"Father, You are here!"

  Anzel called out as he sprinted up a hill where a mighty tree stood. He had a pale complexion, and his white hair bounced with every step, his gleeful grin, paired with his beaming blue eyes, was infectious.

  Trailing behind him, an older, well-built man with a distinct pointy ear, and golden hair, gave chase. His formal, butler-like attire remained pristine despite the sweat dripping from his face and fogged up his monocle.

  It seemed their fun—or rather, the boy’s fun—had gone on for quite some time.

  A dark-haired man rested beneath the ancient tree. He was dressed in a jewel-adorned garb and black cloak that danced in the wind. His blue eyes followed the pages of a small book before he shut it as the boy approached.

  "Lord Azarim," Deckard lowered his head, then turned away to pull out a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead down to his chin. "My apologies, Lord. The young master seemed particularly spirited today. It seems aging truly puts a dent in my well-being."

  "Father, father, please let me stay here with you! I haven’t left the manor in days!" Anzel pleaded, his voice dripping with exaggerated innocence.

  "Days?!" Deckard stepped toward him, his footsteps pressing firmly into the grass. With a mix of strength and care, he adjusted his shirt, then pulled out a different handkerchief than before and gently wiped the dirt from his face.

  "For days, you’ve been sneaking out, despite your mother’s strict orders! If one of the holy ones finds out, the entire ceremony will have to be adjusted. Just last night, I pulled you out of a wine barrel—just imagine, Lord, where he might have been sneaking off to on the other days!"

  His frustration was evident, fumes were out of his nostrils, but Anzel simply let out an innocent grin.

  "Hehe, soweee, Deckard."

  Then, he lunged at Azarim, wrapping his arms around him and pressing his face into his father’s chest, as if longing for his scent.

  "I missed you, father," Anzel murmured. "Please let me stay."

  Azarim’s hand hovered for a moment before gently resting on Anzel’s head. His fingers brushed through the boy’s white hair, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

  "Is this what you want?"

  Anzel nodded eagerly.

  "Young Lord…" Deckard faltered, his tense posture softening as his tone grew warm.

  Azarim looked at his son’s disheveled state, his shoes were mismatched, his shirt was inside out, and his pants… were missing entirely.

  "What time will the ceremony commence?"

  "Lord Azarim, are you considering this? You know how much Lady Angelica values the Welcoming rites.”

  "I know," Azarim interrupted, lifting Anzel’s plump face with his hand. "For two years I have been gone. If it is what my son wants, it is the least I can do.”

  “Lord Azarim, be rational for a moment. It’s not my wish also to separate the young lord from your touch, however there are some repercussions that need not to be overlooked when he is with you..”

  “I know the repercussions, that's why I was away,” Azarim said, with a growl.

  Deckard gulped, hesitating to speak. His palms were moist, and his heart pounded like a beating drum.

  Azarim once chased a Sniberean Leopard for growling at him with a man mounted on the poor animal. After that, he took its fur for recompense. The pair shivered in the snow for hours as he left them with nothing. All because they looked at him funny.

  He is deranged. But no one is brave enough to say that to him.

  Steeling himself he walked towards Azarim’s ear and whispered.

  "A word, Lord."

  Azarim studied Deckard’s posture from top to bottom. He relaxed his shoulders before nodding, and lifted Anzel, placing him on his lap.

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  Azarim picked up the book that he was gazing through before, and opened it. Anzel’s gaze was immediately drawn to the illustrations.

  He saw a man sitting on a boulder, fishing in a lake of thundering quicksand.

  Azarim flipped through the next and it revealed a warrior wielding a sword imbued with blazing wind, locked in battle with a golden-winged woman whose radiant whips carved through the air.

  Seeing this, Anzel eagerly turned another page. A bustling harbor appeared, where burly men carried cargo to and from massive ships.

  “What is this father?” Anzel asked, his eyes widened in wonder.

  “A gift,” Azarim handed the book to him, “Is it to your liking?”

  Anzel nodded profusely, “Very much.”

