Late in the evening.


    Weary, Azrael sank onto his bed, the mattress yielding beneath him, enveloping him like a soft embrace. Outside, there was silence, only the faint creaking of the floorboards under Bartho and Lyren’s weight could be heard. Thoughts swirled through his mind. Images of their training, the laughter, and the clash of swords that cracked in the air.


    Lyren was in a room next door, and the memory of his ambitious eyes when he spoke of his mother wouldn’t leave Azrael. The desire to help her burned inside him, mingled with the crushing certainty that they all suffered from the anomaly.


    To protect himself, Azrael had placed a kettle on a knife in front of his door, as though this small barrier would shield him from the unknown. His sword, the one he had received from Bartho, lay within reach, the blade barely visible in the dark, just as he wanted it.


    Fatigue spread through his limbs, and finally, he succumbed to the darkness. His eyes closed, and with each breath, the room grew quieter.


    Early in the morning.


    As soon as he woke, an unease crawled up his back. His gaze immediately fell on the kettle in front of the door. empty! "What the..." he muttered, the shock making his heart race. The knife was gone. An uncomfortable feeling crept up inside him.


    The door creaked open softly, and Bartho stormed in, followed by Lyren, who stood with tense shoulders and drawn swords. Their eyes were wide, and the air was charged with electric tension.


    "What happened?" they called in unison, their words rushing from their mouths as if they were desperate for an answer.


    Azrael sprang to his feet and pointed at the empty kettle. "Someone must have come into my room. The kettle''s empty, and the knife is gone too."


    His heart raced wildly as the thought of an intruder in the darkness of his room loomed over him like a shadow.


    Lyren held his breath, as if the tension were tangible. His eyes nervously scanned the room while his fingers instinctively tightened around the hilt of his sword. Bartho, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as a reassuring smile crept onto his face.


    "Everything is fine," he said in a calm voice. "I think you''re sleepwalking. Last night, I saw you in the kitchen. Your were eyes closed. You had a knife in your hand. After putting it back, you went back to sleep. See? Everything is fine."


    Azrael stared at the floor, his stomach twisting. "Sleepwalking?" It sounded so simple, so harmless, yet a suffocating feeling grew within him. He had never sleepwalked before. Even more unsettling were the constant gaps in his memory. It just didn’t add up.


    The faint morning light filtered through the window, casting strange, restless shadows on the walls that moved ever so slightly. Azrael rubbed his forehead as if trying to wipe away the thoughts that kept pushing into his mind.


    "The problem is," he whispered, his voice nearly choking, "I have no idea what really happened."


    An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Everything felt oddly still, almost too still. The few sounds from outside, the distant clinking of tools, and the rustling of the wind, suddenly seemed unnaturally distant.


    Lyren looked at him, his eyes narrower than before. He recognized the desperation in Azrael''s face, one that went deeper than just the thought of sleepwalking. But he remained silent. There were moments when words were unnecessary. And this moment felt exactly like that.


    <hr>


    "I''m sorry, Aria, but your noble title has been revoked. You should have listened to Father. You should have married the Baron of Griene. At least then, your life would have had some purpose."


    Aria let her brother''s words wash over her. She felt nothing. No anger, no sorrow, no disappointment. Her eyes remained cold and unmoved as she looked at him. It was as if she had lived through this countless times before. The words meant nothing to her anymore.


    "Finally. I thought I would have to endure your face a little longer." Her voice sounded almost casual, the provocation more of a habit than a feeling.


    Vendil raised his eyebrows and smiled mockingly. She was a toy to him, she knew that. She always had been. In his mind, he had already written her off, and the title now belonged to him.


    He might miss seeing her suffer—a game that had entertained him for years. But that could wait. A new thought, dark and sweet, began to form in his mind: "Maybe I could frame her for a crime. Then I would have permission to keep her as a slave."


    But that would have to wait. First, he had to take over the house once and for all. Without another word, he tossed her a letter and left.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Aria caught the letter without really looking. Indifferently, she opened the envelope and skimmed through its contents.


    Revocation of the noble title.


    Aria is stripped of the Nightshade surname.


    From now on, she was just an ordinary citizen.


    She was instructed to pack everything from her room and leave the Nightshade estate by this evening.


    In the outskirts of the city of Lanea, she was assigned a house at number 3 on Mandrets Street.


    "That was to be expected," she murmured softly, letting the letter fall. No anger, no surprise. It was just another step on a path that had long been predetermined. "That''s fine. At least I''ll be rid of my ''family.''"


    For the first time in a long while, she felt a spark of relief. Not happiness, not joy. Just the gentle sensation that the chains that had held her captive for so long were beginning to loosen.


    "But the matter isn''t over." Her fingers clenched around the letter. "I will kill Vendil with my own hands. Just like he killed Tapsel."


    Tapsel. One of the few peoplewho truly loved her. The dog her father had given her to keep her calm. No one else had ever cared for her, except Tapsel and one other Person. But Vendil had murdered him, just like that. Because he could.


