Azrael's eyes flicked up, and he froze. There, at the head of the hall, stood a man in his thirties, radiating authority far beyond his years. Blonde hair gleamed under the lights, sword-shaped eyebrows and a neatly trimmed beard lending his face a sculpted severity. A striped suit hugged his frame, a silver watch glinting on his wrist. In one hand, he held a silver cane topped with a ruby-eyed dragon. The very air seemed to tense, bending to his presence.
The noble children instinctively straightened, while the common-born followed suit, caught between fear and awe. Azrael felt it too-not fear, exactly, but a deep admiration for the raw, undeniable power this man exuded.
Ten voices rang in unison: "We greet, Lord Deverill."
He raised a hand, halting them. "Sit." His gaze swept the room, sharp, assessing, and it lingered on Azrael just long enough to make the boy's pulse quicken. Azrael recognized that look, one that measured, weighed, and determined another's value.
The hall emptied of servants, Deverill cleared his throat. "Many of you wonder why you were taken from your homes. Some may even feel grateful. The truth is simple: I brought you here for one reason—power. True power. Not wealth, not lineage, not honor. Power." His eyes flicked to Azrael again, and in that moment the boy felt a thrill, a spark of understanding of what lay ahead.
"I am giving you the chance to seize it, to earn it, to master it. Here, you can become gods, heroes… legends." His gaze swept the room once more. "Those who understand the path… will rise. Those who doubt… will fade."
The room fell silent, tension thick. Faces showed awe, fear, and longing in equal measure.
One of the common-born children, hesitant and trembling raised his hand. The man signaled for him to speak, "M-my lord… how… how do we… gain this power?"
Deverill's lips curved into a faint, calculating smile." All twenty of you will live here under the care of my Stewards. For the next three years, you will train from dawn to dusk, preparing to wield your arcanum. At thirteen anyone who awakens one will be sent to the academy as scions of the Deverill family. The top 3 amongst you will become my personal students".
Shock rippled through the children. Among the western nobility, being accepted as a Duke's scion was an honor of the highest degree, reserved mostly for descendants. And with Duke Deverill unmarried with no children chance's were high that he would select the next Duke from them.
He continued, drinking a slow sip of water. "Your teachers are carefully chosen from my men. All will teach you what you need to know."
He rose, cane in hand, walking toward the exit. "Three years from now, I will be watching. I expect none to waste even a breath of that time."
Silence reigned after he left, heavy and suffocating. Their eyes glowed filled by the spark of possibility that had been lit in them.
Bucky reentered, smiling at the dazed children. "Follow me. I'll show you to your residence."
As they stood to file out, Azrael plucked the fork from his chair and slid it across the table toward the noble girl. His gaze never wavered from her face. She received it with the same indifferent calm, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint, mocking smirk.
Rio, the boy he had sent sprawling earlier glared at him, eyes burning. "I'll be returning that kick soon," Rio spat.
Azrael looked at him his usual mocking smirk on his face, as he turned he said, "the quailty of nobles has really gone down." Malik who was beside him couldn't help but nod as well. Rio's face twisted with anger as he watched them walk away.
They walked to a stable. Inside, instead of horses, twenty make shift beds of hay had been placed in the pens. Most faces went ashen. Rio's turned bright red. "You've got to be kidding me. I should sleep in an animal house? With them?"
"Yes," Bucky said, a dark smile tugging at his lips. "Your parents have already agreed to this. Perhaps they also see that It is high time you learn that comfort is a luxury few of have."
Some nobles and commoners tried to leave but were blocked by a tall, lanky figure in the doorway, a simple wooden staff clutched in one hand. He moved with a predatory grace, every step deliberate. His voice was low and hollow, cutting through the air like dry wood snapping, "No one leaves."
The children shivered. Bucky added, "Your belongings are beside each bed. Settle in. Training begins tomorrow."
