Azriel stayed for months—nearly a year—and in that time, his growth was undeniable. His strength now rivaled Lucia's at her peak. Already swift, he had become a blur, able to cover great distances in moments. His swordsmanship, inherited from Lucia's memories, was sharpened further under Frenel's brutal training. It became clear why Lucia had become such a monster—because her mentor had been one too.
They spent nearly every waking second together. Days bled into nights filled with sparring, forging, storytelling, and laughter. For the first time in a long time, Azriel was happy.
But eventually, he knew it was time.
He missed Lysara. He missed Gio. And the world was still broken.
The Resistance had moved, their new location revealed in small pieces through underground newspapers. Azriel had been keeping track quietly, his eyes always drifting to their progress in the margins of the paper.
It was time to go.
Frenel and Azriel stood outside the forge under the pale Neuraleth stars. The goodbyes began to rise in their chests—but Frenel held up a hand.
"Let's not do the farewell now," he said with a small smile. "Tomorrow. Over breakfast. Don't go soft on me yet."
Azriel chuckled. "Alright, old man. Tomorrow, then."
He didn't expect what would happen tomorrow.
The sky was gloomy and grey that morning—like the world itself sensed something was wrong. Azriel woke to the sound of distant screams. Not the usual bustle of villagers, but raw panic. Crying. Steel clashing. Chaos.
He grabbed his short sword from beside the bed, and in a blur, burst out the door.
What he saw froze him.
Frenel—his mentor, his family—was clashing against two cloaked figures. Hooded. Swift. One a mage, fire coiled in their palm. The other, a towering warrior. Azriel knew immediately.
Underlings of Velmira.
Frenel was no ordinary man. To have pushed him this far—panting, bleeding, furious—they had to be powerful. Too powerful.
Frenel's eyes caught Azriel's from across the square.
"RUN, AZRIEL!" he bellowed, voice cracking.
But Azriel ran toward him. Not away.
Sword drawn, rage in his chest—but he didn't make it in time.
A flash.
A spear.
Straight through Frenel's chest.
"No..." Azriel muttered. "No, no, no—NOT AGAIN!"
In a heartbeat, he was beside Frenel, dragging him behind the smithy wall. Blood drenched the cobblestone. Frenel coughed, lips stained crimson. A tear fell from Azriel's eye—Frenel raised a trembling hand and wiped it with the back of his soot-streaked hammer.
"DON'T FUCKING DIE ON ME, FRENEL!" Azriel screamed. "PLEASE—!"
The underlings stood still, silent, like beasts enjoying a slow kill.
Frenel smiled through the pain.
"Don't... go soft on me now, boy. I've lived a good life. And the last part—" he coughed, hard, "—was the best of it."
Azriel, tears flowing, punched his arm softly, desperate.
"Then don't say that. Don't say goodbye like this, dammit—FRENEL—I—"
Frenel raised a finger, quieting him. "The drawer. By the table. Left side. I made something for you."
Azriel nodded, barely able to breathe.
Frenel leaned back against the wall, eyes fluttering. He smiled one last time.
"Azriel... live for me."
A breath. Then silence.
And in a final whisper, almost lost to the wind:
"I knew."
He knew about Lucia.
And he died knowing she'd gone out more human than monster.
Azriel sat still. Hands bloodied. Shoulders trembling.
Then, his tears stopped.
His expression shifted—cold. Quiet. Terrifying.
The underlings smirked.
But Azriel stood.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!"
Azriel's connection erupted—so violently, it blasted out in a pulse of raw energy, sending a shockwave through the air that staggered the two underlings. For a moment, even they looked surprised.
Weapons drawn, they lunged—but Azriel was already gone.
In a flash, he was in the warrior's face.
The underling swung to parry, but Azriel twisted under it and slammed a knee straight into his chin. The crack echoed. Before he could follow up, a barrage of fireballs screamed toward him from the mage—Azriel dashed aside, letting them explode behind him. In a blink, he closed the distance and slashed at her shoulder.
She screamed, staggering back. The warrior recovered and thrust at Azriel, but he deflected it mid-step and launched himself backward into the street.
"First Lucia, now this kid?!" the warrior growled, spitting blood. "That fucker makes monsters."
The mage grit her teeth and cauterized her wound with a hiss, nodding silently.
Azriel stood still, trembling—not from fear but fury. His eyes burned into them, a gaze sharp enough to cut.
