Azriel sat at the long, dark oak table, his fingers drumming absently on its edge, the polished surface reflecting the flickering light of the chandelier overhead. The hall around him was alive with the low murmur of voices, a sea of finely dressed nobles drifting from one conversation to the next like leaves caught in a gentle current. The scent of aged wine and roasted meats hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint undertones of perfume and cologne. His father had already steered him through introductions to a handful of influential nobles and ladies, their titles heavy on the tongue, their words wrapped in layers of formal pleasantries. His mother, ever the social architect, had whisked herself away to speak with old confidants, leaving Azriel to navigate the dense web of alliances and unspoken politics alone.
It was the first time he had been thrust so fully into this world—this world of smiles as sharp as daggers and words that danced like blades in the dark—and he had come to a quiet decision. He would remain still. He would remain silent. And he would observe.
His young face was a mask of neutrality, expertly cultivated over the years, betraying nothing to those who might look too closely. He had learned long ago that emotion was a weapon for others to exploit. A raised brow could be a declaration of arrogance. A lingering glance could be misconstrued as interest, or worse, a weakness. And so, Azriel sat, watching the ebb and flow of the room, his eyes flitting between the gilded portraits lining the walls and the whispered exchanges unfolding at the tables around him. Each conversation was a dance—one he had not yet mastered, but one he had every intention of learning.
But unlike the others, Azriel had something they didn't—something that made his observation more than just casual watching. His eyes. They were already far more attuned than most, heightened by his [ All-seeing Eyes ], still locked at 90%. But even with that, he saw more.
It wasn't just the surface of things he noticed now. No, now, he could feel the tension between words, the way truth and lies wove themselves together in patterns that were impossible for most to discern. He could see the discomfort in the rigid shoulders of a lord who smiled with too much ease, the hesitation in the hands of a noblewoman who nodded in agreement, her eyes betraying a subtle flicker of doubt. A quick glance, a slight shift of the eyes, a breath held just a little too long—these tiny, unconscious tells were all the information Azriel needed to feel the truth. Not entirely—he couldn't read minds, not yet—but it was as if he could see through the façade with startling clarity. He could sense the difference between what was spoken and what was truly meant.
When a tall lord approached, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable confidence of someone used to power, Azriel's eyes didn't just follow his movements. They tracked the subtle stammer in his speech, the flick of his eyes toward a woman seated across the hall. Azriel didn't need to hear the words to know that the man was lying, or at least concealing something from the group he was addressing. The truth glimmered beneath the surface, a faint trace of anxiety in the way the lord's fingers brushed against his coat sleeve. It was a small thing—one that most would miss—but for Azriel, it was the kind of detail that made everything else seem... imperfect. Uncertain.
Another noblewoman passed by, her laughter chiming brightly across the room as she tilted her head back in feigned amusement. Azriel could feel the lie in her smile. It was too wide, too forced—a clear sign that something, just below the surface, wasn't right. She wasn't amused. She was frustrated. And Azriel could feel it—like an undercurrent in the air.
He didn't need to look directly at her to sense it. His gaze could catch the slightest detail in the corner of his eye, the pressure of a foot tapping nervously beneath the table, or the way her fingers gripped the stem of her glass with just a little too much force.
Azriel's gaze flickered briefly, his eyes catching the subtle shifts in the air as the two royal figures approached his table. Prince Jacob's easy confidence was apparent, his posture relaxed, as though the weight of his title meant little in moments like these. Princess Gwendolyn, on the other hand, had an almost calculating air about her—a soft but keen focus in her eyes, and a reserved elegance in her movements. Despite the soft warmth in her smile, there was an undeniable sharpness beneath it, as though she was always measuring, always assessing.
He could already sense the underlying currents between them, the delicate balance of expectation and restraint. There was no hostility—at least not openly—but Azriel's eyes could see the fine threads of competition in the way they presented themselves. Not just with their titles, but in their approach toward him. He had already assessed their intentions, but his expression remained neutral, the mask he had perfected over the years falling into place effortlessly. He would not reveal the slightest flicker of his awareness, not to them, not now.
