Chapter Six: His Gift

The courtyard was already crowded. Nobles lined the perimeter in tailored uniforms, whispering behind painted fans. This class had become a spectacle—thanks to Azrayel.

Metheea tightened her grip on the wooden practice sword.

"You. Come spar with me."

She didn't turn. Though she knew he was talking to her once more.

"Lady Velisa," he sing-songed behind her, drawing more attention.

She almost dropped her sword. She hated the attention he gave her, especially when there were eyes watching. It felt deliberate, as if he was staking a claim.

"That's her?"

"What a whore."

She didn't turn, but her jaw clenched. "Why do you keep doing this, your highness?" she hissed, just for him.

Azrayel smirked, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "It's fun," he said simply. "

With no choice, she stepped forward. They circled each other on the sparring grounds. Her breathing slowed.

Their first clash was loud and sharp. Azrayel didn't hold back. Every strike forced her on the defensive. Every move pulled her closer.

He was fast but she read the patterns, adjusted her stance, struck when he overextended.

Then it happened.

Her foot slipped and she stumbled.

His hand caught her waist.

Chaos from the nobles. A girl near the fence dropped her parasol.

But Azrayel didn't let go.

He leaned in, voice low enough only for her.

"Still hate me?"

She shoved him back, hard. Her eyes shooting daggers at him. 

Azrayel tilted his head, then signaled the end of the match.

She turned to leave but he walked with her, casually. Before she could break away, he stepped closer. One arm slipped around her shoulder.

"I have something for you."

Nobles gasped. Everyone stiffened and fell silent trying to listen to their words.

Metheea stiffened too, but in horror. She knew what he meant. She remembered his question from last night.

Do you want me to kill them?

Her hand trembled. Had he done it?

Then he gestured for her to follow, leaving the astonished and shocked nobles.

He led her into his building and into a room. Her feet stayed rooted in front of the door when he gestured for her to go in.

"What is in there? It's already scandalous enough that I'm here where you stay. I shouldn't be... I- I must go..."

He cocks his head and smirked. "You wouldn't know what's inside if you go. Besides, you already have a clue, don't you?"

He opened a heavy door.

The room was dark and cool with thick curtains that blocked the sun. On the fireplace, a fire was lit.

And on the middle of the floor sat a man.

Blindfolded. Bound. Silent.

Azrayel walked past him without a glance. He poured himself a drink, then gestured at the man with lazy interest.

"He says he served the Alwyn family. Do you recognize him?"

Her spine locked up.

The man stirred. "Who's there? Let me go. I'll never tell anyone."

"You're not—"

Azrayel laughed as he circled the man, then forced a cloth into his mouth. He looked at her, his voice light. "I assure you, I didn't interrogate the man."

Metheea almost fell down in relief.

She looked back at Azrayel, her voice sharper. "Why not? Aren't you curious about me?"

Azrayel cocked his head slowly, drink in hand. "I already knew all about you, Miss Dythridian. Why is miss Lissa Mateli Frange, bastard of Baron Frange of Dythrid here in Katarthan?"

Metheea almost sighed in relief. He'd found the cover story they planted — a fake name, a fake birthright. That was fine. Let him think she was a discarded noble bastard. It was close enough to the truth to hide the rest.

"I don't have to answer you," she whispered, hoping he would drop it. "I thought you'd kill him," she added, glancing at the man on the floor.

Azrayel looked at her for a beat, his expression unreadable. "I want to know what you'd do to him first," he said quietly.

She looked at the man on the floor. Her secrets had to die with him. But what if he ran his mouth before then? She didn't know what he truly knew—but the Alwyn family had long been in quiet cahoots with Dythrid. Long enough that even their lowliest servants might have caught whispers, glimpses, pieces of something. And that was already too much.

She hesitated.

Her eyes flicked to Azrayel. "You should do it."

He just looked at her.

The silence stretched.

Her jaw tightened. She stepped forward anyway.

"Give me your dagger."

"Give me your dagger."

Azrayel paused. Then handed it over, hilt-first.

Her hands shook as she walked to the man.

"Please—" he whispered, his voice sluggish, unfocused. He looked drugged, eyes struggling to stay open.

"I'm sorry."

Azrayel sensed what she wanted. He chuckled to himself as he circled the man again, crouched low, and forced the man's mouth open. With a firm grip, he yanked the drugged man's tongue out and held it steady.

Metheea knelt before them, her breath shallow. The blade felt heavier than it should. She pressed the flat side against the man's tongue, feeling the resistance, the tremble. Then, without letting herself think, she drew the blade across in a swift, practiced line—clean and brutal.

The man's body convulsed. A wet, choked scream ripped out of him, muffled by the blood and cloth. He slumped moments later, unconscious.

The blood was warm on her skin. Too warm. Her stomach twisted as it spilled onto her hand and dripped onto the marble.

"Brutal," he said. "But effective."

He raised his voice slightly.

"Remove him."

Two shadows appeared and dragged the man away like garbage.

The door closed again and Metheea stood frozen, blade in hand, dripping with blood.

Her stomach twisted. She stared at the red streaks running down her fingers, unable to comprehend what she'd just done. It didn't feel real.

Azrayel came closer. Stopped beside her.

"That was entertaining." His voice was light, but something darker curled beneath it.

"Now, you are indebted to me," he added, wiping the blade with deliberate slowness. "I'd rather we make things... interesting. I'll let you know when."

She didn't answer.

He reached out, gently taking the blade from her.