Drenched in sweat, Azrael jolted upright in bed. The first faint rays of sunlight were only just beginning to pierce through the dense clouds shrouding Manor Mountain. The room remained cloaked in cool twilight, and the silence was broken only by the soft murmur of the wind.


    Blurred memories of his nightmare flooded his mind. The raging river, the icy embrace of the cold, and the silent, expressionless face of his mother still clung to him like a dark shadow. Yet, the final word his mother had whispered echoed within him, as if it were a clear command from afar.


    A trace of determination crept across his face. “It was just a dream,” he whispered to himself, but his voice was steady and resolute. “That’s exactly what my mother would have said. It’s clear now—I can’t waste any more time. Her killer is still out there, and I will find him. Giving up is not an option. Not now, not ever.”


    His heart pounded fiercely, and his eyes burned with determination. “Just wait. You’ll regret not sending me to the afterlife along with them. I’ll come for you. I’m the one who will decide your fate. I’ll be the reaper. Wait for me, because I’m coming. I’m coming for all of you.”


    Quietly, a few days later, Azrael slipped out of bed and stepped into the hallway, its atmosphere radiating an ancient tranquility. The walls were crafted from sturdy, dark oak wood that had aged to a deep brown hue. Intricate carvings adorned the paneling, depicting interwoven patterns and floral designs. In some places, the wood had chipped away with time, lending the corridor a venerable yet slightly dilapidated charm.


    The floor was covered with thick, worn rugs whose patterns had faded into muted tones over the years. The rugs bore the marks of age, evident in the threadbare patches and faint stains scattered across their surfaces. Their fringed edges hinted at decades of continuous use and careful upkeep.


    Knotted wooden doors lined the walls, each made from solid, dark timber. Deep cracks and knots marked their surfaces, giving the doors a rustic and unrefined appeal. The doorframes, carved from the same wood, featured heavy bronze fittings intricately designed with stylized vines and blossoms. Every detail of the metalwork showcased a remarkable craftsmanship. The doors themselves were thick and robust, each bearing a unique character shaped by the passage of countless years.


    Quietly, he crept toward the door of his room and opened it cautiously. The hallway stretched out before him, and he could see the door at the far end that led to the exit. With a muffled sigh, he stepped into the hall, tiptoeing carefully toward the front door to avoid waking Madame Lorena. Along the way, he noticed four other doors: two on the left and two on the right. The walls were adorned with golden-glinting portraits depicting a man whose face was blurred, his long hair cascading in golden waves over his shoulders. The man exuded an air of noble elegance, wearing a robe of pure, radiant light that made him appear enveloped in divine brilliance. The entire portrayal emanated an aura of supernatural majesty and commanding power. Azrael suspected the figure was meant to be Solaren.


    At last, he reached the front door. The sight that met him was unexpected: the first rays of sunlight illuminated the forms of Madame Lorena and a man standing beside her. The man was his uncle Bard. He had a clean-shaven head and a short, brown beard. With his broad back and muscular arms, he radiated an imposing presence.


    Madame Lorena and Bard knelt with clasped hands in prayer. Their backs were turned to him, their fronts facing the rising sun. Hesitantly, Azrael stood in the doorway, unsure of how to proceed. After a moment''s thought, he decided to slip past his uncle. With the hedge to his right blocking his path, he had to move close to Bard to get by.


    As Azrael attempted to sneak past his uncle, a gleaming object suddenly shot toward him. Reflexively, he jerked back, but the sharp impact sent him staggering. A searing pain exploded near his eye, and his vision blurred beneath a crimson haze. A pained whimper escaped his lips as he fell to the cold ground, feeling the hot blood trailing down his face.


    "How dare you," Bard roared, his voice cutting and full of fury. His eyes burned like embers, and the blood-smeared dagger in his hand gleamed menacingly. "To disrupt the morning praise of the almighty Solaren is an unforgivable sin. I ought to kill you for this."


