Azrael knelt beside the still-damp sofa, staring at the magical residue left behind—drops of water hovering faintly in the air, the glow still simmering in the book's runes, and of course, the guilty-looking toddler at the center of it all.
He blinked. "Wait... you mean he cast this?"
Elvira nodded, arms folded. "I walked in right after the blast. He had the spell open. The glow was still in his chest."
Azrael's eyes widened as he stood to his full height. "At this age? And unsupervised?"
Belial, still seated, looked between them both, internally panicking. Is this where they yell? Ground me? Chain me to the crib?
But then—
Azrael raised a clenched fist into the air with a sudden laugh. "My son is a prodigy! Destined to inherit the Lionheart Sword Styleand command magic? The gods are good!"
He spun toward Elvira, pride swelling in every muscle.
She, however, smacked her knuckles softly against his chest with a deadpan look.
"What's wrong with you?"
Azrael blinked. "What?"
"He's a baby," she said, gesturing to Belial, who sat there, blinking like a guilty sponge. "He just blew out a window, Azrael. And you're out here preparing to throw him a sword."
He paused. "Right… fair."
Elvira exhaled and moved closer to Belial, kneeling down and gently ruffling his damp hair.
"No swordplay just yet," she said softly. "But… if he's already showing magical affinity, then we'll guide him. Carefully."
She turned to Azrael again, raising a brow. "And later, when he's not still chewing on his fingers, maybe then you can teach him the sword."
Azrael grinned. "Fine, fine. No baby blades. I surrender to the Archmage."
She smiled at that, shaking her head.
Belial looked up at them, wide-eyed. The way they stood close. The way they laughed—at each other, not at him. The way Elvira's fingers ruffled his hair so gently… and Azrael's proud gaze never left his face.
It was… new.
Warm.
He'd never seen anything like it—not in the past life, not in his dreams. It wasn't just care. It wasn't duty. It was love.
And it moved something inside him.
So this is… family?
His small hand tugged at Elvira's sleeve, and she turned, smiling down at him. "What is it, sweetheart?"
He didn't say anything—couldn't, not yet.
Instead, he leaned into her hand and rested his head against her arm, eyes fluttering closed, the echoes of magic still pulsing gently in his core.
Azrael chuckled. "Aww… I see. Strong and soft. Just like his mother."
Elvira blushed slightly, swatting at him again, though her eyes never left their son.
Together, in that quiet moment—soaked floor, shattered window, and all—they stood in the aftermath of a magical accident.
And yet… it felt like the beginning of something beautiful.
Far away from the quiet countryside and the broken window, deep within the Obsidian Spire—a towering pillar of stone that scraped the clouds—sat a man in meditation.
His chamber was silent, lit only by floating crystal lanterns that hummed softly in the air. The room pulsed with arcane energy—thousands of magical currents weaving through its walls like invisible rivers.
The man sat cross-legged atop a floating disc of stone, suspended high above the floor. Cloaked in black and gold robes, with a silver circlet resting upon his brow, his long black hair shimmered faintly in the soft light. Runes pulsed down his arms, engraved directly into his flesh—ancient marks of a seer.
He had been in trance for three days.
Then suddenly—his breath caught.
His eyes snapped open.
They glowed briefly—golden, then white—before fading to his natural pale gray. He gasped, his chest rising sharply.
"No…" he whispered, voice hoarse with disbelief. "That… that can't be right."
He turned sharply, reaching toward the floating crystal orb beside him. With a flick of his hand, it flared to life, displaying a shifting web of mana flows across the continent—rivers of power, sources of sorcery, and fluctuations of magical birth.
At first, it looked normal—until a new pulse rippled through the map. A sharp burst. Bright. Golden.
From a quiet village in the south.
His hands trembled as he expanded the view. His lips parted slowly, in awe.
"A child… so young… and already…"
Then his eyes widened as the truth struck him like thunder.
"He bears that much mana…"
He stood at once, his voice echoing through the chamber.
"He… he is the Child of..."
Behind him, a large tome closed on its own. The runes on the walls began to flicker wildly—responding not to him, but to it. To him.
"The one born from the Dragon's Spark… the one who will wield the core of the First Flame…" he whispered.
His heart pounded.
"All this time… we thought the line was broken…"
A pause.
Then, solemnly, with reverence and dread mixed in his voice, he said:
"Then it begins."
