Anger flared in Azrael's eyes, the despair transforming into uncontrollable rage. Why was life so unfair? he thought, as the fury overwhelmed him. His thoughts spiraled around the shocking idea that his aunt dared to insult his parents. How could she speak of people who had always been kind and helpful, even to the villagers?

With eyes burning with madness, he jumped to his feet, but the blow to his jaw almost made him stagger. The force of the strike knocked him off balance. He gritted his teeth under the painful impact, and his jaw began to bruise.

"Do you really think a brat like you could do anything to me?" she sneered, her voice laced with cold mockery. "I received my gift many years ago. You can only lose."

His rage slowly gave way to the painful reality as Azrael collapsed, gasping, onto the bed. He felt a rib crack and then seemed to break. A tear, born from the mix of fury and pain, rolled down his cheek. The room around him spun, and the pain was almost unbearable.

"Address me as Madame Lorena. If you have a question, raise your finger to ask," she said in a cold, detached tone.

Damn bitch, Azrael cursed in his thoughts, the words burning like hot coals in his mind. You think you're something special. Just wait until I turn twelve. I'll make you pay for everything. His body trembled with anger as he struggled to get up and raised his hand.

"That's better," Madame Lorena nodded approvingly, as if she were dealing with a bothersome child.

"Where are we?"

"We're in Lindell."

"What?" Azrael shouted, shocked and desperate. "What about the burial of my..."

Another blow hit him, so forceful that he was thrown off the bed. A muffled groan escaped his lips, and the pain spread like an ominous throb throughout his entire body. His chest pounded wildly, and the pain in his ribs became almost unbearable.

"What did you forget?" she asked, her voice laced with a gleeful, malicious undertone.

"Sorry, Madame Lorena," he gritted through his teeth, struggling to get back up and raise his hand.

Smiling, she prompted him to ask his question.

"Can't I at least go to my parents' funeral?"

"No," she replied simply, with no trace of compassion.

"But..." he began, only for his words to be silenced by another blow.

"Disagreement is not allowed," Madame Lorena said, her voice sharp and final.

"That filthy bitch," Azrael thought, the fury in his eyes replaced by a cold, burning determination. His heart burned with rage, and deep inside, he swore that he wouldn't tolerate this injustice.

After another painful break, Azrael shakily raised his hand to ask another question. The anger still burned within him, though he understood that there was nothing he could do right now.

"Why did you even take me in?" he finally asked, his voice a fragile echo of his inner torment.

"Good question," Madame Lorena began with a cold smile, one that gave no answer to his suffering. "Simple. I can't have children. But among the followers of Solaren in this village, status increases when you have a child. We will mark you with a tracking rune. After that, you can go out into the woods, or whatever. Don't bother us. Of course, you're also allowed to help us a bit with the work."

"Understood," Azrael murmured, his heart feeling heavy and empty.

But inside him, an unrelenting hatred burned. "I need to get stronger first," he thought. "Only when I have my gift can I leave here. My priority is to find the murderer."

A searing anger crept up inside him. He wanted to see the murderer suffer. If he had to play the obedient boy to achieve that, he would lower himself. No matter how powerful his enemy would be, he would make sure they suffered.

Madame Lorena reached out a hand to him, and Azrael instinctively flinched. Her quiet laughter, mocking his fear and insecurity, made him shiver. "Now you please me much more. So sweet and tame. I'll heal you a bit, so stay still. It would be inconvenient if the neighbors saw you like this."

Azrael stared at her with a look as cold as the darkness in his heart. "Heal? Her?" he thought bitterly. "Why should I trust her? This woman has nothing but contempt for my parents. And I'm supposed to let her treat me?"

The thought that Madame Lorena could embody any form of light or purity only seemed more repulsive to him. The only thought driving him now was the insatiable desire for revenge and the realization that every gesture from her only further distanced him from the goal his parents had wanted him to achieve.

Lorena placed a cold hand on his forehead. At first, he felt nothing, but then, suddenly, an unimaginable pain shot through his body. His broken bones began to shift slowly, agonizingly, as if they were rubbing and grinding against each other. The dull scratching and cracking filled the room as his ribs painfully and slowly straightened.

Azrael gasped for breath, his air caught in his chest, as his body jerked and cramped.

Each breath felt like a stab, a burning pain that drilled into his lungs. The seconds dragged on, stretching into minutes, as he sank deeper into a whirlpool of pain and fear. His lips trembled, and a muffled cry of agony escaped him. The pain didn’t subside; instead, it surged in waves, reigniting new flames of suffering with each passing moment.

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Endless minutes passed before the pain gradually eased. But instead of complete relief, he still felt a dull throbbing, a constant reminder of his injuries. His ribs felt as though they could break again at any moment, and every breath was accompanied by a faint, stabbing pain. He knew they weren’t fully healed—only hastily patched together, just enough to keep him alive.

Madame Lorena stepped back, her eyes cold, satisfied with her work. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a strange feather. Azrael blinked through the haze of pain. The feather was unusual—blue-striped against a brown base, with sharp metal at its tip.

"This is a blood feather," she explained. "It’s used to carve runes into flesh. Should the rune be destroyed, you’ll suffer a backlash and die."

He inwardly flinched as she raised the feather. Reluctantly, he extended his right arm, every muscle protesting from exhaustion. She gripped his arm roughly and began to etch the metal into his skin. The piercing pain felt different from the healing process, but in his weariness, he barely registered it. After several minutes, which felt like an eternity, she was finished.