    Madame Lorena stepped forward, her demeanor icy and composed. "I think that''s enough, darling," she said with cutting calmness. "We''ve put so much effort in him, i don’t want to start at the beginning again.“


    With an angry snort, Bard turned back to the morning ritual, while Madame Lorena’s gaze, sharp as a cold blade, fixed on the crumpled Azrael. “Dare to disrupt the sacred ritual again, and you will die.” Her voice was as emotionless as the frost of a winter afternoon. “Let me see your eye.”


    Trembling and wracked with pain, Azrael slowly moved his hand away from his injured eye. His limited field of vision made it hard to focus on his surroundings. Warm blood trickled down his cheek, mingling with the chill of the early morning air. Madame Lorena inspected the wound with an expression of detached indifference.


    “Forget about your eye,” she muttered after a brief but thorough examination. Her eyes remained unmoved, her face devoid of any trace of sympathy.


    Without wasting another word, she retrieved a gray bandage from her pocket, its scent of herbs and freshly cut fabric cutting through the cold air. She applied the bandage with precise yet harsh movements, aiming to stop the bleeding. Her touch was cold and merciless, treating the bandage as more of a necessary formality than a genuine act of care.


    “If anyone asks, say you hit your eye on the edge of the table,” she ordered, dismissing him with a disdainful wave of her hand. “Leave.”Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    With throbbing pain and visible limitations that made his movements clumsy and uncertain, Azrael hastily left the doorway. His restricted field of vision distorted the world around him, rendering it blurry and uneven. Every step became an uncoordinated struggle against the numbness and cold that hung over him like a heavy shroud.


    As he stepped outside, the pulsating pain from his lost eye made it difficult to focus. Each movement felt shaky, his sense of balance skewed. He stumbled over an uneven stone in the ground and narrowly avoided colliding with a branch by twisting hastily to the side, his actions more instinctive than deliberate.


    With each agonizing step forward, Azrael tried to push past the stabbing pain and his narrowed perception. Time and again, he brushed against the hedge, its dense vegetation and sharp twigs proving an additional hazard. Every collision made him flinch back with a sharp cry, and he fought the overwhelming urge to break down in anger or frustration.


    Finally, he reached the street and gazed upon the houses of Lindell, which lined up like a simple yet charming parade. The buildings were made of rough-hewn sandstone and wood, their uneven surfaces marked by the passage of time. The sandstone walls had developed a muted hue, giving them a sense of history and permanence. The roofs were covered with dark brown tiles or a thick layer of straw. Small chimneys occasionally emitted smoke, filling the air with the scent of burning wood.


    The windows were narrow and rectangular, their wooden frames showing cracks and signs of wear. Through the small, irregular glass panes, only weak light filtered in, casting a dim, melancholic glow inside. The doors were made of solid wood, firmly set into their frames and adorned with sturdy iron fittings that exuded an antique charm.


    The alleys between the houses were narrow, paved with uneven cobblestones, some covered with moss. The scent of earth and aged wood hung in the air, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of the residents going about their daily routines.


    Azrael felt lost in this environment, yet the painful memories of the confrontation and the blood that clouded his vision pushed him onward. Despite the struggles, only one thought remained in his mind: to find the murderer and unravel the mystery of his past.


    He himself stood on a path that resembled a makeshift road made of crumbling sandstone. The ground crunched beneath his feet with every step, the dust swirling in the air as he glanced through it. In the distance, he could make out the vague outlines of several market stalls. They appeared blurred, as though covered by an invisible veil. In front of the sandy-colored houses, people knelt in prayer, their hands tightly clasped, their lips moving in silent words. Their bodies were in deep harmony with the devotions.


    To his left, several fields stretched out, where the grain stood in dense rows, gently swaying in the wind. A narrow dirt path wound through the golden rows, leading toward a dark forest that sat at the foot of a nearby mountain.


