Azrael stood and walked toward the infirmary shower. The cold water struck his skin, waking his muscles and tracing the lines of the scars across his torso. For a brief moment, the old woman crossed his mind — her frail silhouette, the quiet way she used to look at him — but he let the memory slip away with the water.
On the bed lay his uniform: a black shirt and matching trousers. The tie looked unnecessarily complicated. He tried once, frowned, then gave up. He buttoned the shirt but left the collar open. The fabric framed his athletic build, the scars visible without apology.
He took a slow breath.
Each button he closed made him feel… grounded. More real.
He stepped into the academy's corridor. High arches stretched above him, elegant and imposing. Stained-glass windows filtered the light into shifting patterns across the marble floor. Every wall carried intricate carvings, every detail deliberate, expensive, controlled.
Students glanced at him as he passed.
He didn't care.
"Why are they looking at me like that? What do they want…"
Through the open windows, he caught sight of the gardens. Perfectly trimmed trees. Carefully arranged flowers. Stone paths drawn with geometric precision. Fountains whispering under the sunlight.
The breeze was cool against his open collar.
"At least the weather's decent. Honestly… it's strange. They walk past these gardens like it's nothing. Maybe it is nothing to them."
Eventually, he reached the amphitheater. The doors were massive, carved from dark wood and reinforced with metal.
He pushed them open.
The sound echoed violently across the chamber.
Every head turned.
White.
Rows upon rows of pristine white uniforms. Closed collars. Perfect ties. Clean lines.
He froze for half a second.
"…!"
His eyes dropped to his own clothes.
Black.
Of course.
"Who the hell gave me this uniform? Honestly, I'd rather wear black than that blinding white they have on… but if it means being the only one in black, I could've avoided this. That's just more eyes to deal with."
Each step he took down the aisle felt louder than the last. The whispers returned — sharper now, unapologetic.
He didn't shrink.
He didn't posture.
He simply walked to the nearest seat at the back and sat down, eyes fixed on the stage.
The murmurs slowly faded as a figure stepped forward.
Selena, Princess of Ardenthal.
Her silver hair flowed like silk under the light. Her posture was flawless, effortless. Clear eyes, almost luminous. Long lashes framing a gaze that felt both distant and aware. Her figure was slender, perfectly balanced — not fragile, but refined. There was something in the way she stood that commanded admiration without demanding it.
She stopped at the center of the stage and let the silence settle before speaking.
Selena: "Welcome to the Academy of Ardenthal."
Her voice was soft, yet every word carried across the entire amphitheater.
Selena: "You were chosen among thousands. Some of you come from noble bloodlines. Others from remote territories. Some have already tasted battle. Others have only known training grounds."
She paused, scanning the crowd.
Selena: "From this moment forward, those differences no longer matter. Here, you are neither heirs nor prodigies. You are candidates — candidates to become the shield that stands between this world and collapse."
A subtle tension moved through the room.
Selena: "The world is changing. The fractures are widening. Seeds of corruption appear more frequently. Villages vanish. Patrols fail to return. Entire regions now live in fear."
Her tone never trembled.
Selena: "This Academy does not exist to celebrate your talent. It exists to prevent annihilation. We do not train heroes for songs and statues. We train warriors capable of facing what most refuse to even acknowledge."
Azrael stared at her without blinking.
She talks like all of this belongs to her.
Selena: "Some of you will fall," she continued, her gaze sharpening. "That is a truth I will not hide. But those who endure will carry the responsibility of protecting those who cannot protect themselves."
Her eyes briefly met his.
He didn't look away.
So that's her… the princess they all admire.
A cold tension settled in his chest.
"What role are you trying to play? You speak of battle — what do you know of the simplest kind of pain? I despise nobles and their polished words that weigh nothing."
Azrael had never seen women as anything more than beautiful bodies. He had grown up in a place where women survived by offering exactly that. It wasn't hatred. It was conditioning.
"In any case… why am I even thinking about her? I'll probably never cross paths with her. She must have private lessons with the finest professors, right?"
When you speak of the devil…