The sun beamed warmly onto the small village, gently embraced by lush green meadows and tall, gnarled trees. The cheerful laughter of children filled the air as little Azrael raced through the vibrant flower fields.

Bees and other insects scattered in annoyance as his tiny hands eagerly reached for the colorful blossoms. Everything around him radiated with life and unbridled joy.

His parents stood at the edge of the field, their faces glowing with happiness and deep affection. Amused, they followed his every movement—how he leapt, rolled across the ground, and occasionally stumbled. They exchanged warm smiles, their hearts overflowing with the unspoiled happiness of their son’s carefree laughter.

"Azrael, come quickly! Dinner is ready!" a soft and soothing woman’s voice called out, carrying gently over the calming rustle of the grass. The refreshing scent of the field, with its mix of fresh grass and blooming flowers, mingled perfectly with the tantalizing aroma of the meal awaiting them.

„Yes, Mama, I’m coming! I just need to catch this frog first," Azrael replied, fully engrossed in his playful chase after a small green water frog. His focus was unwavering as he reached out his hand, only for the frog to let out a loud croak and hop away. Azrael crept closer, pulled back his hand, and made a quick leap as the frog hopped away again. Grass and colorful flowers swirled into the air as they moved through the meadow together.

"I got him, Mama! I caught him! Can I keep him?" Azrael exclaimed triumphantly, raising his small, dirty hand high.

"Well done, my love. But even a frog has a family. How would you feel if your family were taken from you?" His mother smiled softly, her eyes shimmering with love and tenderness.

It was deeply important to her to teach her only son kindness and respect for all living things, no matter how small. She thought back to the many times she had shown him how to carefully carry an insect outside instead of harming it. All creatures shared the same earth, breathed the same air. In the same way, it was important to honor the life of the animal that ended up on their plates each evening.

Azrael’s eyes widened for a moment as he considered her question. Pride swelled in his chest from catching the frog, but the weight of his mother’s words pressed heavily on his heart. At last, he relented, opening his hand to release the frog. It sprang away in an instant, darting toward a small, clear pond. The sunlight danced on the water’s surface as the frog vanished into its depths.

"I understand, Mama. Family is important." Azrael’s voice was quiet but resolute.

His mother knelt down, gently pulled him into her arms, and held him close. "Yes, my darling. Family is the most important thing." Her voice was full of warmth, and Azrael felt the tender embrace, comforting and strengthening him at the same time.

The sound of clashing wood echoed through the early evening as Azrael and his father sparred in a friendly duel. The sky was painted in soft shades of orange, while the wind whispered through the trees and the ringing of wooden swords resonated in the air. Azrael loved this feeling—the swing of the stick, the tingling in his arms as he blocked a blow, and the sharp wind slicing over the blade as if it were real steel.

He had started training at the age of four, and now, at six, he felt alive, as if fighting was in his blood. Every strike made his heart race, and his focus was entirely on his father. Rudolf, a tall, broad-shouldered man with brown hair, was not just his father but also his teacher. Though not a seasoned warrior, his two years of military training had given him enough experience to provide Azrael with a solid foundation. A deep scar ran across his right cheek—a silent testament to his past.

"Very good, you're getting better every day," Rudolf praised, effortlessly deflecting one of his son's strikes with practiced ease.

Azrael frowned. "But I'm still weaker than you," he grumbled, lowering his wooden sword.

Rudolf smiled and placed a hand on his son's shoulder. "You're only six years old, Azrael. It's incredible how quickly you're improving. Your talent is something extraordinary."

Azrael looked up at him with wide eyes. "So, I'm special?"

"Yes, of course." A proud smile spread across the boy's face, his eyes sparkling with excitement. But Rudolf's expression turned serious as he looked deep into his son's eyes. "But don't let it go to your head. There are many who are stronger than you."

Azrael clenched his small fist tightly around the hilt of his sword. "Then I'll just become stronger than them."

Rudolf couldn't suppress a chuckle as he parried another swing of Azrael's sword and gave his son a gentle pat on the head. "What did I just say?"

