After midnight fell, Anders took his coat and headed down. The rest of the camp stayed there, awaiting further orders, though they were sure that there won't be any. Even if he was ambushed, their captain was strong enough to deal with the entire town himself. They simply chatted among each other, sitting around the fire, smiling and drinking their last bottle of booze before they left, all but Cyrilo, who as usual was distant from everyone else, reading as he sat on a hilltop, leaned against a tall pine tree. It was a full moon night, and even if it wasn't, he was much too used to reading in the dark. He preferred it. Quiet and peaceful. No one to bother him. The wind gently caressed his face and hair, as the leaves rustled and fell from the trees beside him.
It was perhaps due to the calmness and serenity of everything, he had dropped his guard for a moment, and right then he felt a chill down his spine, a tangible presence right behind him. He quickly shut his book and launched himself forward, sliding with his fist and turning to face behind him, where he was greeted by a familiar silhouette. 'It's been a while, Cyl,' said the tall figure wearing a hood over his face, with only his eyes visible, which were glowing red. They were covered in a cloak of a dark shade of brown from head to toe, and if not for their eyes or their tangible presence, which almost screamed 'Come forth, if you can,' he wouldn't have been able to tell who this person was. He quickly took out his daggers. 'Now, now,' said the figure. 'Is there any need for us to be hostile? I'm only here to deliver a message.' Cyrilo paused for a moment, then put his daggers back and said, in a firm and authoritative voice,
'Speak.'
'The Master asked you to withdraw immediately.'
'I no longer take orders from him. He—'
'Oh no, my dear Cyl. It's not an order, but an advice. You see, in that little town over there, is the vessel of Azrael.'
His eyes widened.
'If you value your very short life, it would be best for you to withdraw. That is all.'
With the next gust of wind, the silhouette disappeared. His presence vanished as quickly as it came, but he was all too used to it to care. Instead, he was more interested in his words. Azrael, of Death. Is he really in that town? He pondered for a while, before heading back to the camp. 'Why can't I just read in peace?' he wondered, scratching his head.
He wouldn't mislead me. Cyrilo didn't have the best impression of him, but he was certain that he was not a liar. In fact, he could fault him for being too honest. A Vessel of a Transcendent would be difficult to deal with, even if the entire camp fought together. But it was strange. Azrael should have died during the War. There was no doubt about it. After all…
Tsk.
A memory flashed in his head, a terrible one, from only a few years before. He hated it, but that very memory was proof that Azrael was dead. Then how was he in Yorfilhelm? Perhaps it would be better for me to head directly to the town. Cyrilo sighed as he lifted the book in his hand, which erupted into flames of blue before disappearing completely.
---
'What do you want?' asked Cyrilo. He was only eleven then, stuck in this cage with his wings clipped. It had been almost two years since he last saw the outside world, the rays of the golden sun, or the green grass. His mother and sister were dead, or so he was told. His mother bled to death the same day, and as for his sister, she lost herself to insanity only a few days after, and ended up tripping over a few steps, falling to her death. The person who told him that? The one who called for him right now.
'Please, you do not need to be so on-guard. I thought we were on better terms.'
'I simply wish to get this over with as soon as we can, Master.'
'Oh of course, yes. I apologise. In that case, let's get straight to the point. Have you heard about Azrael?'
'I have.' As a child, his mother would often tell him stories about Azrael, and the other Transcendent, namely Angels. There exists a legend about a Great War, one that occurred about five thousand years ago. It is said that it was a gruesome war, a terrible one in which the entire continent was involved. There wasn't a single nation that was free from its horrors. It is said towards the end of the war, an Angel had descended. They were the Angel of Death, Azrael. They guided those who had already lost their will to fight to their resting place, and after giving solace to their souls, they turned towards the kingdom that caused the war, known simply as the Ancient Kingdom. It is said that using their powers, Azrael had sealed away the kingdom and had placed a terrible curse upon them as punishment for their crimes.
'You might think it is a myth, my child, but you see, very recently, I got my hands on something.'
