Fragment of the Abyss"

The warm light of dusk entered the room like a slow breath, filtered through narrow windows that cast long, tenuous shadows across the cold stone walls. Azrael sat at the edge of the bed, his hands clasped in front of his face, eyes fixed on an indistinct point on the worn floor. The silence felt so heavy it seemed the air had turned solid—a muffled void where his thoughts echoed without answer.

Since awakening in that strange and indecipherable world, his mind wavered between fragmented memories of the past and a present that felt distant but inescapable. The mysterious voice that had spoken to him in the darkness of his unconsciousness continued to reverberate in his mind—a formless, persistent presence. And behind it, the cold, implacable gaze of Liora—his twin sister—haunted him relentlessly. The fraternal bond they once shared was gone. All that remained was distance, distrust, and an abyss between them.

The oppressive silence of the room was abruptly broken by sharp, authoritative knocks. A thin, pale man with deep eyes and an impassive expression entered, his posture rigid.

"Lord Azrael," he announced, his voice neutral and cold, yet tense, as if carefully measured, "the Patriarch awaits you in the Arena."

Azrael didn't reply. He rose slowly, feeling the weight of every muscle beneath the black robe given to him—a simple fabric, but heavy, as if it carried the expectations of the entire Morvain House. Without a word, he followed the servant through the winding corridors of the palace, whose Gothic architecture seemed to devour the light of the dusk, as though time had halted there. Faded tapestries hung on the walls, depicting battles and ceremonies from a glorious, distant past, while ancient whispers seemed to linger between the stones.

Liora walked a few steps ahead, posture rigid, eyes fixed on some unknown point. Her coldness was a shield, and once again Azrael felt the weight of rejection between them—a silent invitation to keep his distance.

At last, they reached the Arena. It was a vast underground amphitheater carved directly into black rock, its walls shimmering beneath the spectral blue light of floating crystals that defied gravity. The air was dense, charged with an old, subtle energy, and the restrained murmurs of those present filled the space like an almost imperceptible current.

In the stone bleachers, men and women of the Morvain House—young and old, some nearly unrecognizable behind masks of indifference—watched Azrael with calculated stares, discreet smiles, and eyes sharp as blades, laced with distrust and veiled disdain. Their gazes bore down on him like invisible chains, branding him a stranger to his own bloodline.

The tension grew heavier as a figure emerged from the shadows at the center of the arena. An old man, draped in a silver robe adorned with glowing runes that pulsed with their own strange life. In his hands, he held a staff engraved with twisted symbols that seemed to move ever so slightly, almost hypnotically.

"Azrael Vayden," the voice rang out, cutting through the silence with authority and mystery. "Son of House Morvain, returned from the void. Today, you shall face a trial—not of strength, but of essence. The Mark you carry is not visible to the naked eye, but it will be revealed through your spirit."

Murmurs slithered through the audience, thick with secret meanings and unspoken intentions. Azrael felt the occasion settle into his chest like a stone.

Without hesitation, he stepped onto the circular platform of black obsidian, which absorbed the arena's faint light and pulsed softly beneath his feet. The runes etched around the platform began to glow gradually, awakening from an ancient sleep, casting sharp, cold blue rays.

The Patriarch raised his staff, and the ground trembled faintly—just enough to send a vibration through Azrael's body.

"What you hide from yourself, Azrael," the old man said, lowering his voice into a whisper heavy with power, "is the key to what is yet to come."

The world around him began to dissolve. The murmurs of the crowd vanished. The lights of the crystals died. And Azrael was swallowed by a dense, suffocating darkness.

He found himself in a narrow corridor, surrounded by living shadows that twisted and whispered in forgotten tongues. Ahead, shattered mirrors reflected fragmented versions of himself—faces marked by pain, fear, doubt, and loneliness.

Azrael stopped before the reflections of himself, his heart clenching with memories he had long avoided. A soft voice echoed within his mind:

— Face it.

He reached out and touched one of the mirrors. The cold surface turned liquid beneath his fingers, and the images shifted into vivid memories: his mother's worried face, the sterile smell of the hospital, Liora's distant gaze, the hollowness left behind by abandonment and loss.

The silent pain crushed his chest, but he didn't step back. Eyes closed, he dug deep within himself for strength.

As he advanced, the mirrors dissolved into mist, and the scenery transformed. The corridor gave way to a vast night sky, black as pitch, speckled with distant stars that blinked silently.

At the center of that starry void, an immense figure materialized—composed of shadow and light. Its deep, ancient eyes were empty as the abyss itself.

Azrael felt no fear—only a profound calm. A quiet recognition, as if he stood before something that had always awaited him.

The voice returned, almost inaudible:

— What do you hide?

A flame stirred within him—not doubt, not fear, but a quiet, growing courage.

When his eyes opened again, the Arena returned. The runes beneath his feet were still glowing, steady and blue.

Silence fell once more—dense, meaningful, as though the air itself carried unspoken truths.

He looked up at the faces of the Morvain family—cold stares, false smiles, expressions of curiosity and scorn. And finally, at Liora. For a brief moment, their eyes met. He noticed something: a flicker of emotion, carefully restrained. A subtle, nearly imperceptible curve of her lips.

Azrael understood that this moment was not an end, but the beginning of something far greater.

The journey to discover who he truly was—and who he must become—had only just begun.