The chamber trembled gently, echoing with the residue of awakening power. The Seer stood still, robes swaying slightly from the arcane winds curling around him. His thoughts raced, but his voice remained calm, focused.
"This cannot be delayed. If the child truly bears that Core, then the world has already begun to shift."
He turned from the floating crystal map, walking toward the edge of the tower's inner ring. With a wave of his hand, the thick obsidian wall before him shimmered—then vanished—revealing the vast, storm-touched lands beyond.
The sky above the Obsidian Spire churned with gray clouds, and the wind howled like forgotten voices. But beyond those mountains, past the human kingdoms, far past the Ashen Vale and the Silverwild Rivers—lay the ancient woods of Valelume, the sacred heart of the Elfin Kingdom.
The Seer's eyes narrowed.
"I must speak with King Thalanor," he murmured, the name rolling from his tongue like sacred scripture. "If anyone remembers the last to wield the God Core… it is him."
He turned to the first girl stood with elegance that could silence a battlefield. Her midnight-black hair cascaded down in silken waves, contrasting with the polished silver breastplate fitted perfectly over her slender frame. Beneath the armor, a traditional maid outfit of black silk with frilled white edges peeked through, hugging her curves in a way that was both graceful and dangerous. At her hip, a rapier with a silver guard gleamed under the light, whispering promises of lethal precision. Her crimson eyes burned like embers, revealing a cold and disciplined soul—yet her faint smile hinted at secrets untold.
Beside her stood a stark contrast—a girl with flowing platinum hair, tied loosely with a black ribbon, her bright sapphire eyes radiating warmth. Her armor was lighter, crafted from mithril plates woven into her maid attire, allowing swift movement. The skirt fluttered just above her knees, revealing thigh-high stockings embroidered with delicate runes—a blend of elegance and enchantment. Across her back rested a long rifle etched with glowing sigils, a weapon too refined for an ordinary maid. Yet, her expression was gentle, almost shy, like a flower blooming amid steel and blood.
Both exuded an aura of devotion and lethality, their beauty masked with the scent of steel and a promise:
"Prepare the path. I leave before sunrise."
The two girls nodded and bowed deeply.
The Seer moved swiftly, gathering his staff—a long polished branch of blackstone wood etched with time-burnished runes—and his traveling cloak, woven from starlight spider silk, glowing faintly with enchantments for protection and concealment.
As he fastened the silver clasp at his neck, he stared into the horizon.
Three months.
Three months of crossing war-torn roads, demon-corrupted valleys, and buried in shadow. But time was already slipping.
"The world has slept for too long," he whispered.
The prophecy was no longer a myth. It had begun. And if the wrong hands discovered the child first…
He didn't finish the thought.
Instead, he turned from the tower, a trail of light following his steps as the doors opened before him.
And so, the Seer—known in many lands as Veyron the Silent Flame, last Arch-Seer of the East—began his journey toward the Elfin Kingdom of Valelume, to seek the truth buried in the roots of the world, and warn the last living king who remembered the First Flame.
The soft golden light of the hearth bathed the small home in a warm glow. Outside, the wind whispered gently through the trees, and the last of the day's light had long faded behind the hills.
Inside, it was peaceful.
Azrael had changed from his war leathers into a simple linen shirt and dark trousers, still damp from the earlier magical accident but comfortable at last. He stretched his arms with a groan and slumped into his seat at the table.
"Ugh, finally. Yes, my hunger is killing me," he muttered, rubbing his stomach.
Elvira chuckled softly, walking in from the kitchen with a tray of warm bread, stewed root vegetables, and honey-glazed roast meat. "You act like you fought a thousand demons just to get here."
Azrael grinned. "Would you believe eight hundred and seventy?"
She rolled her eyes as she placed a smaller dish on the baby table next to them and gently lowered Belial into it. He wiggled happily, reaching for a spoon he would only pretend to use.
Dinner began in easy rhythm. The clink of spoons, the soft chewing, the warmth of a quiet evening together. Elvira asked about his mission, and Azrael, between mouthfuls, spoke of skirmishes at the border, the rise in corrupted beasts, and the rumors of demon generals stirring again.
Then, halfway through tearing into a slice of bread, he paused.
"Actually… there's something else," he said, lowering the bread.
Elvira looked up, fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
Azrael's expression shifted. No longer casual. No longer light. It was serious—deep, and almost disbelieving.
He leaned forward.
"The King of Varethia… summoned me before I left the capital."
Elvira frowned slightly. "Varethia's High King? Why?"
