Over the course of the first year, the rhythm of their lives hardened into routine. Mornings began with drills, laps, presses, hangs, breath-work. Afternoons were filled with chores, and evenings circled back to more training. Some days Brask pushed them until their muscles screamed; other days he eased back just enough to keep their bodies from breaking.
The one mercy was food. Plates never seemed to run empty. For the Shadeek three who had known hunger, it was paradise. Six months of endless exercise and high-quality meals transformed them. Faces that once had hollows now carried flesh; bones no longer jutted like exposed beams.
Malik's frame thickened further, broad shoulders earning him the top rank in physical drills. Liyana started to look more like a girl, Azrael improved too, driving himself past every limit. But despite his effort, he could not yet touch the first five-Malik, Lucien, Rhea, Liyana, and Rio,who were collectively called the Big 5 by some of the kids. Rio constantly used this to taunt Azrael.
One morning, Brask called them together, deviating from their usual routine. He began, his voice sharp. "I have been with you throughout your first year. Come the new year, mornings will remain for physical training. Afternoons and evenings, however, belong to Mos. He'll be teaching you martial arts and weapon handling."
Brask flipped open his book. "Now, to see where you stand, line up. In pairs. Today, you spar. Victory comes by either subduing your opponent or forcing their surrender."
The announcement drew a ripple of excitement and nerves.
The early matches were predictable. A few ended before they had properly begun, one fighter clearly overwhelming the other. By the eighth match, however, interest sharpened.
Lucien against Rhea.
At Brask's signal, neither moved. They circled, patience strung taut. Then Lucien lunged right fist flashing toward her nose. Rhea raised her arm to block. A feint. His left hand came low, fist formed angled at her stomach.
Rhea slid aside in time, but Lucien pressed in, a flurry of attacks that tested her guard from every angle. Punch, block, kick, deflect. Step by step, he pushed her onto the defensive. His blows began to land. Sweat streaked her golden hair, her calm expression bending under strain.
Lucien smelled blood. He surged in for the finish. Brask was lifting a hand to call it when
Rhea shifted. Just a breath, but perfectly timed. His fist punched empty air. Her counter landed sharp: a strike to the waist, a chop to the neck, then a brutal kick that sent him stumbling back.
Lucien stared, wide-eyed. A fluke? He charged again, teeth bared. But this time Rhea was no longer defending, she attacked. She slipped his punch, her fist snapping up into his chin, the sound of impact cracking across the yard. Before he could recover, her sweeping kick tore his balance away. She was on him, hand raised for the final blow.
"Enough," Brask cut in, his voice rougher than usual, betraying the shock he couldn't quite hide.
The group whispered as Rhea returned to her seat, indifferent to their awe. Azrael watched her more closely than the others, eyes bright. She did not glance his way.
Then came the final match.
"Azrael. Rio. Step forward."
The two boys walked out, neither hiding the anticipation in their eyes.
"I'll make you pay for that kick," Rio said, settling into stance.
Azrael's face was carved with indifference. His lips barely moved. "Retard."
"Begin!"
They leapt at one another, no hesitation. Azrael's fist buried into Rio's gut at the same instant Rio's knuckles slammed into his cheek. Both reeled back, grinning through spite.
They crashed together again, fists snapping, elbows grazing. Azrael felt it immediately, Rio's body was harder, stronger. If this dragged on, he would lose. He needed a quick counter to win like her.
His eyes flicked, just once, toward Rhea on the sidelines. Beautiful even drenched in sweat. No...focus.
He lunged low, arms wrapping Rio's waist, trying to drive him down. For a moment, he thought he had it, then pain exploded in his stomach. Rio's knee. Another, and another. Each strike stole breath from his lungs.
"Come on now," Rio sneered, his voice hot against Azrael's ear. "This the best you've got?"
Azrael tore himself free, rage sharpening his movements. He ducked a punch, twisted Rio's wrist aside, and drove his forehead into Rio's chest. Once, twice, again. The impact made his skull ache, but he didn't care.
Rio's counter slammed into his ribs, but Azrael clung on, headbutting like a wild animal. When it yielded nothing, he shoved Rio back, tried for a kick—Rio dodged, snatched at his leg. They collided once more, locking arms and shoulders, the fight devolving into a street brawl.