That night was miserable. Insects, lingering horse smells, one noble even attempted to commit suicide but the man at the door quickly stepped in and knocked him out. A clear indication that they were under strict surveillance.
Perhaps the only ones who had a good night sleep would be the shadeek three. Compared to the cell and chains the had stayed in for 2 years beds of hay was like heaven.
Breakfast was served fast, Vegetables, proteins, everything to help one grow well. they all sat the same way they did yesterday they only difference was that the head chair was empty.
As soon as they were done eating a man in a slate coat entered the room, a slate board tucked under one arm. He had shoulder length hair neatly packed at the back.
" I'm instructor Brask," said a gruff voice, "I'll be with you for the greater part of your stay here. You can call me instructor"
He set the board on the ground in it he wrote, Run. Push. Pull. Hold. Bend. Breathe.
He began, "Certain arcanum place heavy strain on the wielders body and so physical strength is not optional it is a prequisite."
Brask ordered them into lines, drilling them through joint rotations from neck to ankle, hip hinges and shoulder rolls. He stalked between rows, boot tapping against shins and knees. "Range before speed," he growled. "You'll thank me when your bones aren't splintered."
Then came the laps-ten circuits around the inner yard, the packed earth still slick with dew. Brask barked after them, "Not a sprint. I want your pace" He turned to Azrael and shouted, " Hey kid stop lagging."
Rio passed him on lap seven and clapped twice as he went by. " Come on now shadeek, I thought you were supposed to be hot stuff." A few nobles snickered, finding their second wind in his mockery. Azrael didn't lift his head, didn't waste the breath on an answer. He fixed his eyes on the ground ahead, ran through the burn until he was covered, dirt, sweat, and his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
When the final lap broke, he staggered over the line and stood, spine straight, refusing to fold even as bile surged up his throat. His shirt clung, dark with sweat, body trembling. For the briefest moment, his gaze slipped toward Rhea across the yard. She hadn't slowed once.
Brask's whistle cut the air. "On the ground. Push-ups. Now."
Thirty push-ups ducts divided into am three sets, Azrael's hands wobbled from set one and by the last set he was trembling so hard his teeth clicked.
Rio finished earlier than him and began counting for him, "Three… three-and-a-half… still three…" Brask didn't look up. "Count your own, Bramwell. Or I'll count for you."
The boy retreated immediately, face ashen. The rest of the morning blurred into drills, rows and hangs, fall rolls, box breathing, laps until legs burned. By the time Brask barked for them to halt, most of the children collapsed flat on the yard, too sore even to sit up.
The instructor stood before them, book in hand. His gravelly voice carried:
"Endurance: Malik. Lucien( the fourth person that didn't stand up when Rio commanded it) Rhea. Liyana. Azrael."
He turned a page, unhurried.
"Strength: Malik. Theo."
At the mention of his name, Theo one of the commoner boys jolted upright, eyes glowing, joy written plain across his face for all to see.
"And lastly… Rhea."
Another pause, his eyes sweeping over them.
"Mobility: Liyana. Rhea." That's all for today.
Rio scrambled upright, voice tight with disbelief, "Wait where am I?"
Brask didn't even turn. "Present."
The yard broke into laughter, sharp and echoing, until Brask's glare cut across them. Silence dropped like a blade.
After washing the sweat and dirt away, they returned to the hall where food was served. Stomachs barely filled, Brask reappeared, this time trailed by lines of maids. Each carried a stack of rags, brushes, or buckets. They set them down without a word and left.
Brask's tone was iron. "You live here. You clean here."
The announcement hit harder than the morning drills. Faces fell. A few children tried to argue; others cried openly. None of it moved him. One by one, reluctantly they reached for mops and buckets.
Azrael took his time. His eyes lingered on Rio's sour expression. A faint smile tugged at his mouth not joy, but something colder. He bent, picked up a brush, and set to work, compared to the mornings exercise chores weren't that hard.