Morning broke over Ardenthal with a clarity Azrael had never known. The envelope clenched in his hand, his heart raced—half fear, half anticipation. Ever since he had sworn to enter the Academy, every step seemed to draw him closer to a world he had never belonged to, a world ruled not by misery, but by strength, skill, and discipline.
When the massive silhouette of the Academy finally appeared at the end of the cobblestone avenue, Azrael froze. His eyes widened in disbelief. Towers of white stone rose toward the sky, slate roofs sharp and precise. Gardens stretched in perfect symmetry, fountains caught the sunlight, scattering it in diamonds across the paths. Every statue, every gargoyle, radiated silent authority. The scent of marble and jasmine hung heavy in the air, lending an almost unreal solemnity to the place.
Azrael lingered, absorbing the grandeur. He had never seen anything so vast, so flawless. The old woman's words echoed in his mind: "This is where everything will change for you." He realized the weight of his choice. This was no mere school. This was a universe of its own, where only those who could measure themselves against others would survive. And he… had nothing. No wealth, no name, no support.
A shiver ran down his spine, but for the first time, it wasn't fear. It was anticipation. Every stone seemed to challenge him. Every step inside would take him closer to power he had never known.
He strode toward the massive steel doors. Two guards, imposing and armed, stood like statues. Their polished armor gleamed under the sun; their faces were carved with years of discipline. One, broader, crossed his arms and scrutinized Azrael from head to toe. The other, leaner but just as intimidating, stepped forward, dark eyes gleaming judgment.
Large Guard: "Hey, you. Think this is a place for vagrants and beggars?"
Azrael felt blood surge. His long black hair fell over his face, framing his cold, dark eyes. He had walked for hours, faced the city, confronted his own hatred—and now, they looked at him as if he were nothing.
Azrael: "..I'm here to enroll." His voice trembled, but each word burned with defiance.
The lean guard sneered.
Lean Guard: "Enroll? Here? You? You have nothing to justify entry. No money. No name. No rank. Go back before we decide for you."
The large guard added, lips curling in a cruel smile, "And trust me, you don't want to test our patience."
Azrael's heart pounded. Every instinct screamed to flee, to not fight, to avoid being crushed by these titans of authority. Yet each word, each disdainful glance, fueled his rage. His eyes grew colder, emptier of humanity but burning with a feral desire.
Then, in a sudden motion, he swung his fist and struck the lean guard square in the face. The man staggered. Before the other could react, Azrael shifted sideways, his hand slipping toward the large guard's pocket knife with precise speed, pressing the tip to the man's throat.
Azrael: "Move… and I'll cut." His eyes, black as night, gleamed with a deadly intensity.
Silence fell. Heavy. The wind seemed to stop. The guards, used to imposing law, froze before this nameless boy challenging them. Azrael's muscles tensed, his breath came in sharp bursts. His hair framed a face twisted by fury and determination, giving him a savage, almost primal air.
Then a chill ran through him. A presence. An overwhelming aura. Each breath was a struggle. His heart raced—but this was no mere fear. It was power. Authority. An invisible weight pressing down on him.
He looked up.
On the main stairway stood a woman. Graceful, commanding, impossible. In her forties, tall and slender, moving with natural elegance. Black hair cascading around a face of absolute control. But her eyes—violet, deep, piercing—struck him hardest. They measured him, dissected him, penetrated every fiber of his being.
Her presence wasn't merely intimidating. It was suffocating. Every step she took echoed with authority, each movement compressing the air around Azrael. His legs faltered. Muscles stiffened, body frozen under an invisible force.
She didn't move or speak immediately. Yet Azrael felt that a single gesture could annihilate him. And she did.
A swift, fluid motion, almost invisible, and he collapsed. His body hit the marble floor, knocked out before he even understood what struck him. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering on the steps as the guards instinctively recoiled, unaware of the true force at play.
Lying on the cold marble of the Academy, struggling to breathe, Azrael finally understood what it meant to be powerless in the presence of someone infinitely stronger. This woman was no obstacle. She was a wall. A living authority. A tangible demonstration that the Academy was not for the weak or the audacious who underestimated it.
Yet even there, sprawled and dazed, a flame burned within him. Silent, unyielding rage. A vow he had not yet spoken aloud. No matter who stood in his way, no matter the power he encountered, he would enter. He would face the Trial. He would claim the power and the curse. And never again would he be someone discarded in the streets, despised and thrown aside.
The violet-eyed woman approached, her steps resonating in the silent courtyard. She spoke nothing. Her gaze alone sufficed. With a nearly imperceptible gesture, the guards fell into place, instinctively respectful. The Academy had made its rules clear. Its judges. Its masters.
And Azrael, lying on the ground, felt a determination harden in him. He would rise. When he finally passed through those gates, he would no longer be the street boy. He would be someone no one—even her—could ignore.