Chapter 4: A Special Night

Pleroma—the boundless fullness of power that permeates the universe. Bestowed by the gods above upon those who sift the dust below, it is both their greatest gift and their greatest shame. Despite their divinity, even the gods would unravel into nothingness without it. Their golden glow would fade into the darkness pit of oblivion.

Cursed are those who revere them as supreme yet remain ruled by an unknown force. The greatest mystery in the universe: where did Pleroma come from?

Azarim sat alone at a table, his gaze fixed on the arrivals at the door. The tiles rattled as brutes of beastmen, towering giants who stooped to avoid bumping their heads, and various humanoid races filtered in as the chandelier sparkled overhead. Deckard assigned each of them their seats, a handful of guests dressed formally, but most wore whatever they pleased, indifferent to decorum.

Angelica had a way of forging connections—some useful, others, in Azarim's view, nothing but a nuisance. But to her, they were all acquaintances. Perhaps, it might even be fair to call them friends. After all, her family, the House Major of the Helleans, had placed her here, in Bellthor, to govern the land before the gate.

"Where is my chair?" Leon barked, glaring at the table.

"I—I don't know, Lord Leon. Lady Angelica was very precise about the arrangements."

"Then where's mine?"

Yvette sighed and yanked him back by the collar. "Can't you just fetch him one, just to shut him up?"

The servant hesitated before bowing. "Understood, Lady Yvette." She hurried off, only to return moments later, breathless and dripping with sweat.

"I'm sorry, my lady, but there are no chairs left. They've… they've been burned to a crisp."

"What?" Leon's face twisted in disbelief. "Then where the hell am I supposed to sit?"

Without a word, Azarim rose from his chair and walked toward the stairs. Was it honorable? No. Was it petty? Yes. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

The Welcoming. In the far south, where Azarim had grown up, such a ceremony did not exist. One does not simply embrace Pleroma; one either wields it or is consumed by it. He was both fortunate and unfortunate.

As he reached the door, he knocked. A giggle came from the other side.

"Wait a minute!" Anzel replied.

The boy flung the door open in haste, and his scent met Azarim—jasmine and raspberry, with a tint of honey.

"I smell delicious, don't I, Father?" Anzel tugged at his collar, lifting it to Azarim's nose.

Angelica, who had a spilled wad of perfume on the floor, stared at them both, her eyes signaling something unspoken.

"You smell good," Azarim said.

The boy beamed, while Angelica shot him a glare.

You—"

Anzel stood dressed in a crisp white shirt and a red tie, a circular metal piece fastened to his chest. His splendid black pants and polished shoes made him look both practical and ready.

Angelica was mesmerizing—her silver eyes gleamed, her hair neatly styled, and her dress dazzled like stardust.

Azarim's heart skipped a beat.

"You both look wonderful," he murmured.

Angelica stepped forward, taking Azarim's hand. "We are ready."

Anzel raised his arms, wanting to be carried, and they walked slowly together.

Azarim wanted nothing more than this—a loving wife and a cheerful son. Yet his mind drifted elsewhere.

A palace. A man sitting on his throne, lounging in a relaxed manner, yet his presence was heavy with unease. Azarim ran toward him, stopping just before the throne, staring blankly until the man finally noticed him.

The man placed him on his lap. "Why don't you play with them?"

"I don't like it," Azarim replied.

"Why? Are you afraid of getting hurt? After all, they play rough."

Azarim shook his head.

"Then…are you afraid you might hurt them?"

A gentle squeeze on his hand snapped him back to the present. Angelica.

They had arrived at the curtain. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. Azarim watched her for a moment, then set Anzel down and took his hand.

"Now's the time, Azza," Angelica said, her eyes glistening with tears. "This is the night, Azza. No more days spent in the shadows. Now, you can stay. We can finally be a family."

A thunderous cheer erupted from outside. Behind the curtain, a synchronized shout called them forward.

"5!"

"4!"

"3!"

"2!"

"1!"

The curtain dropped.

The room exploded into celebration—kegs clanged, beer mugs crashed together in raucous toasts, and bursts of fire magic lit up the ceiling like fireworks. Warriors let out deafening war cries. Someone chugged an entire barrel of wine, while others feasted on giant chicken legs, tearing into them like victors at a battlefield feast.

Yvette wiped away tears, overcome with emotion. Leon, meanwhile, was already deep in a bet over which giants could arm wrestle a table into splinters.

Anzel, taking it all in, suddenly screamed at the top of his lungs, battling against the overwhelming noise. Azarim and Angelica exchanged a knowing smile before watching their son charge toward the tables, challenging the fighters to see who could be the loudest.

It was chaos. It was home.

Angelica sighed, then grinned at Azarim before slamming her fist into the ground with a resounding bang.

The entire room froze, all eyes on her.

She tilted her head and smiled. "Now... shall we continue?"

Everyone hurried back to their seats, gulping down food and beer, eager to listen once more.

"I appreciate your love for my family," Angelica continued, "but can we at least finish this?"

Anzel bolted back upstairs, roaring at the top of his lungs, and the crowd chuckled as they finally collected themselves.

Deckard approached, carrying a flat pillow upon which rested an insignia and a small curved blade. The hilt of the blade was wrapped in fine leather, engraved with the name Anzel, while a dark, sharp-edged stone adorned its pommel.

Kneeling before Angelica, Deckard offered it to her.

"My lady Angelica, it feels like only yesterday I watched you play in the fields, picking up pebbles and tossing them into the river. And now… now you stand before me, a grown woman." His voice carried both pride and nostalgia. "Lord Elmur would be so proud."

Angelica picked up the blade, her fingers trembling. "Really, Deckard?" A single tear traced its way down her cheek.

Deckard smiled and nodded. "To see you with your own family… I have no doubt."

Overcome with emotion, Angelica pulled Deckard into an embrace, weeping softly. Around them, the audience reacted in their own ways—many averted their eyes out of respect, while others, like Yvette, were already blowing their noses. She yanked Leon's collar back and forth as she sniffled, though Leon merely watched the scene with a quiet glint of pride before turning away and downing his mug.

Taking a deep breath, he finally spoke. "Lord Azarim… forgive me for my words earlier. They were selfish and unkind."

Azarim accepted the insignia from Deckard, nodding in silent acknowledgment. Together, he and Angelica stepped forward, kneeling before their son.

Anzel's white hair was slightly ruffled, his cheeky smile beaming with excitement.

Azarim and Angelica lifted the insignia and the blade, holding them before him. "Our son, today, you are welcomed into this family. You will grow to be strong and kind—to those in need, and even to those in power. May you be an instrument of good to all who stand by you."

They leaned in, pressing their foreheads gently against his. "We will always love you—now, tomorrow, and forever."

With a wide grin, Anzel lunged forward, wrapping his arms around them both. "I love you both too!"

As Angelica wiped her eyes, she turned toward Deckard and gave him a firm nod. Then, stepping toward the entrance, she stood as a cloaked figure approached. The man's attire bore the markings of a priest, his presence commanding yet warm.

As he removed his hood, his white hair and silver eyes gleamed golden. A knowing smile crossed his lips.

"It has been so long, Azarim."