He rose from his seat, his movements fluid and composed, and gave a respectful bow as was customary for royalty. The polite gesture was accompanied by a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, but he was careful to keep his tone warm.
"Your Highness, Jacob and Gwendolyn, would you like a seat?" His voice was steady, measured—there was nothing overly formal, yet it conveyed deference.
Jacob shook his head and approached with a casual grace, extending his hand. Azriel's gaze caught the slight flicker of Jacob's gaze—a brief glance toward Gwendolyn, though it was just a hint, a fleeting moment. But Azriel saw it. Whatever the exchange was between them, it was subtle, a calculated gesture wrapped in friendship. He knew Jacob had a certain charm about him, but it was a charm that Azriel could feel—a calculated, practiced kind of warmth.
"No need for all that," Jacob said, his grin wide, as if his relaxed posture alone could dismiss the need for formalities. "We're all still children here, please call me Jacob."
Azriel's smile deepened, just the right amount of polite surprise mixed with a subtle touch of amusement. He hadn't expected such familiarity, but he didn't let it show—only allowing the slightest lift of an eyebrow as he lowered his hand.
"Jacob it is, then." Azriel responded smoothly, settling into a more comfortable stance.
Gwendolyn approached as well, though she did not extend her hand, her demeanor more reserved. Azriel noted the small but significant difference between her and Jacob. Where Jacob exuded an ease, Gwendolyn seemed more deliberate, choosing her words and actions carefully. Her eyes lingered on Azriel for just a moment longer, as though sizing him up—yet not in the way most people did. This wasn't judgment, but curiosity. She was trying to gauge him, to understand what kind of person he was beneath the surface. Azriel could feel the weight of her gaze, the way she dissected him with a softness that didn't quite hide the sharpness of her mind.
"Call me Gwendolyn as well," she said, her voice soft but clear, a quiet authority woven into her words. She paused, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Only if we can call you Azriel as well?"
Azriel considered her for a brief moment, the subtle play of words not lost on him. It wasn't just about names. It was a subtle invitation, a test. She was testing the waters, probing to see how he would respond. In many ways, the same game everyone in this room played, though less openly than some.
He nodded, his smile widening just slightly.
"Of course, Gwendolyn," Azriel replied, his voice light, but laced with an edge of consideration. He allowed a moment of silence to pass before he added, "And you may call me Azriel as well, as long as I am not impolite by doing so."
It wasn't a refusal, but it wasn't complete agreement either. He was acknowledging their offer, but with a hint of caution. It was a balancing act—staying open, but aware. Gwendolyn might not have offered a handshake, but her words had an invitation in them, a gesture of intimacy and respect wrapped in a royal manner. Azriel had no intention of letting her see too much, not yet. He would keep his distance, just enough to maintain the upper hand.
There was a brief moment where all three of them stood in a kind of quiet understanding. The weight of the room, the shared knowledge that they were all players in a much larger game, lingered in the air. Azriel could feel the pull of their intentions, but he didn't let it show.
"So," Azriel said, pulling himself from his thoughts and motioning to the empty seats, "Please, do sit."
As Prince Jacob and Princess Gwendolyn settled into their seats, the conversation naturally shifted. There was an ease to the way they spoke, a careful dance of words that betrayed nothing too intimate but carried a weight all its own. Azriel's eyes flitted from one to the other, capturing the small shifts of expression, the subtle emphasis in their voices.
Gwendolyn, ever the composed one, leaned slightly forward as she addressed him, her gaze steady, as though she already knew his answer—yet still, she asked.
"Are you planning to enter the Mystara Academy when you turn 15?" Her voice was calm, but there was a glint of curiosity in her eyes, as though she was measuring his response, gauging something hidden behind his words.
Azriel met her gaze, his expression neutral, betraying none of the thoughts swirling behind his cool demeanor. He allowed himself a single, slow shrug before answering, keeping his tone nonchalant.
