Azrael's eyes snapped open when the door to the basement burst open, the loud bang echoing like thunder in the cold, damp space. It must've been kicked open from the outside. His body jerked in surprise, but he instantly regretted the movement as pain wrapped around his limbs like fire.
"Hey, you! Get your lazy ass up and do your chores! Or do you want Father to beat you again?" Isaac's voice rang out sharply, filled with mockery. The corner of his mouth lifted into a sneer as he stared down at Azrael, who lay still on the ground.
"Hmm," Azrael croaked. His voice was hoarse, rough, barely human.
"Tch. Acting like you're dying just from one beating? Pathetic," Isaac muttered, rolling his eyes and turning away, clearly uninterested in wasting more time on him.
He left without another word, leaving Azrael alone in the dark, foul-smelling basement.
Azrael had no idea what time it was. The basement had no light, no window, not even a crack in the wall to offer him a glimpse of the sky. All he could do was breathe in the stale, blood-scented air and slowly, painfully, begin to move.
Groaning, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. His back pressed against the cold stone wall, and he stayed there for a while, allowing his body to adjust to the pain pulsing through it.
"I don't even know if I should be thankful that I'm still alive," he murmured, staring down at the dried blood staining his skin.
His black hair clung to his scalp, slick with sweat, blood, and dirt. His whole body ached from the beating he had received at Christopher's hands the night before.
Knowing he couldn't delay any longer, Azrael braced himself against the wall and slowly stood. His legs trembled. As soon as he put weight on them, his chest flared with sharp pain.
"Why does it keep hurting like this?" he whispered, clutching his chest. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to ease the discomfort.
But there was no time to dwell on it.
With one hand pressed against the wall for balance, he limped up the basement stairs and pushed open the door, emerging into the crisp morning air.
The cold struck him like a slap to the face. The early autumn wind cut through his thin clothes and seeped into his bones.
Azrael instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. His eyes scanned the area, searching for something—anything—that might shield him from the cold.
But before he could move, a sharp thud landed on the back of his head.
Azrael staggered forward and turned to see Alwin glaring at him.
The man was wearing a thick winter coat, clearly prepared for the weather, while Azrael had been given nothing.
"Don't just stand there like an idiot," Alwin barked. "Help me load the harvest. We need to head to the city to sell it."
"Ah… right," Azrael muttered.
He had nearly forgotten today was market day.
Despite the pain, despite the chill, a flicker of excitement ignited inside him. Today, he had a reason to look forward—he had a goal.
There was something he needed to do in the city, something that might change his fate.
With renewed determination, Azrael joined Alwin in hauling heavy sacks of vegetables and grain to the cart. It took nearly an hour, and every movement sent jolts of pain through his battered body, but he didn't complain.
Once they were done, Alwin climbed onto the wagon and crossed his arms. He looked as sour as ever.
Azrael made his way to the front and took hold of the reins.
"Don't talk to me. Wake me up when we get there," Alwin ordered with a scowl, clearly unhappy to share even a wagon with Azrael.
"Understood," Azrael replied softly.
He was used to the silence. He preferred it.
As the wagon rolled down the dirt road, Azrael looked up at the sky. The sun was still hidden behind thick clouds, and a soft breeze rustled the trees.
A small smile tugged at his lips. For once, despite the pain, he felt a sense of peace.
Three hours passed before the tall stone walls of Stormdawn came into view. Covered in moss and brimming with life beyond, the city loomed ahead like another world entirely.
The air smelled of bread, coal, and something warm—something alive.
"Alwin, we've arrived," Azrael said, shaking him awake.
It took another ten minutes of calling and nudging before Alwin finally sat up, yawning.
"Shit! You're too damn loud!" he snapped, smacking the back of Azrael's head.
"Sorry," Azrael whispered, lowering his eyes.
"Stop sniveling. Get back to work," Alwin said, jumping off the cart.
As he passed, he shouldered Azrael roughly.
Azrael took a deep breath and slowly released it. He had to be careful—he needed permission to stay behind when Alwin left.
That morning, Azrael worked diligently beside Alwin at the market square. He helped sell every crate of produce without complaint.
When the last customer had walked away, Alwin turned to him.
"I've got something to do. Stay here. Guard the cart and don't move. I'll be back before sunset."
Azrael nodded quickly, holding back a smile.
Alwin gave him one last suspicious look, then disappeared into the crowd.
Azrael waited until he was sure Alwin was gone. Then, and only then, did he whisper, "Finally…"
Today was the day.
Azrael took off through the city streets, weaving through the crowds—his destination: the Knight Headquarters.
He wanted to be a knight—no, he needed to be one. It was the only way to escape the hell he lived in.
In just one week, the royal knight selection would begin. If Azrael didn't register today, he'd lose his only chance.
Azrael arrived at the massive building, he could feel his heart racing. There were dozens of people outside. Others, like him, are desperate for a better future.
"Are you here to apply for the Knight Trials?"
Azrael snapped out of his thoughts and looked toward the speaker—a young man, probably not much older than himself.
"Yes. Do you know where I sign up?" he asked quickly.
"Hurry inside. They're about to close registration," the man replied.
Azrael's eyes widened. Without wasting a second, he ran toward the entrance. He wasn't going to lose this chance. Not after everything he'd been through.Not when freedom was this close.