"FUCK. YOU." he seethed. He repeated it, low and venomous, like a curse. "Fuck you."
He charged again.
The mage conjured a wall of fire, searing hot—it roared like a furnace, but Azriel didn't slow. He ran through it, screaming as his skin sizzled. The pain was maddening, but he endured. He emerged from the flames and thrust his blade toward the mage's heart—
The warrior intercepted.
Midair, Azriel twisted and delivered a devastating kick to the warrior's skull. The man's head snapped sideways with a sickening crunch—he dropped to his knees.
But the mage wasn't done. With desperation, she conjured a molten beam and hurled it at Azriel.
The world lit up in white-hot agony.
Azriel shrieked as his body seared. It felt like death itself was clawing his nerves—but even as flames wrapped around him, he didn't stop.
Through the fire, half-burnt and shaking, he roared and swung wildly—slashes full of wrath, grief, and a pain no normal person should survive.
One of the underlings whispered in disbelief.
"...He's a fucking monster."
Azriel, still burning, screamed at the top of his lungs.
"THAT—FUCKING—HURT!"
His clothes were burnt— sword crippled he resulted in his hands, the fire was painful but losing Frenel? That couldn't compare he dashed at the mage— the warrior intercepted but thats what he wanted. Clean hook straight to his jaw he grabbed the spear and pierced the mage with it as he grabbed her staff and shoved it down her throat, the warrior was left staggered on the ground he looked up at Azriel— he tried to get him to stop but one stomp after the other his skull crushed into mush.
Azriel knelt in the rain, unmoving, beside Frenel's lifeless body.
For ten minutes straight, he wept. Not just for the old man, but for every tear he had never cried—for his parents, for the lives lost in the shadows of the Graces. Frenel had become the dam that broke his silence, and now the grief came pouring out, wild and unrestrained.
Eventually, he gathered himself. Silently, he embraced the body of the man who'd become more than a mentor—his grandfather in spirit.
He stayed for another day.
Frenel was buried near the mountains, in a spot where the old man used to rest and admire the view. Azriel tried to be strong during the burial, but the act of laying him to rest carved fresh wounds into his heart. The villagers, grateful for their lives, gave Azriel clothes, a warm meal, and a place to clean up. But he didn't want recognition. He wanted his grandfather back.
That night, in the forge, he remembered the drawer.
He opened it slowly.
Inside was a small metallic cube. He lifted it, puzzled—until it lit up in his hand and expanded, unfolding into a long, elegant sword. It adjusted to his grip and weight perfectly, as if it had known him all along. Next to it was a note.
"Thanks for being with this old man.
—Love, Frenel."
A single tear rolled down Azriel's cheek.
The blade shimmered in the dim light. Frost danced faintly across its edge—it was a weapon forged with love, and power. Ice ran through its veins, able to freeze, shatter, and endure almost anything. He realized now why Frenel's connection had been so overwhelming when he touched his body back in Reflection—he was an anomaly. A creator like Renzo. A man who forged the impossible.
Azriel hugged the blade against his chest, and cried again—but this time in silence.
Later that night, he entered Reflection. But it was different now.
The long row of chairs was gone. In their place stood a single mirror.
He stepped forward—and saw not himself, but Frenel, smiling gently back at him.
Then, slowly, the image faded. The mirror returned to normal.
Just as Azriel turned to leave, the mirror spoke.
"Head up. We still have to protect Lysara and Gio."
"We'll lose a lot more... but let's make his death worth it."
The voice sounded exactly like Frenel.
Azriel closed his eyes and let the words settle deep within his soul.
The next morning, he visited Frenel's grave one last time. He brought the old man's favorite drink and poured it onto the soil with steady hands.
"Thanks, old man," he whispered. "I'll cherish this lifetime."
Then, with his new blade strapped to his back, Azriel set out for the city of Heiard—where the resistance had last been seen, where Lysara and Gio were waiting.
But his heart was different now.
He walked not as someone untouched by loss, but as someone shaped by it. Life, he realized, was thrown away too easily in Signo. If it had been anyone else who died, maybe the world wouldn't have blinked.
But Frenel was not just another person.
He was a great man. And his death carved a vow into Azriel's spirit.
Just because he couldn't die didn't mean he would forget the value of those who could.
As the sun dipped behind the hills, Azriel set up camp. Heiard was still a ways off—but his direction was clear. His soul, though heavy, burned with quiet determination.
Frenel had given him more than a blade.
He had given him purpose.