  "This…" Deckard gasped, rushing to Anzel’s side. "An Artifact, Lord? By the gods, Lord, if Lady Angelica knows of this…"

  "It is fine," Azarim replied coolly. "I picked it up in Ainstruval. Not a single trace of Pleroma exudes from it. A device purpose for recording images of places I’ve visited.”

  He gave Anzel the book and began walking away, "Come."

  Deckard hesitated, his hand twitching slightly. His words may be true, but still a little caution wouldn’t hurt. Hell would break loose on the manor once Angelica knew of this. Imagine the broken furniture. Ah the mess…

  “If you are doubting my words, feel it. It does not contain the inventor’s pleroma or mine,” Azarim doubled down at his disbelief.

  Deckard shifted his gaze between Azarim and the eager child before sighing in defeat.

  "This damn family," he muttered, straightening his tie and brushing out the wrinkles from his clothes.

  "Speak."

  Deckard cleared his throat, his expression turning stern.

  "The Welcoming Lord, is a sacred rite of passage of the Helleans. The Warmonger Race of Miguelania." Deckard paused, gauging Azarim’s reaction before adding, “The ritual is where a blessing is passed to their young, to be strong and solidify their spirit.”

  “Get to the point.”

  Deckard bowed, “I have respect and awe in your power Lord Azarim. I mean no disrespect but will you risk the young lord’s life?”

  The atmosphere became heavy. As if boulders rested on Deckard’s shoulders.

  “What are you suggesting, Deckard?” Azarim said, in a calm voice.

  "Lord, I mean no disrespect, but I must make a request." Deckard bowed lower, his voice measured yet weighted with concern. "I ask that you refrain from attending his Welcoming. If your Pleroma converges with the divine, we cannot predict the consequences, or afford the risk. The boy is full of life, and I cherish my time with him, but he is far weaker than the Hellean children of his age. With you by his side, he will be as a candle before a bonfire. You have walked these lands before, and you know, death awaits those who lack strength.”

  The tree's crackling of branches was louder than their silent pause. Besides Anzel’s gasping in awe, the two remained at a standstill.

  Deckard stood, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, “Lord, accept his old man’s plea, hmm.”

  Azarim glanced back at Anze;indeed he was gleeful. He brushed Deckard’s hand and assured him.

  "This will be just a moment.” Asarim said calmly. “Return right now, and tell Angelica. I will be home.”

  Deckard’s expression fell.

  “Very well.” He nodded and walked away until his figure gradually disappeared into the lush trees from a distance.

  Azarim turned his attention back to Anzel. He understood the old man’s request—he knew that his mere presence was enough to stir chaos. What if an old enemy resurfaces? Yes, he could easily drive them away. But what about them?

  Never mind that his very existence clashed with the boy’s ability to absorb pleroma. Would the gods grant him mercy for once.

  The lightless flame, the dark fire that devours everything it touches. That was his power. Every scholar sought its essence, but for him, it was a curse.

  The boy’s blue eyes reflected the image of a man standing atop a mountain, feeling the fresh breeze against his face as he gazed down at a city below. Bustling carriages rolled by, warriors eager for battle passed through, and life thrived beneath him.

  Seven years ago he was expecting nothing as he laid his feet into these lands. Arrive, finish the contract, and get paid. It was a simple routine.

  Azarim’s thoughts drifted to his own childhood—when he, too, was a young boy, running through grand halls with his brothers and sisters.

  They would race to claim a seat in the lap of a man they admired. But he was always too late. The seats were taken.

  Then, the man with a blurry face would lift him up and place him on his shoulders.

  A small smile flickered across Azarim’s face.

  Those were the days before that accursed war that made them all scatter.

  He shook his head, forcing the memory away.

  “Father, these places… Have you been there before? Bellthor is huge, but nothing compared to these.” His eyes shone in awe. “Will you take me to these places one day?”

  Azarim hovered his hand on Anzel's head.

  “Father?” Anzel asked, tilting his head.

