Fragment of the Abyss"

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Chapter 4– The Weight of the Mark

The bluish light of the runes still pulsing beneath Azrael's feet seemed to be the only living flame in that vast underground amphitheater, now engulfed in a heavy silence full of meaning. Shadows stretched across the black stone walls like long fingers trying to envelop everyone present — but no one dared to break that moment of expectation.

The faces of House Morvain watched him with a complex mix of emotions, a subtle, almost imperceptible blend of curiosity, distrust, and a hint of fear. He wasn't just a stranger returned from the void; he was a bearer of the Mark — a symbol few dared to carry and many feared.

Azrael felt all those eyes on him, the invisible lenses of souls hungry for answers, for signs, for some spark that even he did not yet understand.

Liora stood a few steps ahead, her posture rigid and arms crossed like a fortress against any approach. Her eyes fixed on some random point, avoiding eye contact, but her body spoke a different language: every tense muscle, every held breath betrayed the silent war she fought within.

He was the first to break the silence, though his voice was low, as if afraid to shatter the spell of the moment.

— So... that was it?

The sound of his own voice sounded strange, almost out of place in that cold space filled with gazes. There was a spark of impatience, but also genuine doubt, a longing for some clarity.

Murmurs began to spread, low and almost imperceptible, but enough for Azrael to feel that the House was alive, breathing, judging, weighing every second of that instant.

From the other side of the Arena, a figure emerged from the shadows, the old Veyrion. His silver cloak gleamed under the spectral light, and the symbols covering his body seemed to vibrate with ancient power.

— This is only the beginning — he said firmly, penetrating the silence with an authority that was unquestionable. — The Mark is not something that reveals itself to be admired. It is a seed that germinates in darkness, a trial by fire that demands more than courage. It demands transformation.

Veyrion's words made the crowd hold their breath. The atmosphere grew even heavier, and the weight of the moment became almost tangible.

Azrael felt his chest tighten. Not with fear, but with awareness. The journey he thought was just beginning was, in fact, a long and winding road that would unfold not only in front of him, but inside him.

— For now, you must prepare — the patriarch continued, using the title with the authority the name carried, although Azrael knew he preferred to be called simply Veyrion —. Training, control, and understanding. The House expects each one here to understand their role — and for the Mark Azrael carries to be a sign of hope, not of ruin.

A soft sigh swept through the audience, but not everyone seemed convinced.

Then Liora finally turned to look directly at Azrael, her expression unreadable, almost like an ice wall.

— The Mark can be a blessing or a curse — she said, her voice sharp and precise like a blade. — You'll need to learn fast, brother. Because what awaits us is crueler than anyone here imagines.

Azrael felt a shiver run down his spine but did not back down.

— I'm ready to learn — he replied firmly, though quietly.

— It's not about being ready — she snapped back — but about surviving.

The tension between them was dense, almost electric. Liora's eyes reflected something he still did not fully understand: fear? Determination? A veiled promise? Perhaps all of it combined.

For a moment, everything seemed suspended. House Morvain, the glowing runes, the cold air of the Arena, Azrael's fragmented past, and the uncertain future all intertwined in an indissoluble knot.

Then Veyrion raised his hand and, with a slow and calculated gesture, signaled the end of the meeting.

— Disperse — he ordered, and voices began to fade into whispers and hurried steps.

Azrael remained still for a few more seconds, absorbing the weight of what had just happened. He felt that there, in that moment, he was not just a young man awakening to an unknown power — he was a piece on the ancestral chessboard of House Morvain.

As he finally turned to leave, a short, thin man with sharp eyes and an impassive face approached him and spoke in an almost conspiratorial tone.

— The Mark brings power, but also enemies. Not just from outside, but from within.

Azrael frowned, mentally questioning whom he meant. The man only smiled, a cold, empty smile.

— Be careful whom you trust — he concluded, disappearing back into the corridor's shadows.

The young man felt a new weight, heavier than the Mark on his chest.

As he crossed the winding corridors of the palace, the walls carried distant echoes — muffled laughter, furtive whispers, hurried footsteps. The castle was a spider weaving its web, and Azrael was now a fly trapped within it.

When he finally reached his room, he closed the door behind him, exhausted, and let himself fall on the cold stone bed. Outside, dusk had given way to night, and the stars timidly appeared in the sky.

He closed his eyes, and in the silence of the room, the mysterious voice echoed again in his mind.

— What do you hide, Azrael? — it whispered — What are you willing to reveal?

Azrael took a deep breath and answered only to himself.

— Everything I need to survive.

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Days later

The sun had barely touched the stones of the palace when Azrael was summoned to the training hall — a vast open space under a crystal vault where the air seemed to vibrate with the energy of the ancients.

Liora was already there, her tall and slender figure standing out among the other House disciples.

— Time to begin — she said, not as a sister, but as an instructor and guardian of the Morvain legacy.

Azrael tried to hide the discomfort of the imposed proximity but knew there was no other way.

The training that followed was intense — a mixture of physical exercises, mental discipline, and attempts to manipulate the Mark that until then felt more like a burden than a blessing.

Throughout it all, Liora was present — watching, correcting, challenging.

It was not just about power but control.

Azrael learned that the Mark reacted to his emotional state, that doubt weakened it and that anger could be both a fuel and a dangerous trap.

Over the days, the tension between the two siblings did not lessen but transformed.

They were no longer just Azrael and Liora — they were rivals, allies, and above all, survivors of a fate few dared to face.

On one of those quiet nights, while the palace rested under the dark cloak of night, Azrael stared at his reflection in the mirror.

The Mark on his chest was no longer just an invisible symbol. It was a call. A reminder.

He was changing. And the world around him was too.

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