Chapter 8: The Rise of Azrael

  The grand courtyard of Virtus Academy shimmered with enchanted sunlight, amplified through a prism of floating crystals. The moment the Royal Gate creaked open, every head turned. Silence rippled through the corridors like a spell.

  He had arrived.

  Cloaked in a uniform of obsidian and silver, adorned with the seal of the Empire’s highest honor, the First Prince entered.

  Azrael Caelus, first son of the Emperor—yet born not of the Empress, but of a low-ranking concubine, Lady Seraphine. A woman long forgotten in the Imperial records. It should’ve meant death by obscurity, or worse, banishment from court. But Azrael had not followed the script.

  From a young age, he defied the fate written for him.

  The Past of Azrael

  His birth was whispered as a mistake. The Emperor had taken no notice. Yet by age six, the palace tutors were stunned—Azrael had already mastered the classical texts of magic, military history, and diplomacy. By ten, he could out-duel seasoned knights with only a wooden blade.

  The Empress loathed him.

  The Second Prince, born of her blood, viewed Azrael as a stain. Fourth Princesses followed suit. The Fifth Princess, youngest and most cunning, learned quickly from her elders to regard Azrael as a threat.

  But the Emperor watched.

  By fourteen, Azrael had tamed a lightning wyvern that once devastated three provinces.

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  By fifteen, he had brokered peace between warring border clans through diplomacy alone.

  And by sixteen—he stood now, not only as a prince, but as a legend in the making.

  The Emperor did not name heirs, but when he finally summoned Azrael to the throne chamber, all courtiers fell silent.

  “You were born to a forgotten woman,” the Emperor had said, staring at the boy before him, “yet you carry the blood of dragons with dignity.”

  From that day, Azrael was granted the right to bear the imperial crest.

  Now, at Virtus Academy

  As Azrael walked forward, students parted like water around a blade. Even Royals bowed their heads. His presence was undeniable. Controlled power, grace, intelligence—it radiated from him.

  Behind him followed two Royal guards in formal academy armor, a symbol of his rank.

  From a balcony above, the Second Prince glared, arms crossed.

  “He’s parading like a crowned peacock,” he muttered.

  The Fifth Princess, seated nearby with a book in hand, didn’t even look up. “He already has the people. Now he wants the academy too.”

  The Fourth Princess, ever quiet, narrowed her eyes. “He’s dangerous. Too dangerous.”

  Yet none dared confront him openly.

  Azrael was not only respected—he was admired. Professors praised him without flattery. Even commoners whispered his name with hope. And above all, he never forgot his origins.

  He treated Peasant Class students with the same courtesy he showed Royals. It was not kindness. It was principle.

  Later that day, Victor stood near the training field when Azrael passed by. The Prince paused, eyes locking onto him.

  “You are one of the summoned,” he said.

  Victor straightened. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Azrael nodded. “Your performance in the mock trials impressed me.”

  Victor blinked. “You watched?”

  “I watch everything that matters.”

  He walked on, leaving Victor frozen.

  Rina, watching from a distance, whistled. “He actually acknowledged you. That’s a bigger deal than passing a test.”

  Ethan leaned on his staff. “Now I’m nervous.”

  In the Royal dormitory, Azrael stood on the highest balcony, gazing at the moon.

  A message burned into a parchment on his desk: Report to the Emperor. A storm brews beyond the border.

  Azrael didn’t flinch.

  “I will rise,” he whispered, “because they want me to fall.”

  And in the shadows below, hidden behind the academy walls, a silent figure watched him with unreadable eyes.

  Lucien.

  The game had begun.