"Why are you smiling like that?" Alwin narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Something about Azrael felt... off.
Realising it, Azrael instinctively touched the vest where he had hidden his knight registration scroll. To avoid arousing Alwin's suspicion, he quickly shook his head and wiped the smile off his face.
"Nothing," he said quickly, shaking his head again. His face had already gone pale under Alwin's piercing stare.
"You'd better not be up to anything," Alwin warned, pointing a finger at him.
"You don't need to worry. I know my place," Azrael replied with an awkward grin, praying Alwin wouldn't figure out what he had done.
Alwin didn't seem to care anymore and climbed onto the cart, now carrying far fewer goods than before.
"Hey, why are you just sitting there? Let's go already!" Alwin barked as he smacked Azrael's back hard.
Azrael coughed and nearly fell from his seat. Flustered, he nodded quickly and urged the horse forward, driving them out of Stormdawn.
The city remained bustling as evening fell. Vendors' shouts still echoed through the streets, and Azrael found himself enjoying the lively atmosphere despite everything.
Gradually, they left the city behind and returned to Marrowland, which to Azrael felt darker, colder... suffocating. Honestly, he didn't want to go back—but what choice did he have?
By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, the sky had turned deep orange. The road home was quiet, the only sounds being the creaking of the cart wheels and the horse sniffing the crisp early-autumn air.
Alwin barely spoke on the way back, but his eyes kept flicking toward Azrael—sharp, probing. Especially when Azrael accidentally smiled to himself, still thinking about his knight trial.
"What are you hiding?" Alwin asked suddenly, his voice low and sharp.
Azrael flinched. He quickly lowered his head, trying to hide his nervous expression.
"Nothing... I'm just happy I got to visit the city," he answered quickly, hoping it sounded convincing.
Alwin stared at him for a moment, then scoffed. "Happy, huh? Careful—joy can get you killed." He yanked on the reins roughly, making the horse snort and toss its head.
When they finally arrived home, it was fully dark. But instead of letting him rest, Azrael was ordered to clean the stables, fetch water, and chop firewood. Every move he made sent jolts of pain through his body—his bruises from last night still hadn't healed.
He knew if he didn't do it, he'd only get beaten again, so he forced himself to work quickly. He was exhausted, but rest would have to wait.
. . .
It was nearly midnight by the time Azrael returned to the attic where he usually slept. The cold, ever-present in that small space, no longer surprised him.
He closed the door behind him softly, careful not to make a sound. He didn't want anyone in the house to hear him and find an excuse to punish him again.
Still buzzing with excitement about the upcoming knight trials, Azrael knelt beside his worn mattress and pried up a loose floorboard. From the gap, he pulled out a small book—his secret sword training scroll.
"Good thing I hid this earlier," Azrael whispered, hugging the scroll tightly before carrying it over to the attic window.
The attic was pitch dark, but the faint moonlight outside gave just enough light for him to read. Azrael dragged an old, wobbly chair over to the window and began studying the scroll with intense focus.
He didn't just read—he practised. Using a wooden stick he had found in the attic, Azrael began mimicking the movements described in the scroll, moving as slowly and quietly as he could.
Azrael moved slowly, mimicking the stances: low guard, rising strike, pivot step. His shadow danced silently against the wall as moonlight traced the motion of the stick in his hand. He practised until 2 AM, and only slept for three hours before waking at 5 to help his uncle in the fields.
Even though his entire body ached from exhaustion, Azrael never complained. He rose before anyone else in the house, even starting breakfast for them.
But not long after, his aunt came into the kitchen and kicked him out, forbidding him from eating with the others.
Knowing there was no point arguing, Azrael headed to the backyard and began chopping firewood, hoping someone would leave leftovers for him.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he heard a familiar humming voice behind him.
"Surprised to see you working so early," Isaac said casually, but made no move to help.
Azrael stayed silent. He didn't want to deal with Isaac this morning. Better to just focus on his task.
"Hey, don't ignore me like that. I even brought you breakfast," Isaac said as he tapped a spoon against the plate he was holding.
"What?" Azrael turned around, caught off guard by the unexpected offer.
Sure enough, Isaac stood in the doorway holding a plate of food. Azrael, stomach growling, swallowed hard and slowly walked over.
Isaac held the plate out toward him. "Eat up."
But just as Azrael reached for it, Isaac let go, dropping the plate. It crashed to the ground, scattering food everywhere.
Azrael froze, staring at the mess. His body trembled. He didn't know how to react. His feelings were too tangled—hunger, anger, humiliation.
Isaac burst into laughter. "You actually thought I'd feed you? Pathetic."
"Cursed brats like you belong on the ground anyway. Be grateful—I was nice enough to bring it to you. Now eat it off the dirt, okay?" Isaac smirked and winked before walking off, laughing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen.
Azrael clenched his fists tightly. He was furious, but something inside him told him to stay calm. He couldn't afford trouble. Not now.
"Breathe, Azrael. This is nothing. You've dealt with worse than this," he muttered to himself, trying to stay grounded.
With a long sigh, he crouched down and began picking up the bread. He wiped it off on his shirt, then ate it quietly to silence the gnawing pain in his stomach.
. . .
Later that day, Azrael had to join Christopher and Alwin in the fields. They had just harvested the crops and needed to prepare the land for planting again.
While clearing the field, Azrael's mind drifted back to the sword techniques he had practised the night before. He only had one week to prepare for the knight trial. Every second counted.
What he didn't realise was that Alwin had been watching him from afar—his eyes sharp and narrowed in suspicion. That boy was hiding something.
And Alwin intended to find out what it was, no matter what it took.