Azrith's POV
I knew it was a trial the moment the sunlight felt kind.
Nothing in my life has ever been kind.
And yet… I stayed.
I stayed long enough to forget the weight of my name. Long enough to forget the taste of iron and ash. Long enough to remember what it felt like to be small — to be held without expectation, without judgment, without destiny pressing down on my spine.
That was my weakness.
Not ambition. Not violence.
Love.
—
My body jerked upright before my mind caught up. My hand went for a blade that wasn’t there. My chest burned as if I had been running for miles.
Dark.
Soft sheets.
No armor. No blood.
The air smelled like jasmine.
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
Then I heard it.
Bare footsteps. Quick. Familiar.
The door opened.
“Adrian?”
My entire body went still.
No.
No, that voice—
She crossed the room before I could turn fully toward her. Warm hands cupped my face.
“Another nightmare?” she murmured.
The bedside lamp flickered to life.
And there she was.
Not radiant. Not mythic. Not glowing like some celestial memory.
Just tired. Worried. Alive.
My mother.
Her braid hung loose over one shoulder. She wore the simple linen dress she used to sleep in when I was small enough to crawl into her bed after storms.
I stared at her as if blinking might erase her.
“Adrian,” she said softly, brushing my hair from my forehead. “You’re trembling.”
I was.
Violently.
I lifted my hand slowly, terrified of what I would feel.
I expected cold.
Illusion.
Air.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
But when my fingers touched her cheek
Warmth.
Skin. Pulse. Breath.
Real.
Something inside me gave way.
I pulled her into my arms.
And I broke.
Not quietly. Not with dignity. I broke like a structure that had been carrying too much weight for too long. My hands fisted in her nightdress like I was afraid she would be ripped away if I loosened my grip even slightly.
She held me exactly the way she used to.
One hand in my hair.
One pressed firm against my back.
“You don’t have to be strong here,” she whispered.
And for the first time in centuries—
I wasn’t.
—
Time lost its shape after that.
Days passed.
Or hours.
It didn’t matter.
We sat on the home terrace of my childhood as golden light spilled over familiar towers. She braided my hair the way she had when I was small enough to sit at her feet. She scolded me for new scars. She laughed at the way I frowned.
“You look adorable,” she teased, tapping my forehead lightly.
“I am not,” I muttered.
She hummed in agreement with a teasing smile. “No. You’re not.”
I rested my head in her lap.
I slept.
Truly slept.
No listening for betrayal. No mapping exits. No sharpening myself against invisible threats.
I ate without testing for poison.
I existed without calculating consequences.
I was not the Devil’s heir.
Not a weapon.
Not a future tyrant.
Just a son.
And it felt so right it hurt.
This was what I had wanted.
Not power. Not vengeance. Not even victory.
This.
—
The crack came gently.
She brushed my hair from my face one evening and smiled down at me.
“My heart.”
The word hit wrong.
I stilled.
She had never called me that.
She called me little storm.
Always.
Even when I towered over her. Even when I pretended I no longer needed it.
I sat up slowly.
“Say it again,” I whispered.
She smiled. “Say what?”
“What you used to call me.”
Something flickered in her expression. So small most would have missed it.
“I’ve always called you my heart.”
No.
The wind shifted.
The jasmine scent sharpened unnaturally. The light stayed too even, too controlled.
The world did not breathe.
Cold understanding crawled up my spine.
“This isn’t real,” I said quietly.
Her expression didn’t glitch. Didn’t distort.
It crumpled.
“Adrian,” she murmured gently. “You’re tired.”
“You died.”
Her hands tightened around mine.
“I’m here.”
“You died,” I repeated, and the word tore my throat open.
Tears filled her eyes.
“I don’t have to.”
And that shattered me.
Because that was exactly what I had wanted.
A world where she didn’t have to.
She stepped closer, her forehead pressing to mine.
“There is no war here,” she whispered. “No devil. No blood. No expectations.”
No destiny.
“Stay,” she pleaded. “You deserve a life where you are only my son.”
My chest felt like it was being split apart.
Gods, I wanted it.
More than power. More than legacy. More than fire.
I wanted to wake tomorrow and argue about nothing. To be scolded for skipping meals. To hear her call me little storm one more time.
“I can’t,” I whispered.
Her breath hitched.
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t raise me to hide.”
Her face broke completely.
“I raised you to live.”
“And I am,” I said hoarsely. “Just not here.”
My home trembled.
She grabbed my hands desperately.
“Please,” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me alone again.”
My entire body shook.
“I would give anything to stay,” I choked.
“Then stay!” she cried. “I lost you once. Don’t choose to lose me again.”
I pulled her into me as tightly as I could, like I could carve her into my bones.
“I love you,” she whispered against my chest.
“I know.”
“I am real enough.”
For one suspended, unbearable second—
I almost chose her.
I almost let the rest of the world dissolve.
But my real mother would never beg me to shrink.
She would never ask me to abandon truth for comfort.
This was my grief wearing her face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Her fingers dug into my wrists.
“Adrian, don’t—”
The sky fractured.
Hairline cracks tore through the palace walls. Light split through her skin like breaking glass.
“Don’t leave me alone again,” she sobbed.
It felt like I was tearing my own heart out as I forced my hands free.
“I love you,” I said as her form splintered.
“And I will always choose you.”
The terrace shattered.
She dissolved in my arms.
And I screamed.
Not in rage.
Not in fury.
But in a grief so catastrophic it felt like my ribs were collapsing inward.
—
Stone slammed into my knees.
Cold. Merciless.
The arena.
The Trial.
She was gone.
Again.
And this time—
I chose it.
For a moment, I stayed on the ground because standing felt impossible. My hands were still shaking when I realized the cruelest part of all.
For a while—
I had been happy.
Completely.
And I let it go.
When I lifted my head, they were all there.
The three Elders stood above.
My father first — the Devil, watching not with pride, but with recognition.
Beside him, the Great Lord of Darkness, eyes colder than the void itself.
And the King of Warriors, silent, measuring.
Below the dais stood Solis.
Lyra beside him.
Kael rigid as carved stone.
No one else had returned.
Only me.
“You chose pain,” the Great Lord said quietly.
“I chose reality,” I replied.
“And what did it cost you?” my father asked.
Everything.
But I didn’t answer.
They could see it.
I was not steel right now.
I was shattered glass barely holding shape.
The Great Lord’s gaze sharpened. “If she had been real… would you have stayed?”
Silence thickened.
Truth demanded truth.
“Yes.”
The word echoed like a detonation.
Lyra inhaled sharply. Kael stiffened. Solis did not move — but his gaze on me shifted. Not triumphant.
Understanding.
My father’s eyes darkened.
“You would abandon the Trial,” the Great Lord pressed.
“Yes.”
The arena hummed in acknowledgment.
“Truth accepted.”
And in that moment, I saw something change in my father’s expression.
Now he knew.
If something could break me—
It was love.
As the light began to swallow the arena once more, I understood the final cruelty.
I did not pass because I am strong.
I passed because she wasn’t real.
Because if she had been flesh and heartbeat and choice—
This arena would be ruins.
I do not walk away from love.
I go to war for it.
And one day—
If love stands in front of me, real and breathing—
I will not be the one who leaves.
The world will.
And I will destroy whatever tries to take it from me.
