, Lord Balthazar stood up, his voice booming across the hall. "I can vouch for Prince Azriel's strength! Just last month, he rescued my young son from kidnappers—brought back their leader too! A feat no ordinary boy could accomplish."
The room fell silent momentarily as eyes turned toward Aldric. One noble leaned forward eagerly. "Your Majesty, did you know about this?"
Aldric glanced at Elara; she shook her head slightly, indicating that they had not been informed of their son's exploits.
The nobles resumed their chatter, voices rising in admiration for Azriel's character and choices. They praised him for choosing to save innocents willingly—how it reflected on his potential as a future king.
Meanwhile, Seraphina sat among a group of noble girls her age, her smile bright as she answered their questions about Azriel.
"He's so brave," one girl gushed. "Do you think he'll ever get engaged?"
Seraphina shrugged playfully but couldn't hide her pride. "Who knows? He seems more interested in saving people than parties."
Across the room, Edwin clenched his fists tightly under the table as William Ares spoke animatedly about Azriel's latest accomplishments.
"Your brother is incredible!" William exclaimed enthusiastically. "Not many would risk everything for strangers when they haven't even attended the Academy yet! You should be proud!"
Edwin's jaw tightened as jealousy bubbled within him—Azriel's kindness towards others contrasted sharply against what Edwin perceived as indifference toward himself and Seraphina.
"He can help everyone else," Edwin muttered under his breath, barely audible above the merriment surrounding them. "But not us."
Unaware of Edwin's turmoil, William continued praising Azriel's heroics while Seraphina chimed in occasionally—her admiration clear as she recounted tales she had heard from their parents about Azriel's bravery during monster attacks.
As laughter and chatter filled the hall once again, each noble continued discussing Azriel's heroics—his name becoming synonymous with bravery and kindness in every corner of their conversations while Edwin remained trapped within unspoken feelings swirling like shadows around him, unnoticed by those celebrating joyously just beyond reach...
______
The grand hall buzzed with anticipation as new students gathered for the entrance assessment. Among them stood Azriel Valschein, the first prince, exuding a calm demeanor, and beside him was his aide, Clyde, who radiated excitement.
"Can you believe it, Azriel? We're finally here!" Clyde's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
Azriel smirked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, joy. Another institution filled with pretentious nobles. Just what I needed."
Clyde chuckled, unfazed. "Come on, it'll be fun! New faces, new challenges."
As the assessments began, students were called up one by one to measure their levels using a mystical orb. Whispers filled the room as each level was revealed, most ranging between 1 and 15. The air thickened with tension and curiosity.
"Clyde," the proctor announced.
Clyde stepped forward confidently and placed his hand on the orb. A bright light emanated from it, displaying the number "54."
Gasps echoed throughout the hall.
"Impossible! A commoner at level 54?" one noble scoffed.
"He must have cheated," another accused.
Before the murmurs could escalate, Azriel stepped forward, his gaze icy. "Is there a problem with my aide's capabilities?"
The hall fell silent.
"Do you doubt my judgment?" Azriel's voice was calm but carried an underlying threat.
Some nobles muttered "no," while others remained silent, avoiding his piercing gaze.
The proctor cleared his throat. "Next, Azriel Valschein."
Azriel approached the orb with an air of confidence that commanded attention. He placed his hand upon it. The orb blazed intensely before displaying "99."
Shockwaves rippled through the assembly.
"Level 99? That's unheard of!" a staff member exclaimed in disbelief.
The headmaster frowned, skepticism evident in his narrowed eyes. "Bring the spare orb."
A second orb was presented hastily by a nervous assistant. Azriel repeated the process; once again, "99" shone brightly in brilliant light.
Whispers grew louder among the crowd like a rising tide of disbelief and awe.
"He must be manipulating the device," a staff member accused sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Azriel.
All eyes turned to the accuser as tension thickened in the air like fog rolling in over a lake.
Azriel's lips curled into a sardonic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Would you like a demonstration?"
Without waiting for a response or permission from anyone present, he released a controlled wave of silvery aura mixed with palpable bloodlust that surged through the hall like an electric current.
The effect was immediate and overwhelming. Students and staff alike collapsed to their knees under the weight of his power—some gasped for breath while others simply fell forward onto their hands in submission. Only Clyde remained standing beside him, grinning brightly as if nothing was amiss; he had felt this many times before and knew Azriel was holding back significantly.
Retracting his aura after what felt like an eternity but had only been moments, Azriel surveyed the assembly with cool detachment.
"Any further doubts?" he asked calmly while scanning those who now knelt before him—nobles who had once whispered behind closed doors about him being unworthy of kingship were now rendered speechless by sheer force alone.
Silence reigned in that grand hall; even whispers ceased as they processed what had just unfolded—a display of power that left an indelible impression on all present.
Clyde leaned closer to Azriel and whispered playfully despite their surroundings, "You know you could've just said 'I'm strong' instead of all this drama."
Azriel shot him a sideways glance but couldn't help suppressing a smirk at Clyde's relentless cheerfulness amidst such gravity.
The proctor regained composure first among them all; he cleared his throat nervously and gestured toward Azriel again.
"Well then... welcome to the Academy," he managed to say as he tried to regain authority over proceedings now so thoroughly disrupted by their presence alone.
Azriel merely shrugged nonchalantly as if this display was just another day in life for him—one more step toward proving himself worthy of expectations that weighed heavily upon him since childhood...