Azrael woke up without moving.
For a few seconds he simply stared at the ceiling. Silence. Then his eyes shifted toward the clock beside the bed.
Still on time. Thirty minutes left.
He slowly turned his head to the left.
Selena was asleep. Peaceful. Unaware. Her silver hair spilled across the pillow like liquid light. During the night her tunic had shifted slightly, fabric loosened, revealing skin that should have remained hidden.
Azrael's gaze lingered. A second. Two.
His thoughts began to drift.
He shut his eyes.
Idiot.
He turned away immediately and got out of bed.
The shower was cold. Brutally cold. The water hit his skin like needles, chasing away warmth, chasing away distraction. He let it run over him longer than necessary, grounding himself in the sting.
When he stepped out and dried himself, something stopped him. A smell. Warm. Savory. Real.
He frowned.
That was coming from the main room.
He stepped out quietly.
Selena stood in the small kitchen area. Her hair was tied up neatly, an apron around her waist, the morning light reflecting softly off her silver strands. She moved with calm precision, flipping something in a pan.
For a moment the image felt strange. A princess. Cooking. For him.
He stepped closer to see what she was making.
A blade appeared instantly beneath his chin. Cold steel. Steady hand.
Selena: "Go sit down. It's almost ready."
Azrael didn't flinch.
Azrael: "You always threaten people while cooking?"
Selena: "Only the ones who get too close."
He stared at her a second longer. Then sat down, arms crossed, silent.
Why? Why would she do this?
A few minutes later she placed two plates on the table. Scrambled eggs. A slice of toasted bread. Nothing luxurious. But to Azrael it looked like something he hadn't had in years. He ate quickly. Too quickly. He finished everything. Selena watched without comment.
He stood and put on his academy uniform. As he reached for the door —
Selena: "Wait."
Azrael: "What?"
Selena: "Don't leave yet."
Azrael: "Why?"
Selena: "Just wait."
He clicked his tongue softly but obeyed.
A few minutes later she stepped out dressed in her academy uniform. Perfect. Refined. Her silver hair shimmered under the light. She walked straight toward him — too close — and lifted both hands toward his neck.
Azrael stiffened.
Azrael: "What are you doing?"
Selena: "Your hair."
Azrael: "My hair?"
Selena: "It shouldn't always be loose. You're wasting its potential."
Azrael: "It's hair."
Selena: "Stay still."
Her fingers slipped into his long black strands. Warm. Careful. She gathered the hair behind his head, separating sections, weaving them together slowly. Her fingers brushed against his scalp and the sensation irritated him. But he couldn't deny it wasn't unpleasant.
She tightened the braid, leaving a few strands loose in the front. His long hair now fell down his back in a controlled braid.
She stepped back to observe.
Selena: "Much better."
Azrael glanced at a nearby reflective surface. Cleaner. Sharper. Still him, but different.
Azrael: "Can I leave now?"
Selena: "Yes."
The academy grounds were loud the moment they entered. Students noticed her immediately. A crowd formed, questions overlapping.
"Princess Selena!" "Is it true about yesterday?" "Are you really —"
Azrael stood half a step behind, watching. No envy. Only mild disgust.
Is this her life? Constant attention. Constant noise.
He preferred silence. He considered leaving her there and going ahead when two girls suddenly blocked his path.
Marga: "You're Azrael, right?"
Bea: "The one who fought Lyssael?"
They stepped closer. Too close.
Marga: "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Bea: "What are you to the princess?"
Azrael's expression darkened. They were in his way. He moved forward. They didn't. So he pushed past them — not violently, but firmly. They stumbled.
Three male students approached immediately, anger flashing across their faces.
Student: "Wait... he's that guy."
Student: "The slum dog."
Student: "The one covered in scars."
Their voices rose. The crowd thickened. Whispers turned sharp, mocking, contemptuous.
Azrael's jaw tightened. His hands curled slowly inside his pockets.
Hypocrites.
Before the tension could explode, a hand grabbed his arm. Selena. She pulled him away without a word, the whispers fading as they moved further from the crowd.
Once they were clear Azrael pulled his arm free. She released him immediately.
Selena: "I'm sorry." A pause. "You'll have to get used to it. We'll be seen together. Even in public."
His tongue clicked softly. He walked ahead, hands in his pockets. She followed.
They reached the classroom on the seventh floor. Only four students were inside. Michaelas, Iris, Victoria, Lyssael.
Michaelas raised a hand cheerfully.
Michaelas: "Morning!"
Iris sat with one leg over her desk, posture careless. Victoria sat beside her, quiet and elegant. Lyssael sat straight and silent, his eyes burning when they met Azrael's. Hatred. Undisguised.
Selena took an empty seat. Azrael sat beside her. She opened a book.
He glanced at the cover.
Death to All.
He raised an eyebrow. She looked at him sharply. He looked away immediately.
A shadow fell over his desk. Iris and Michaelas, standing in front of him. Iris slammed her palm on his desk.
Iris: "Fight me."
Azrael: "No."
Iris: "Why not?"
Azrael: "I don't fight ogres in the morning."
Her eye twitched violently.
Iris: "What did you just call me?!"
Selena let out a small restrained smile. Michaelas stepped forward quickly.
Michaelas: "Ignore her." He turned to Azrael. "I've heard the rumors. Doesn't matter to me. I don't judge people by birth or wealth. Here, strength rules. And you proved you belong."
Azrael studied him for a moment. Then gave a small nod.
Azrael: "Thanks."
Iris: "What's your training routine?"
Azrael: "I don't train."
Iris: "What?"
Azrael: "I was forced into intensive training when I was younger. I don't practice anymore."
She stared at him in disbelief.
Iris: "You don't train?! Join me in the mornings."
Azrael: "Too lazy."
Her eyebrow twitched again.
Iris: "Unbelievable!"
She stormed back to her seat. Michaelas laughed softly and returned to his desk.
And just then the classroom door opened. A tall silhouette stepped inside. The room fell silent.
The swordsmanship instructor had arrived.