"Yeah, yeah, I won't get cocky," Azrael muttered, but the grin on his face revealed that he had taken the lesson to heart.

With a deep sigh, Rudolf finally ended the training. The twilight slowly descended over the village, and the tempting scent of grilled meat filled the air. Azrael's mouth watered as he thought of his mother's cooking skills. Together, they walked to the simple yet lovingly set wooden table that awaited them.

On the table were steaming bowls of potatoes and thick slices of homemade bread. Next to a humble stew made from root vegetables and lentils, a few modest pieces of meat sizzled, browned to a crispy perfection in the pan over the fire. The aroma was familiar and comforting—simple, yet hearty food that brought the family together in the quiet of the rural evening.

"Mama, you cooked so well again, maybe you should become a cook," Azrael said with his mouth full and a wide grin. The smell of the food still lingered in the air as the family spent a relaxing evening together. The soft crackle of the fire filled the room as the twilight slowly settled in.

Later, to his son's great delight, Rudolf began to tell a story. He spoke of a brave hero who protected an entire village from a band of ruthless bandits. His voice was deep and captivating, and Azrael hung on every word. The hero stood alone against the enemies and saved many innocent lives through his selfless act. The image of the hero, fighting fearlessly for good, burned itself into Azrael's mind.

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"I'll be a hero too one day," he decided, his eyes shining brightly as the story came to an end.

Rudolf smiled gently as he watched his son. Azrael's determination and dreams were familiar to him.

Their house was located a little outside the village, a small, humble farm surrounded by fields and forests. Azrael's parents were originally not from Care Brunn, the village they now called home. They had fled from the war, left their old life behind, and settled in this remote place. Rudolf and his wife Mariette had hoped to raise their newborn son in peace here—away from the noise and horrors of the world.

But the villagers did not greet them with open arms. While they were allowed to live nearby, a subtle disregard toward them lingered. They were barely acknowledged, almost like strangers who never truly became part of the community.

Azrael's parents felt the weight of this rejection, and secretly, they blamed themselves for their son's lack of friends. But Azrael himself seemed little affected by it. He often spent his days alone, lost in his training or wandering through the nearby forests. Fighting fascinated him, but just as often, he observed animals that he found endearing in his childlike innocence, letting the world around him unfold in its own time.

One evening, after the training had ended and the stars were shining brightly in the sky, Rudolf sat down next to his son. "Azrael, you are so talented," he began seriously. "Your mother and I have decided to send you to the Eryndor Academy. I can't teach you much more. In three years, you'll wield a sword better than I ever could. But you must wait until you're 14 before you can be accepted."

Azrael pulled a face. "But I want to stay here," he said defiantly.

Rudolf chuckled softly. "Don't worry. We'll move closer when the time comes."

The two discussed the matter back and forth for a while, but in the end, they agreed to postpone the final decision. They decided to revisit the question when Azrael turned ten. Until then, he had plenty of time to enjoy life in the village and the peacefulness of the forests.

The real reason behind his parents' decision to send him to the academy was their desire to gently but firmly steer Azrael in that direction. They wanted to nurture his exceptional talent before it remained untapped.

But Azrael was only vaguely aware of these intentions. Thoughts of the future and the Academy followed him into the night as he lay down in his bed. The darkness settled over the village like a heavy veil, but his thoughts remained bright and restless.

Fatigue came only slowly, and when he finally fell asleep, he was suddenly pulled into a dream—one of those strange dreams that felt more real than reality itself. In the dream, he found himself in a clearing in the forest, a place that felt both familiar and strange. The trees around him stood still, as if holding their breath, while he saw his own reflection before him.

But this reflection was strangely distorted. Azrael saw himself, but somehow not. The pale white hair, which fell messily across his forehead, was the same as the one he wore in waking life. His face was porcelain-like, almost too flawless, with skin so pale it seemed to glow like marble in the moonlight. His green eyes, usually full of curiosity and life, sparkled empty and weary. The reflection before him seemed to have lost the life Azrael usually felt within himself. It stood there, like a shell that had been stripped of its soul.