Azrael's voice was calm but heavy. "He wants to elevate us."
"…What do you mean, elevate?"
"To nobility," he said. "Full name. Crest. Lands. Status. Everything. He said my victories in the war saved two provinces. He wants to make the Lionheart name… official."
The room fell silent.
Even Belial stopped playing with his spoon.
Elvira blinked. "You're saying… we're going to be nobles?"
"If I accept," Azrael said quietly, looking at her. "It means a title. Land. A seat in court. Tutors for Belial. A new house, a new life…"
"But it also means politics," Elvira finished for him. "And chains. No more peace. No more freedom. We'll be under a crown."
Azrael nodded. "And with Belial already showing signs of rare power…"
They both looked at the child, who now blinked up at them with curious red eyes. He tilted his head slightly, as if listening.
"…they'll never leave him alone," Elvira said softly.
Azrael leaned back, exhaling hard. "That's why I haven't answered yet. It's everything I fought for… but now that I see you both here, like this…"
Elvira reached across the table, her hand brushing his. "We'll choose together."
Azrael nodded.
As the fire crackled behind them and supper cooled on the table, the room fell into thought. A child with a God Core. A father who saved a kingdom. A mother whose magic once defied fate itself.
And above them all—the question: Stay hidden and free? Or rise to power and risk everything?
Morning sunlight poured through the canopy, dappled gold falling onto the dewy grass of the Lionheart homestead. Birds sang softly in the distance, and the scent of wild herbs and woodsmoke drifted from the kitchen window.
Under the open sky, Azrael stood shirtless in the courtyard—his body scarred but strong, every movement honed by decades of war. His blade danced with silent grace. Each swing, each step flowed into the next like a song of steel. Then—without warning—his aura surged.
A wave of invisible pressure swept through the clearing. The air shimmered. The grass bent as if in reverence. Azrael's sword traced a single leaf falling from the tree overhead—slicing it clean in two with pinpoint precision before the halves even touched the ground.
A burst of white-gold energy swirled around him—Sword Aura: Cardinal Leaf. A rare manifestation. A master's technique. Unshakable. Refined.
Beneath the nearby tree, Belial sat quietly on a small rock, arms folded over his knees, crimson eyes wide with wonder. His silver hair rustled gently in the breeze.
"So that's sword aura…" he whispered to himself.
Azrael lowered his blade and turned with a grin. "Hey, little lion. You watching?"
Belial gave a tiny nod.
Azrael walked over, lifted the boy into the air with ease, spinning him gently as laughter rang from both of them.
"Do you want to be strong like your old man someday?" he asked, smiling.
Belial looked down at his small hands.
Stronger, he thought. Strong enough to protect everything I love.
Before he could answer, Elvira's voice called from inside the house.
"Boys! Breakfast is ready!"
Azrael chuckled, setting Belial down. "Come on. Let's not keep your mother waiting."
They began walking toward the house. Azrael casually tossed his sword into the wooden rack by the door.
But before they could even step inside—
CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.
The thunder of hooves echoed from beyond the trees.
A sharp wind rushed in as a pair of horses, armored in royal barding, emerged from the path. Behind them was a black and gold chariot, its crest gleaming in the morning sun—the twin lions of House Varethia, wings spread over a burning crown.
The horses halted with military precision, dust curling around their hooves.
A man in ornate silver uniform stepped down, scroll in hand. He was tall, clean-shaven, and his cloak bore a brooch with the King's personal seal—only worn by royal envoys.
Azrael instinctively moved in front of Belial, his body tensing like a drawn bow. "State your name and purpose," he said calmly but firmly.
The envoy gave a respectful bow.
"Sir Azrael Lionheart. I bring word from His Majesty, King Daeron of Varethia. By royal decree, you are summoned to the capital—along with your family. Immediate transport has been prepared."
Elvira stepped out, drying her hands on her apron, eyes narrowing slightly. "Summoned? What for?"
The envoy held out the scroll, unrolling it. Gold ink shimmered across parchment as he read:
"By right of valor, bloodline, and divine providence—
The House of Lionheart is to be officially recognized and raised to noble standing.
Preparations for inheritance, training, and magical guardianship of the heir, Belial Lionheart, are to commence immediately.
Attendance is not optional."
Azrael took the scroll, his jaw tightening as his eyes scanned the contents. Behind him, Belial's expression shifted from awe to unease.
Magical guardianship... training... inheritance.