    She gazed out the window, though she didn’t truly see the world outside. Her voice barely more than a whisper as she said, "The world won''t miss Vendil."


    She had already packed the most important things from her room. Everything was ready. Ready for the departure she had longed for. Clothes, three throwing knives, a rapier, and some money. She owned nothing else. But that was more than enough for her.


    She had packed everything into a brown backpack. This backpack was specifically designed for survival in the wild. It was large and spacious. With the pack slung over her shoulder, she left her room.


    She walked down the long, familiar corridor, passing the old wall paintings, heading towards the exit. She glanced to the right. Through a large, elongated window, she saw the vast garden. The flowers had already faded. Autumn had drained them of their vitality. Thoughts of how her brother had beaten her wandered through her mind. His spiteful smile as he loomed over her.


    Her fists clenched tightly. "He will regret it. All of it."


    <hr>


    "I think it''s about time," Azrael said as he sat next to Lyren.


    A month had passed since their first meeting. The days had passed in a steady rhythm of intense training. Strength, flexibility, endurance, and endless sparring. Their movements were now so in sync that they almost seemed like reflections of each other. It was time to take on the next challenge. Hunting Amandine.


    "You''re right," Lyren agreed. "But how are we going to catch her? I can''t think of a way to lure her out."


    Azrael grinned. "Who says we need to lure her out? We just walk through the front door and take her down."


    Lyren stared at him for a moment, before a wild grin spread across his face. "That''s crazy!" He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with excitement. "But I like it. No big theatrics, no detours. We just march right in. And the other people? They won’t even bat an eye, after all, you’re the one causing the trouble."


    Azrael''s smile widened, almost mischievously. "Exactly. Tomorrow afternoon. No more training until then. We need to be in top shape."


    "Agreed." Lyren nodded, his eyes glimmering with eager anticipation. Finally, something was happening. A change in the situation. No more just watching. Now it was time to act.


    Next day


    "Do you have everything?" Lyren asked, looking at Azrael, his voice low but firm.


    "Yes," Azrael replied, his hand resting on the hilt of Antaroth. "No time to waste."


    Before them lay Amandine''s house. Azrael unconsciously ran his fingers over the hilt of his sword. Antaroth. Named after a murderer whose name still rang in his ears. His parents had told him that Antaroth killed his enemies with a single strike, and this sword was meant to do the same.


    "Let''s go," Lyren said with a serious expression, stepping toward the door. Two quick, forceful kicks, and the lock shattered with a loud crack. They entered.


    The interior of the house felt oddly familiar, almost like a bad copy. The long hallway before them was adorned with wall paintings. The same images of Solaren that Azrael had seen at his relatives'' house. But here, something felt wrong, distorted. The light was too dim, the shadows too long.


    At the end of the hallway stood Amandine. She wore a simple cooking apron that seemed entirely out of place in this scene. In her hand, she held a kitchen knife, from which blood dripped slowly but steadily, leaving dark stains on the floor. The metallic smell spread through the air, sharp and heavy.


    "Ah, my guests have finally arrived," she said, her voice almost too friendly, as if she were simply planning a cozy evening. "The food is ready." Her smile was twisted, mad. "Please, take off your shoes before entering."


    Memories flooded Azrael’s mind, like a cold, relentless storm. Images flashed. Amandine, tearing apart her own son, her insane laughter that had burned itself into his memory. A lump formed in his throat, but unconsciously, he heard himself ask, "What’s for dinner?"


    Amandine''s answer came like something out of a bizarre nightmare, her smile sweet and utterly out of place. "I just slaughtered my neighbor," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "He was well-fed. This will be a feast. A real banquet." Blood continued to drip from her blade, as if to emphasize the truth of her words.


    Lyren shot Azrael a meaningful glance, his eyes full of tension. Azrael nodded almost imperceptibly. No words were needed. In perfect harmony, they drew their swords. They stood side by side, blades ready, like predators waiting for the perfect moment.


    Azrael charged forward, aiming a precise thrust at Amandine''s left side. But she was faster than she appeared . The kitchen knife blocked his strike with astonishing ease. Yet Azrael grinned. It was going exactly according to plan.


    Lyren, barely noticed by Amandine, took advantage of her one-sided focus on Azrael. He slipped effortlessly past her and suddenly stood behind her. In that narrow hallway, she had no way to escape.


    Azrael continued to distract Amandine, delivering more blows that she effortlessly deflected with her knife. Her eyes stayed locked on him, entirely focused, as if Lyren didn''t even exist. Then, in one fluid motion, Lyren lifted his sword and brought it down. It struck her left elbow with brutal precision.


    Amandine’s arm fell to the floor, blood spraying onto the wall. But her smile. That eerie, nerve-rending smile, didn’t fade. She didn’t even seem to feel the pain. Her attention was still entirely on Azrael, while Lyren remained unnoticed.


    Lyren raised his sword once more, ready for the next strike. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Amandine would fall soon, that was certain.