"Don't know yet," he said casually, folding his hands neatly on the table, as if the question were no more than a passing thought. "The idea is not very appealing to me. I have everything I need here." His voice was soft, but it carried a subtle finality—a declaration of contentment, as though he didn't feel the need to seek out the grand opportunities others coveted. There was no arrogance in his tone, only the quiet confidence of someone who already felt he was above the need for the Academy's prestige.
Jacob, ever the inquisitive one, seemed intrigued. His eyes flickered for a moment, and though he didn't press the issue, Azriel could feel the subtle pull of curiosity in the air. Jacob's interest in Azriel's answer was palpable, but he restrained himself, choosing to remain quiet for now. He had his own thoughts on the matter, Azriel could tell, but he was smart enough to hold back, waiting for more.
Gwendolyn, for her part, didn't appear put off. Instead, she shrugged lightly, as though dismissing the matter with a practiced ease, but there was an undertone of something else in her words.
"Oh well," she said, the faintest flicker of something almost playful in her voice. "You would've been a good classmate, I figure."
Azriel didn't react much to the sentiment, but he didn't need to. His gaze turned briefly to Gwendolyn, his eyes sharp, catching the edges of her intent. She wasn't simply commenting on his future; she was testing him, probing his thoughts about the Academy, and perhaps about his place among their circle. Azriel wasn't naive—he could feel the unspoken thread between them, the quiet calculation hidden behind her words.
"You'll have enough fun with the other heirs," Azriel replied smoothly, his voice light and easy, yet firm. He wasn't about to let her think that her offer—or even her comment—was more than just a passing remark. He wasn't playing her game, not yet. His gaze moved to Jacob for a moment, reading the flicker of unspoken thoughts between them. Jacob's interest had clearly grown, but he wasn't saying anything. He was waiting, just as Azriel was.
Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly, her lips curling just a little at the edges. There was no smile, but the expression suggested that she wasn't completely finished with this line of conversation. Her eyes met his again, but this time there was a faint, almost wistful quality in them—an understanding that wasn't lost on Azriel.
"We'll see," she said, her voice soft, though there was an undercurrent of something deeper there. "Would've been more fun if you were there though."
Azriel felt the shift in her words—the subtle shift from suggestion to something else, a quiet challenge. There was a playful edge to her statement, but he could feel the weight of it too. She was testing him, trying to see if he would engage, if he would offer up something more, something beyond the carefully constructed mask he wore. He could tell she was used to pulling people in, weaving her words like threads in a delicate web.
But Azriel wasn't easily caught. He gave no outward sign of being affected by her words, but inside, he knew exactly what she was trying to do. It wasn't just about the Academy. It was about his place among them, his role in their world. She was trying to measure his worth, trying to see where he fit in her carefully crafted world.
"I'm sure you'll have plenty of fun with your classmates," Azriel said, his tone still casual, but with a touch of finality, like the conversation had reached its natural end. His gaze remained steady, not offering her the satisfaction of a deeper response.
Gwendolyn seemed to consider his words for a moment, her gaze sharpening ever so slightly, before she nodded. There was a flicker of understanding between them, a recognition of the kind of game they were both playing, but no more words needed to be said.
Time flew by as the conversation began to flow naturally, but beneath the words, Azriel's eyes remained sharp. Every movement, every shift of expression—his mind absorbed it all, even as he kept his own mask intact. He didn't need to speak loudly or make grand gestures to show his intelligence.
In this world of nobility, sometimes silence spoke louder than any words could.
As the last of the guests trickled out into the night, their laughter and conversations fading into the distance, the grand hall was left in peaceful stillness. The chandeliers still cast a soft glow over the long tables, their intricate designs shimmering faintly in the quiet, as if the night itself was reluctant to let go of the energy that had filled it.