"Enough!" Brask's shout cut like a whip. Massive hands tore them apart, lifting both boys into the air as if they weighed nothing. He dropped them unceremoniously to the dirt.
As they returned to their seats, Rio brushed past Azrael, lips curling. "You're lucky he stopped us."
Azrael didn't answer. He didn't need to. His body was already failing, strength slipping away. As much as he hated it, Rio was right had the fight gone on, he would have lost.
His jaw clenched, his face twisted into an ugly grimace. Weak. Still too weak.
Later that evening, after drills and supper, Malik found him sitting apart from the others. The big boy dropped onto the bench beside him, his presence heavy as always.
"You did well, Az," Malik said. As he draped His hand over the other boys shouder. His voice was soft, too soft. Azrael turned to him, the look in his eyes stung more than Rio's knees had, they were filled in pity, wrapped in sympathy.
Azrael's fists curled tight.
"Don't," he muttered.
"What?"
"That look. That tone. I don't need it." He removed his hands from his shoulder as He stood, anger simmering under his skin. Before Malik could reply, he walked away, slipping out through the courtyard gate. The guard on duty glanced at him, then shrugged. He'd been told the boy could go when he pleased.
Outside, Azrael sat in the chill air, staring at the sea of stars above him. His body ached. The sting of weakness gnawed at him. He could still feel Rio's blows in his ribs. Still hear the smugness in his voice.
"You hate it, don't you?"
The voice came from behind, smooth, low, a whisper that slid under Azrael's skin. He jumped, startled.
"First lesson," the voice continued, "never lose your composure."
A tall figure emerged from the darkness. Deverill, the Duke. His silhouette seemed to merge with the night itself, his presence heavy, oppressive, impossible to ignore. Even in shadow, he radiated authority, a living warning that he wasn't one to be messed with.
Azrael said nothing.
Deverill stepped closer, the faint gleam of his eyes catching starlight. "That taste in your mouth. The bitterness of being weak. You'll never forget it."
Azrael's jaw tightened. "…And if I want to change that?"
"Then you'll meet me here. Every midnight. I'll break you, shape you, sharpen you… until no one dares look down on you again. Only when you are the strongest will you know what it truly means to be free, to take, to act, to claim whatever you desire. Until then, you remain a slave, chains or not. Maybe… then, she'll even notice you."
For the first time that day, Azrael's eyes lit with something like hope. A faint flush spread across his cheeks at the last part of Deverill's words. Then, doubt flickered. "What about the others? Wouldn't… it be unfair?"
"Unfair?" His voice dropped, low and deliberate, curling around Azrael like smoke. "Was it fair when you grew up with no parents? When you were shoved into slavery, starving, uncertain of your next meal? While others laughed in castles, draped in silk, with more wealth than they could ever use?"
Azrael's chest tightened. The words clawed at something deep inside him.
"This world has stolen everything from you… but it can be taken back," Deverill whispered, leaning closer, shadows shifting over his face. "If you want to live as you should, if you want to have… whatever you desire… you will learn to take it."
Voice colder now, he said "Only those who seize, who take relentlessly… survive. And only then… only then will you be free to do as you please."
The words sank into him like hooks. Slowly, Azrael nodded.
Deverill turned, and from the shadows stepped Nuel, the butler. He carried a small flask of red liquid, the surface glinting like garnet.
"Drink," Deverill said."It will strengthen your body, sharpen your chance of awakening.The faster you improve, they more I'll give you. In return you will train until you have carved your own strength."
Azrael stared at the liquid, heart pounding, "why, are you helping me."
Deverill chuckled, low and dangerous. "Helping you?" His voice was smooth, almost mocking. "No, boy. I'm not helping. In that dining hall, I saw something in you, a fire. And I plan to shape it, feed it. But mind this: I do nothing for free. Everything you gain from me, your strength, your skill, your edge, you will pay back. Tenfold..."
He stepped closer, letting the words sink in, his gaze sharp and unyielding. "…In sweat, in blood, or in ways you cannot yet imagine. That is how the world works. That is how you survive."
Azrael swallowed, a strange thrill and fear curling in his chest. The world had never offered mercy, and now he understood it never would.