On his arm glowed the symbol of a triangle, with spiral circles embedded at each corner. The blood slowly seeping from the fresh wounds made the rune shimmer ominously.

"That’s it for today. Do what you want," Lorena said indifferently, adding with a cold smile, "Thanks to this rune, I can find you anywhere—no matter where you run."

Lorena moved towards the door, then abruptly stopped. "Ah, almost forgot," she said with a sneering smile over her shoulder. "On your behalf, I wouldn't get any ideas about telling anyone about us. No one will believe your ramblings. They know you’ve suffered trauma." Her voice oozed with schadenfreude as she emphasized the words.

It was a lie, expertly spun to suffocate any truth before it could be spoken. Azrael understood immediately: she had already told the villagers her version. To them, he was just the traumatized boy, confused and full of fantasies.

Satisfied with herself, she turned and left the room. Before the door fully closed, Azrael heard her soft mutter, "Praise be to the eternal light." The creaking of the door echoed, and then it slammed shut with a dull thud. With it, the last trace of life seemed to depart the room, and an almost unnatural silence settled over the darkness like a heavy cloak.

Azrael was left behind, alone with the silence that pressed down on him. The pain of his broken body was nothing compared to the turmoil that raged inside him. His thoughts swirled chaotically, like a storm he couldn’t control. Everything felt surreal, as though the world had lost its grip.

"Nobody will believe me..." he repeated in his mind. A bitter laugh crawled up his throat, but it did not pass his lips. His hands clenched into fists as the rage inside him simmered, hot and merciless. "How could everything be so unjust? How could they dare take everything from him and then humiliate him for it?" Lorena's words echoed, digging deep into his soul, merging with the image of his parents and the blows he felt on his body.

His mind screamed for revenge, for retribution. The hatred growing inside him was like a constant whisper in his head, a constant reminder that he must never forget. But there was something else – the cold. It settled like a cloak around his heart, attempting to tame the burning rage, turning it into something darker, something more dangerous.

"I will make them pay... someday," he thought, his gaze fixed on the closed door. For now, he was weak, vulnerable, and broken. But that would not last forever. "I will grow stronger. And when the day comes... I will make them all suffer."

Slowly, he let himself sink back into the shabby bed, his body too exhausted to fight against the wave of fatigue any longer. The pain throbbed in his ribs, a constant, dull pulse that reminded him the healing process was far from complete. But that didn't matter. None of it did. His thoughts only revolved around one thing: the hatred growing inside him, relentlessly driving him forward.

"Mom, I'll be a hero later," Azrael said, his eyes shining. Yet the light in his voice didn't match the surroundings. An unnatural darkness hung around them, the sun hidden behind a leaden, oppressive sky. The grass beneath his feet was wilted and colorless, the trees stood like black skeletons at the edge of his vision, their bare branches twisted and desperate, reaching into the gray clouds.

His mother smiled, but her face appeared paler than usual, almost translucent, and her eyes carried a trace of sadness he didn't understand. She motioned for him to sit on her lap, and though her touch was familiar, her embrace felt colder than before. "Heroes are not all the same," she began softly and lovingly. "Heroes are people with a divine blessing. These blessings are given only once. People worship six gods. We call them the orthodox deities or gods. To worship other gods is considered a grave sacrilege. This means there can only be six recognized heroes among the people."

She brushed a strand of hair from his face. "But, my darling," she asked with a thoughtful smile, "who do you think deserves the title of hero more? Someone who has a blessing, or someone who helps others?"

Azrael's eyes lit up. "Someone who helps others!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "That means I can be a hero even without a blessing, right?"

"Definitely," she confirmed gently, pulling him a little tighter against her. "Then I'll protect you, Mom and Dad!" He beamed at her with childlike confidence, full of determination. But this time, he received no response. The silence seemed to creep into the air, oppressive, heavy.

"Mom?" He turned around, his heart beginning to race. But instead of the warm smile he had expected, he was met with a pale, expressionless face. Her eyes, empty and silent, stared at him like a lifeless mask. A cold shiver ran through him, and with a scream, he jumped up.

The scene suddenly blurred, like in a fever dream, and he found himself at the edge of a raging river. The water, black and eerie, surged relentlessly past him. Fog veils hung over the floodwaters, casting everything in a ghostly gray. The ground beneath his feet was damp and slippery, and the roaring of the river sounded like ominous whispers.

"Mom!" he called out desperately as he spotted her in the water. She was helplessly drifting in the current, her movements frantic and weak. Without thinking, he jumped into the icy waters. The water was like ice, cutting into his skin, but he swam as fast as he could. Yet the harder he tried, the further she seemed to drift away, like a shadow that remained out of reach.

"Why can't I get closer to you?" he screamed, but his words were swallowed by the wind, now blowing around him like a quiet, malicious laugh.

His strength faded, his limbs grew heavy, and the river pulled him deeper into the darkness. "I don’t want this anymore..." he whispered, his voice weak and exhausted. The fog consumed everything around him, the world seemed to crumble. Everything felt meaningless, empty. Even the rage and hatred that had driven him for so long faded into the endless darkness.

Slowly, he sank into the black waters, his arms giving out, and the cold dragged him deeper. But just before everything went silent, he heard her voice. It was clear and distinct, cutting through the fog and the darkness.

"LIVE."