Azriel stood near the entrance, watching the final few carriages roll away with a quiet satisfaction. His eyes, still sharp despite the hour, took in the remnants of the evening: the spilled wine, the half-eaten pastries, the faint traces of perfume still lingering in the air. His thoughts drifted back to the conversations he had had—especially the one with Gwendolyn and Jacob. He hadn't given them anything, not truly. He knew that, but it still felt... subtle, like a piece of a larger puzzle. There would be time for that later. For now, the night had come to an end.
His parents, along with his grandfather, approached him from behind. His father, Lucifer, was the first to speak, his voice dripping with a certain amusement as he took in his son's calm demeanor.
"Had a good time with the royalty, had we not?" Lucifer's smirk was unmistakable, his eyes glinting with a knowing look. There was a hint of satisfaction in his tone, as if he could already tell the evening had gone exactly how it should have for Azriel.
Azriel glanced up at his father with a casual shrug, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing special," he said, voice light. "They just wanted to be friends, and asked me whether I would join the Academy when I turn 15."
He didn't add anything more, the words just as easily brushing off his tongue as they had slipped past the royals. The Academy, he knew, would come up again, but for now, he wasn't about to engage in the weight of that conversation—not in front of his family.
Lucifer, always the one to keep things moving, merely nodded, his smirk widening a fraction. "We have enough time to figure that out, don't we, Lily?"
Lilith, walking gracefully beside him, shot a playful smile toward Azriel. Her eyes were soft, though, affectionate in a way that balanced Lucifer's sharpness. "Of course, dear," she agreed with a light chuckle. Then, she turned her gaze fully on Azriel, her voice warm and filled with tenderness. "And my little angel, did you enjoy the evening?"
Azriel's heart softened at the sound of her voice. There was always a comfort in her affection, something grounding that pulled him back to himself no matter what the world outside might throw at him. His lips curled into a genuine smile—a rare one, soft and unguarded. He didn't often let people see that side of him, but his mother always had that power over him.
"Thank you for doing this, mom…" Azriel began, then glanced at his father, his smile turning playful, "and you, dad, but I don't think you did all that much."
His mother laughed softly, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Lucifer, however, feigned indignation, raising an eyebrow at his son, clearly unamused at the teasing.
"Alright, alright, get to bed already before I throw you there," Lucifer said, a mock threat lacing his words. His tone was filled with the kind of affection that only a father could convey—rough but unmistakably fond.
Azriel chuckled, shaking his head slightly, but made no move to argue. He didn't want to delay the end of the evening any longer. His mother had a way of making everything seem lighter, easier. His father's gruffness might be the armor he wore, but it was his mother's warmth that he sought when the night settled in.
Lilith placed a gentle hand on Azriel's shoulder, her smile radiating. "We'll talk more about the Academy tomorrow, alright, my angel?"
Azriel nodded, meeting his mother's gaze. There was always a comfort in knowing she was there, that she was guiding him through the difficult parts of life with patience. His father's words might have more weight, but it was his mother who always seemed to know what was needed, what would soothe him.
"Alright," Azriel agreed, his voice soft. He leaned into the touch of her hand for a moment before pulling away with a sigh, stretching his arms slightly. "Goodnight, then."
The words were simple, but there was an unspoken understanding between them, an assurance that whatever came next—whether it was the looming decision of the Academy or something else entirely—they would face it together. But for now, it was time to rest.
Azriel made his way toward the stairs, his parents' voices fading behind him as they spoke quietly to one another. As he climbed the stairs to his room, his mind lingered on the events of the evening.
Gwendolyn's playful words echoed in his head. It would've been more fun if you were there though.
Perhaps. But Azriel knew that everything had its time and place. The Academy would still be there when he turned 15. For now, he had other things to focus on. And besides, he had all the time in the world to decide what was truly worth his attention.
As he slipped into bed, the weight of the night lifted from his shoulders, but his mind remained sharp. The world was shifting, slowly, and Azriel was right in the middle of it, his every move calculated, even if the world around him didn't quite realize it yet.
The future would come. But for tonight, Azriel closed his eyes, and let himself rest.