His heart began to race as he recognized the sadness in the eyes of his doppelgänger. The once sparkling green eyes—a rare shade that set him apart from the other children—were now dull and dark. Even the hair of his dream image, usually a wild, lively tangle of snow-white strands, hung limp and tangled over the face.

The entire figure seemed to be filled with a deep loneliness that disturbed Azrael to his core.

In waking life, the other children often called him "ghost" because of his unusual appearance. His skin was so pale it almost appeared translucent, and the bright green eyes, usually sparkling with energy, gave him a mysterious, almost otherworldly look. But these remarks had never bothered him much. He was used to being different and never felt drawn to the other children. The forest was his refuge. Here, he felt understood, as if he were part of nature itself.

In the silence of the forest, Azrael found the peace that the company of humans could not give him. The whispering of the wind, the rustling of the leaves—all of it was like a language only he could understand. Here, he trained, his movements in sync with the rhythm of nature. Sometimes he moved quickly and unpredictably, like a leaf in a storm. Other times, his steps flowed like the water of a calm river—powerful yet gentle.

He often trained with his eyes closed, to improve his balance.

To connect even more deeply with nature, he would often remove his shoes and shirt, letting the coolness of the earth and the wind brush against his skin. The moss beneath his bare feet, the soft grass, the wind whistling through his hair—all of it made him feel like a part of the forest. In these moments, he didn’t feel different, not lonely, but as if he were exactly where he belonged.

“Dad, will you come fishing with me today?” Azrael’s eyes lit up with eager anticipation as he looked up at his father, still holding the wooden sword from training.

Rudolf, who was currently putting away his tools, smiled and placed a hand on Azrael's head.

“Good idea, son. A fresh fish for dinner sounds great.”

In the late afternoon, father and son made their way to the small mountain stream that wound through the wooded slopes of the Hyramer Mountains. The village of Care Brunn lay in the northern part of these mountains, high on a small plateau where nature seemed wild and untouched. The remote location meant they rarely received visitors from other regions. The nearest town was miles away, so the villagers were forced to produce nearly everything themselves. But the isolation had its advantages—they were far removed from the wars raging in other parts of the land.

The stream was calm and clear, its waters shimmering in the soft light of the setting sun. Azrael loved this place—the sounds of the water, the gentle rustling of the wind in the trees. It was a place where he felt at peace.

Rudolf sat on a rock by the riverbank and showed Azrael how to thread the worm onto the hook. “It takes patience,” he said, while Azrael watched intently. “Fishing is not just about catching something. It’s also about waiting and enjoying the silence.”

Azrael nodded seriously as he cast the fishing line into the water. The waiting began. The sun sank lower, casting the sky in a golden light that reflected off the surface of the water. Azrael’s thoughts wandered, but he enjoyed the peace that surrounded him. His father didn’t speak much, but that was all Azrael needed. His mere presence was enough to give him a sense of security and connection.

Just before twilight, Azrael’s fishing rod suddenly jerked, and with an excited grin, he pulled it up—a silvery trout flopped on the line. “I got one, Dad!”

Rudolf laughed and nodded with satisfaction. “Well done, my boy. One more fish, and we’ll have a feast.”

With two trout in tow, they returned to the village. The air had grown cooler, and the last light of the day slowly disappeared behind the mountains. At home, Mariette, his mother, was already waiting to prepare the fish. She cooked the dinner with practiced hands—starting with a fresh salad made from their own harvest, accompanied by herbs from the garden. The trout were fried in a pan, served with golden potatoes and crisp vegetables that steamed on the plates.

Azrael chewed his food with pleasure and gave his mother a mischievous look. “Mom, you’ve cooked so well again. Maybe you should really become a cook.”

Mariette laughed softly and stroked his cheek. “I’m glad you like it, my dear.”

Another peaceful evening passed, filled with the warmth of family life.