The courtyard was already crowded. Nobles lined the perimeter in tailored uniforms, whispering behind painted fans. The class was supposed to be routine but today, every noble came to watch the last training from Azrayel.
Metheea tightened her grip on the wooden practice sword.
"You. Come spar with me."
Azrayel's voice sliced through the quiet like a thrown dagger.
She turned. He was standing in full training gear, hair tied back, a blade resting on his shoulder. His presence made the other nobles straighten, adjust themselves, pretend not to gawk but not fooling anyone.
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 turned her face, jaw clenched. "Why do you keep doing this?" she hissed, just for him.
Azrayel smirked, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "It's fun," he said simply. "Watching you do everything just to survive. Come on."
She stepped forward. . They circled each other on the sparring grounds. Her breathing slowed. She couldn't afford distraction.
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 scared of 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. Did he do it?
Then he gestured for her to follow, leaving the astonished and shocked nobles.
He led her into his building into a room. Her feet stayed rooted infront of the door when he gestured for her to go in.
"What is in there?"
He cocks his head and smirked. "You wouldn't know if you wouldn't go inside. 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 in Alwyn family. Do you recognize him?"
Her spine locked up.
The man stirred. "Whose 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. "You said we had a deal and I abide with it. 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 a Dythrid girl in Katarthan?"
Azrayel cocked his head slowly, drink in hand. "I already knew all about you, Lissa Mateli Frange. A bastard of Baron Frange of Dythrid. Sent here to be gotten rid of."
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.
But then she looked at the man on the floor. She didn't know what he knew. And to bury secrets, she just needed to do something to him. She was scared he was going to run his mouth if left be.
"Give me your dagger."
Azrayel paused. Then handed it over, hilt-first.
Her hands shook as she walked to the man.
"Please—" he whispered.
She knelt. Her voice didn't waver.
"I'm sorry."
Azrayel sensed what she wanted. He chuckled to himself as he circled the man again and forced the man's mouth open.
Her senses were too much. The sounds in the room felt almost too loud. All she wanted now was to survive.
Her hand hovered for a breath.
The man whimpered.
Her grip tightened.
One clean slice.
He screamed until he passed out.
Blood spilled onto her hand and to 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.
"You didn't hesitate."
She didn't answer.
He reached out, gently taking the blade from her. Their fingers brushed.
"You'll survive here just fine," he murmured, wiping the blood from her hand with a silk cloth.
Then, with a crooked smile:
"Maybe you'll even start loving my gifts."