  Azarim closed his eyes, snapping the memory away and ruffled his white hair and let out a small smile. “Someday. I will bring you to these places someday.”

  “Oh, oh, I’ve only heard stories from Uncle Leon about different lands, about how their foods and women are much different in… Bi-Bibiryan Godu? I can’t remember the name, but Father, was that it?”

  Azarim’s smile disappeared, his brow furrowed, and his face darkened with disgust.

  “Leon said what?” Azarim asked, his voice low and scratchy, carrying an unfamiliar weight.

  Anzel was flustered. He had never heard that tone from his father before. Was it anger? Or deep curiosity? Was he also interested in those women? In the tavern, Leon and his buddies always asked newcomers the same crude question, breast or ass? Then they would judge the quality of a man based on their answer. Oh the thousand year conundrum.

  Anzel hesitated, torn between explaining or retreating. Should he provide a cohesive explanation or ask for forgiveness?

  “Is there something wrong, Father?” Anzel asked, his tone low, just enough for Azarim to hear.

  Azarim, noticing his son’s hesitation, cleared his throat. “Ah, no.”

  ‘So, Father is interested,’ Anzel’s gleeful smile returned.

  Without a shred of hesitation, with an innocent face and a bright smile, he blurted out, “Father, which do you prefer, breast or ass?”

  “What did you just say?” Azarim’s voice was dangerously low. A sharp pop rang out, followed by the pulsing of a visible vein on his temple. His aura grew heavy, pressing down like a storm about to break.

  ‘Was he not interested?’ The boy was stuck with his smile.

  “Father? Are you mad?”

  Azarim immediately composed himself, his aura settling. “No, I am not.”

  “Then why do I feel like you are?”

  Anzel jolted, dropping to the ground and clutching Azarim’s leg tightly. “Are you mad about what Uncle Leon and the guys said?”

  “No, I am not,” Azarim repeated, though his furrowed brow and clenched jaw told another story.

  "Father, no! I’m sorry. If I knew, I wouldn’t have said it. I just... I just wanted to share stories with you." Anzel’s voice wavered, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Because I missed you.”

  The dam broke. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  Azarim froze. His body ached at the sight, and his mind raced. He knelt down, pulling a handkerchief from his coat and pressing it against Anzel’s face, but it was instantly soaked. He flipped through the book, stopping on a page where herds of wild animals stampede across golden sands—nothing. He patted Anzel’s head repeatedly, but that, too, was of no use.

  With no other options, he resorted to a method that had once worked on him.

  He picked Anzel up and hoisted him onto his shoulders.

  From above, Anzel could see the vast beauty of Bellthor—the sprawling city below, the rolling green fields, and the mighty trees that whispered with the wind.

  "You know..." Azarim began, his voice calmer now, almost nostalgic. "This is the place where I first laid eyes on your mother. She pummeled a tree—this very tree—and tackled it while I was resting on its branches. I nearly fell."

  Anzel sniffled, listening intently.

  "She scolded me for being here… and then turned her anger on me. She was such a flame." Azarim’s voice softened, a rare warmth in his tone. “I am sorry, Anzel. I acted without thinking.”

  Anzel wiped his tears, nodding as he hiccupped. "Oum... oum..." He struggled to speak through the last of his sobs. "But I only said those things because... I wanted to share something with you, Father."

  Azarim sighed, lowering his head in shame. "I know. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize it sooner."

  Anzel wiped his face with his sleeve, finally calming down. "It’s okay now, Father."

  A brief silence settled between them before Anzel hesitated. "Do you want me to stop going to the tavern?"

  Azarim glanced up at him. “Do you want that?”

  Anzel immediately shook his head.

  “Then no,” Azarim said, trying to reach up and ruffle his son’s hair but failing due to their height difference.

  Noticing this, Anzel ducked his head down just enough for his father to reach.

  Azarim smiled, running his hand

  through the boy’s white locks. “Just be mindful.”

  Anzel beamed brightly.

  "Do you like this?" Azarim asked.

  "Yes! Very much!" Anzel grinned, his excitement back in full force.