Azriel stood at the balcony of his chamber, his long hair stirred by the cold evening breeze. Below, the compound of the Stark mansion pulsed with life—servants rushing to and fro, carriages rolling in from noble houses, envoys murmuring about the aftermath of the awakening ceremony. Laughter, clinking goblets, whispered schemes—it was all a blur of movement and noise.
Then, without warning, the blur… stopped.
His crimson eyes deepened, a strange heat prickling behind them. Shapes flickered in his vision—patterns burning themselves into existence. A tri-colored mark, black at its core but glimmering faint streaks of silver and red, twisted into the form of a triple crescent moon.
And then—silence.
The world slowed to a crawl. Every falling leaf, every breath of the guards below, even the flap of a crow's wing seemed suspended. Time did not halt entirely, but stretched, thick and heavy, as though existence itself bent to his will.
Azriel lifted his hand, and in that moment it felt as though reality itself waited for his command. Threads of mana shimmered faintly in the air, outlines of power flows that no awakened should have been able to see, let alone touch. Within this vision, everything seemed fragile, within reach—breakable.
A pulse of pain seared his eyes. He blinked, and the crescents shattered. The world lurched back into motion, the chatter and footsteps resuming as if nothing had happened.
Azriel exhaled slowly, gripping the cold railing of the balcony until his knuckles whitened. His reflection in the glass doors showed his crimson eyes fading back to their usual glow.
"...So this is the Trace ability of the Sanreon," he muttered, voice low enough that the night itself swallowed it.
But even as he spoke, he knew it wasn't just trace. It was something deeper. Something that didn't simply observe mana it undid it.
-----------------------------------------------------------
A knock broke the silence.
"Young master… it is time for the council."
The maid's voice was soft, respectful, but Azriel heard the faint tremor beneath it. He turned from the balcony, crimson eyes still stinging. When his hand brushed against his cheek, he found warmth the thin smear of blood trailing from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away without expression.
"Very well," he said, his tone calm, almost bored.
The heavy door creaked open. The maid bowed, her face lowered, and guided him through the torchlit hallways of Stark Mansion. Servants paused as he passed, whispering, staring at the boy who had 'failed' his awakening yet walked with the quiet confidence of one untouched by shame.
At last, they stopped before the grand doors of the council chamber. The maid stepped aside, her duty done. The massive steelwood gates groaned open, spilling harsh light onto the marble floor.
Inside sat ten men, each one a pillar of power, their very presence suffocating the air. These were not simple nobles these were monsters, lords of destruction in their own right, each strong enough to erase a city with a flicker of their abilities.
And yet… in that room, they seemed dull.
At the head of the chamber, seated upon the frost-forged throne, was a man whose aura devoured the others. The very air chilled, frost creeping silently along the black stone pillars. His enemies had named him the Frost Monarch the man who froze fire itself, whose wrath had extinguished kingdoms.
Edward Stark.
His father.
And now, in the icy silence of the chamber, Edward's piercing gaze fell upon the boy who stood before them his son, Azriel Stark.
The whispers in the chamber called him many things. Failure. Anomaly. Cursed. But among the council, another title lingered unspoken, rising from the weight of his crimson eyes and the dark aura that clung to him.
The forgotten villain.