The figure moved towards the table, a "clank" sound with each movement they made in their metallic…whatever it was, probably an armour of sorts. His boots were of metal, so were their gloves, gauntlets with pointed fingertips. His face was covered in a metal mask, which made their voice echo within. He was tall, very tall, and wore this heavy looking jacket that reached below his knees, and this black attire underneath, and underneath that was probably more metal stuff judging from all the noise he made. On the table there was something covered by a cloth. Its shape, at least what he could tell just by seeing, was something of a cube. The Master lifted the cloth with his metallic gauntlets, slowly, carefully, and concealed underneath was a red, glowing cube. It was small. 'Tada~' said the Master, in an excited voice, as if he had just received a new toy to play with, and was showing it off to his friends. Cyrilo probably had an apathetic look on his face, completely uninterested in whatever he had to say, so he coughed, before beginning his explanation,
'This, right here, is Azrael.'
Cyrilo's eyes widened in disbelief.
'It took me a lot of trouble to get this, and you should be grateful that I'll be giving it to you.'
'What…do you mean?'
'What do I mean?' his voice grew louder, perhaps in excitement. 'I meant exactly what I said. I'll give you Azrael's powers. My dear child, you're my greatest creation. This is all for the sake of your goal. You want to kill your fath—sorry, that man, right? But you can't even lay a finger on him as you are now. How would you? You're weak and fragile, and simply winning would never be enough. No, you must crush him. That is revenge. You must completely crush his entire existence, take away his will to live, to exist, take away everything from him, just as he did to you. And to do that, you need power. This, this here, will give you power. I will give you power.'
'Then—'
'Patience, my child, patience. Not yet. You're not ready. A few years more. Only a few years, after that…I can hardly contain my excitement. To think you'll be able to achieve your longest wish, it makes me so happy, so very happy!!! The last of Azrael is dead. There are no more vessels left. All for this. All so that I could get my hands on this!'
'I am very grateful, Master,' said Cyrilo.
---
The fourteen-year-old Cyrilo stood amidst the ruins of the old laboratory, covered in blood. His face lacked any emotion. You couldn't even call it "apathetic". It wasn't the face of a human, but a machine. Laughter echoed in the ruins. Hysterical. But he paid no heed. He simply walked away, into the woods, and after a short while the laugh faded away, and instead he could hear sounds of crickets and cicadas around him. It had been years since he had last been outside, and initially the moonlight overwhelmed his eyes, forcing them shut, but he got used to them rather quickly. These past few weeks, he would not forget soon, and he understood that. And the more he would try, the more it would come haunting him. At least, till I get my revenge, I'll live. He felt rather calm, which was strange. He should be overwhelmed by emotions right now, cry his eyes out, but he was strangely calm, as if completely unaffected.
---
It's quiet, thought Cyrilo. He decided to head straight to Yorfilhelm, to check for himself, but he couldn't find a single townsfolk in sight. Perhaps they are all partaking in negotiations? It would make sense, since this was a town where everyone had a say. But where were they doing the negotiations? The houses were all dark in and had their doors locked. 'I wonder if Anders is alright. He wouldn't be able to take on a vessel on his own.'
He stopped in his tracks and closed his eyes. If people were to find out he was an arcanist, he would be in big trouble. In modern age, arcanists are rare, since most of them were banished and hunted down a century ago, being labelled as "Enemies of Humankind". But if Azrael's vessel was truly here, the situation was dire. He could just kill the witnesses later, if there even were any. Well, they would need to be an Arcanist themselves to know; no ordinary human would be able to tell since there aren't any visual cues, so I should be fine this time. He focused for a moment.
The entire world changed. He could see everything, the world around him, his front, back, sides, everything. He could even see through things, through doors and windows, or see the mana in the air, and much more. His senses heightened. He could hear footsteps. Among them—
'Aaaah!'
A sharp pain in his forehead, followed by a blurred vision; he quickly closed his eyes shut and stopped his spell, falling to the ground below. 'The hell was that—?' he said, touching his forehead. He was quick to get back on his feet, and headed straight towards the footsteps. That was probably the vessel, but how? He left the alley, and was about to take a turn when—
'Cyrilo!'
He heard a familiar voice behind him.
'Anders,' he said, looking back.
'I thought I heard you, what are you doing here? I thought you were at the camp.'
'Oh yeah, don't mind me. Just got curious. How did the negotiations go?'
Anders had a grim expression on his face.
'Well, the results are in Norwenshire's favour, but…'
Did something happen?
'What is it?'
'The townsfolk, I feel sorry for them. In the end, they decided to abandon this land and go somewhere else.'
'Sorry?'
Cyrilo was taken aback for a moment, and not for any good reason, but because of the sheer stupidity of what he just heard.
'Just because they don't own the land anymore, they'll abandon it? Are these folks like, eight-year-olds or something?'
