The orphanage had been cruel, but at least it had walls. The slavers' den was nothing but filth and iron. Children huddled in cages, clothed in rags, their eyes dull from hunger and hopelessness.
Azrael sat chained among them, his wrists bruised raw. Days blurred into nights, and nights into days. Only one thing kept him from breaking completely—her.
Selene.
She was his age, with ash-gray eyes and flowing silver hair. She had not awakened during her test, and her family—the Vertos main bloodline—sold her away as though she were nothing more than a failed tool. But to Azrael, she was not nothing.
They whispered to each other through the bars at night. They shared scraps of food. On her birthday, he even hummed a broken tune for her, making her smile for the first time in months.
It was fragile. It was small. But it was real.
The night before, Azrael had finally whispered, trembling, "Selene… I think—I love you."
Her cheeks flushed, and she pressed her fingers through the cage bars to touch his hand. She didn't say it back, but her smile was answer enough.
For the first time since his mother's death, Azrael felt hope.
But hope doesn't last in this world.
The following afternoon, the den gates creaked open. A fat nobleman waddled in, his greasy curls bouncing as he smirked. Behind him followed his lean son, no older than sixteen, with dull ash hair like his father. They bore the crest of the Vertos side branch—lesser in status, but still with power to do as they pleased.
The noble's voice dripped with venom. "This filthy child… from the main family, isn't she? Your bloodline was once untouchable. Now look at you. Trash."
Selene's chains rattled as she shrank back, horror flooding her face.
The noble's smile twisted. "Bring her out."
She was dragged into the open, thrown down onto the cold dirt.
Azrael rattled his chains. "No! Leave her!"
The slaver backhanded him across the face. "Shut it, boy. Don't ruin the show."
And then it began.
The noble's son tore at her rags, his friends—hoodlums who followed him like dogs—jeering and waiting their turn. Selene's screams filled the den, her hands clawing at the floor, her eyes—those ash-gray eyes—locking onto Azrael.
"Azrael… help me… please…"
His chains cut deeper into his skin as he pulled, screamed, fought—but the iron didn't break. His cries only earned him another beating, fists and boots slamming into his ribs until blood filled his mouth.
Still, he kept shouting. Until his voice broke. Until his strength left him.
At the end, with his face swollen and blood dripping from his lips, all he could do was whimper. His eyes met hers—until hers dulled, lifeless, her body discarded like trash.
The laughter around him faded into silence.
Azrael lowered his head. His lips trembled, his body shaking. A whisper slipped out, fragile as broken glass:"…why… why couldn't I save her?"
And then he heard it.
The voice. Smooth. Patient. Poisonous.
"Do you see now, Azrael? This is the truth of humanity. They will take, they will destroy, and they will laugh at your tears. Remember this. Etch it into your soul. Hate them. Hate everything."
Azrael didn't answer. He only stared at Selene's still form, silent tears carving tracks through the dirt on his face.
But his gaze lingered on the boy who had begun it all. The lean son of the Vertos branch family.Azrael repeated his name silently. Again. And again Carving it deep into his memory, as if one day, that name would demand an answer.
And deep within, something began to crack.