    He hesitated, casting a nervous glance at the worshippers who remained frozen in silent devotion. After a moment of thought, he decided to follow the path toward the forest, hoping to find a place for himself there. The distant murmurs of the prayers made him shudder, prompting him to keep his distance.


    Carefully, he took his steps, mindful of making no noise. But the lost eye made him uncertain, and he kept stumbling over loose stones that shifted beneath his feet. His movements were clumsy. The deep green of the forest grew nearer, the pines standing like massive pillars against the gray sky. The air became heavier, the silence more oppressive.


    When he reached the forest floor, he immediately noticed the thick moss that stretched like a damp carpet across the ground. Every step was muted, and his feet left barely any marks in the soft mass. The pines stood tall and unmoving, while no shrubs or other vegetation disturbed the forest’s stillness. He carefully crouched down, his fingers feeling the damp moss until they found the shallow prints, which felt immediately familiar.


    “Fallow deer,” he murmured softly. The tracks were fresh, not yet washed away by the last rain. He lifted his gaze and moved deeper into the woods.


    Suddenly, he collided with the rough trunk of a tree. A suppressed curse escaped his lips. The lack of sight on his left side was like a blind spot, causing him to stumble again and again. The dead angle forced him to move slower, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.


    ?I have to be more careful,“ he scolded himself, his voice a hoarse whisper swallowed by the dense forest.


    Hours passed, and the shadows of the trees grew longer. The forest seemed endless, but to his relief, he finally found what he had been searching for. A small clearing, hidden between the trees. The ground was level, the grasses sparse and soft beneath his feet. It was silent. An eerie stillness surrounded him.


    The second spot he discovered was even more secluded—a vast moss field lying beneath the thick canopy of the ancient pine trees. Little light reached the forest floor here. The towering trees stood spaced far apart, their trunks rising like ancient sentinels into the sky. It was dark, cool, and quiet—exactly the kind of place he needed.


    Azrael stood in the middle of the moss field. The scent of resin filled his nostrils, though it was faint—the whole left side of him remained muted, distant. A slight breeze swayed the trees in harmony with nature. Over and over, he heard the soft tapping of a woodpecker, its rhythmic drumming echoing through the silence like a heartbeat. He removed his outer clothing and shoes, feeling the coldness of the ground beneath him, though his missing eye left him with a disjointed sense of perception.


    With a deep breath, he sprinted forward. But running was a challenge—every time he used the trees as obstacles, the left side of his field of vision felt like a black hole. More than once, he came dangerously close to the trunks.


    With one particularly daring step, he nearly collided head-on with a tree that lay in his blind spot. A dull pain spread through his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth, refusing to slow down.


    Sweat dripped from his forehead as he collapsed to the ground after the first sprint. His body trembled, his muscles burned, but the pain helped him push the thoughts away. As he tried to steady his breath, a memory suddenly slipped into his mind: his mother''s face, her warm smile, her gentle stroke across his cheek. A wave of sadness and emptiness spread through him, a painful lump lodged in his throat. He didn’t want to think about it.


    With a jerk, he sprang to his feet, as if to shake the memory off.


    His heart pounded wildly as he set off again, this time faster, harder. The trees seemed to be closing in on him, but he dodged them, pushing off with all his might as though he could shove the memories away with each step.


    "Not now," he muttered. He couldn’t afford to be weak.


    He spent the rest of the day on more exercises: push-ups, stretching, pull-ups, and squats. But even here, he noticed how the lack of orientation made his training more difficult. With the push-ups, he lost his balance if he leaned too much to one side. He gritted his teeth.


    "Strength isn’t enough," he told himself. "Mobility and flexibility are just as important."


    He adjusted his exercises: with the next push-ups, he pushed up as quickly as possible to train his reaction time. Sweating and with his throbbing eye, he finally returned at nightfall, each step deliberate, careful not to stumble.


    One thing had become very clear to him. The missing eye would continue to cause him problems.