Anders forced a giggle. 'Perhaps. They said they'll find a new land.'
'How dumb.'
The houses started to light up one by one. He could see the folks returning to their homes. It seemed they all gathered in one place for the meeting, as he had suspected, that one place being this old house that was the only house big enough to fit everyone. It only had one room, so Cyrilo suspected that perhaps it was specifically designed for meetings.
'Let's go,' said Anders.
'Yeah.'
It's strange. They definitely have a vessel among them, or at the very least a very strong arcanist, then why would they simply abandon this place? Perhaps they aren't a vessel after all, but just a strong arcanist. Was he mistaken, then? If they have a strong arcanist with them, their choice to abandon the land would make sense.
He sighed.
Whatever the case may be, our job here is done. Time to head back.
---
They sat around the fire, eating meat and drinking as they talked among themselves. Cyrilo initially didn't want to take any part in it, but Anders was insistent for some reason, and practically dragged him in. He laughed as he raised a mug of wine. 'Yeahhhh!' he shouted, drinking it all in one go. Some followed, and in turn choked on their drinks, coughing, and the others laughed. 'So, Cyrilo, right?' one of the soldiers bumped his elbow. 'Ya don't drink or what?' Cyrilo was yet to drink a single mug. 'Uh, no,' he said, rather awkwardly. 'Yer na fun! Here!' He handed him a mug. 'I'm Wyskell. I already know ya, yer pretty famous, ya know? So skilled at such a young age, I envy ya. I tell ya, you'll get a lovely bride, and live in a lovely mansion as a noble.' Cyrilo simply listened to whatever Wyskell said, not interrupting at all. 'Ya know, I have a daughter. I haven't met her in a few years, though. She's out there, studying. She looks just as pretty as my wife.'
'Must be nice.'
'Ya bet it is! My wife's the prettiest wife in this world. She's the prettiest, I tell ya. It's a wonder she's my wife.'
Wyskell wasn't that attractive looking, so perhaps that was why he thought that way. He had a well built body, but his skin was a little dark, not too much, and his jawline wasn't as pronounced. His hair and eyes were black, and he wasn't that tall either. He looked simply average, and from how he described his wife, she seemed to be quite the beauty. Either that, or he was just too blind in love. He drank another mug of wine, while the one in Cyrilo's hands was still full. He was yet to take a single sip.
Must be nice.
'Ya know, I got a letter recently from my daughter. She said she'll be comin' home next month. Ah, I can hardly wait!'
'You must love them a lot, your family.'
Cyrilo didn't intend it, but his voice was softer than usual.
'Huh? Isn't that obvious? Who wouldn't love their family?'
Cyrilo giggled, before finally taking a sip.
'Right.'
'Now this is rare,' said a familiar voice, approaching the two. It was Anders, who had a mild amusement on his face, and Cyrilo could guess why. 'You're not one to normally talk with people,' he said.
'Ah, Captain!'
'I'm just not much of a talker. Doesn't mean I won't listen,' he said, taking another sip. 'Here, want some?' Cyrilo asked, handing him the mug.
'It's fine, I've already had my share.'
'Oh,' he said in a rather disappointed tone.
'Come on Captain! Don't be like that!' said Wyskell, grinning handing a mug as well.
'Fine fine, if you insist,' he said, taking both their mugs.
'Hey Captain Anders! Wyskell! Let's have a drinking battle!' someone shouted from behind. If he remembered correctly, his name was Travin.
'Hell yeah!' said Wyskell, getting up, before immediately falling down, and then getting up again, and walking in a manner fitting of someone who had drunk at least five mugs of wine by now.
'Captain?'
'I'll pass,' he said, giggling. He then turned towards Cyrilo.
'Well then, let's have a little chat, shall we?'
'I already told you, I'm not much of a talker.'
'It's alright. You just need to answer my questions.'
'That is called an "interrogation", Anders.'
'However you put it. Now, here's my first question, what were you doing in Yorfilhelm.'
'I thought there was a certain person there, but I was wrong. I was simply scouting.'
'A certain person?'
Cyrilo stayed quiet.
Anders sighed. 'I know you're not one to cause trouble, but just tell me or someone else beforehand or something.'
'You had already left, and it was much better for me to go check personally than to notify the camp and cause needless concern over something that was merely a hunch.'
'If you say so.'
Anders didn't push further, turning back and heading towards the rest of the camp. 'We'll be leaving tomorrow after ten. Be ready by then.'
'Sure.'