CLEAVER OF SIN

Duke Rhydion Silvershade's eyes shifted to the ever-silent figure seated across from him, Duke Azeron Wargrave. Azeron wore his usual mask of apathy, his sharp gaze betraying no emotion. Rhydion finally broke the silence with a voice that carried both curiosity and underlying suspicion.

"I have to ask, Azeron," Rhydion began, his tone deliberate and heavy, "the Wargraves have always been known to awaken only one weapon and one affinity. But it appears your son possesses not one, not two, but four distinct affinities, lightning, light, space, and gravity. How is this possible?"

At the utterance of the question, pairs of eyes immediately snapped toward Duke Azeron, the tension in the chamber palpable. It was a question that had already burned itself into the hearts of everyone present.

For generations, the Wargraves had never produced a descendant with more than a single known element, though some of their affinities appeared broad enough to manifest what outsiders often mistook as multiple affinities.

A prime example was Malrik Wargrave, known as the First Sun. His affinity had been the Sun itself, a singular, absolute force. But, from that affinity, he had demonstrated control over both light and fire.

Similarly, Wuthenya, the Second Moon, had commanded influence over gravity, though her true affinity was the Moon.

From this perspective, it had always seemed that the Wargraves' original affinities carried within them sub-affinities, like branches sprouting from an ancient trunk. It was reasonable to assume that perhaps Asher Wargrave's apparent multitude of powers fell under a similar category.

But the question still lingered like a blade hanging in the air, had Asher truly fallen into that same classification, or was something far more inexplicable occurring before their eyes?

Azeron, for his part, remained quiet for a long moment. His stony face betrayed nothing, but inwardly he felt the same turmoil as those around him.

The truth was bitter: he did not know.

He had always believed his youngest son had awakened only the lightning element. Asher had used lightning since the day of his first awakening, wielding it naturally as though it coursed through his veins.

Even during the perilous True Awakening, a brutal ordeal of life and death, Asher had displayed no sign of these three new affinities. He had no reason to conceal them then, no opportunity to hide such abilities if they existed.

And yet, here they were.

Azeron could only arrive at two possible conclusions. Either his son had awakened these affinities later in life, an anomaly unheard of but not beyond the realm of possibility, or Asher had simply misidentified the breadth of his affinity, and only now, under pressure, were these powers revealing themselves.

Still, such explanations rang hollow even to his own ears.

Regardless of his personal confusion, Azeron could not admit ignorance before this assembly of peers and rivals. To show weakness here would be to invite disaster. And so, with a voice as cold and imperious as a glacier, he spoke at last.

"This is a matter of the Wargrave," Azeron stated simply, refusing to elaborate.

The nobles exchanged wary glances, their narrowed eyes filled with suspicion and calculation. Minds raced at blinding speed, sifting through possibilities, doubts, and schemes.

One thought in particular dominated them all: none of them could accept that Asher Wargrave had truly awakened only a year ago.

Such a thing was inconceivable. To have reached the Blazestar Life Rank within a single year, while simultaneously achieving such flawless mastery over four different affinities, bordered on the absurd.

No prodigy, no genius in recorded history, had ever accomplished the impossible in so little time.

And yet, the impossible stood before them.

Their skepticism bred two further questions.

The first: if this story of a belated awakening were true, why would the Wargraves have lied about it? Why keep hidden such a monumental talent, only to reveal him now? If deception had been their goal, would it not have been wiser to continue concealing him from the world altogether?

The second: if Asher had indeed awakened at the customary age of fifteen, like all other Wargraves and scions of the Ducal Houses, why had the Principal of Star Academy, whose senses could pierce through oceans of mediocrity to find even the faintest spark of talent, not detected him at that time? Why had she only sensed him now, one year ago, as though something had abruptly changed?

These questions gnawed at their thoughts, devouring reason and certainty alike.

Their eyes drifted, almost unwillingly, back to the boy himself. His Astra control was beyond belief. It was not merely good, nor excellent, it was perfection incarnate. His every movement flowed with seamless precision, each release of energy calculated to the finest detail. Even those who stood atop Crymora, paragons of power and nobility, had never attained such mastery.

It felt… unnatural. Too perfect. Too unreal.

But for now, they could only rationalize it as another unique ability of the Tenth Sun, another unforeseen blessing awakened alongside his bloodline. After all, such phenomena were not unheard of when it came to the awakening.

And still, the mysteries deepened. His Astra reserves seemed bottomless, a wellspring without end. His rapier had not needed his command, the sentient weapon rampaged freely, embodying its master's will with alarming autonomy.

To the assembled nobles, Asher Wargrave was no boy. He was an enigma wrapped in impossibilities, a walking embodiment of unanswered questions.

If the Wargraves were already feared as monsters, then the Tenth Sun was a monster destined to lead monsters.

But what could they do about it? The answer was simple: nothing.

It was unthinkable to even consider abducting him. Duke Azeron himself was among the most powerful men within the entire Zarethorne Empire. To provoke him would be akin to courting death. And even beyond Azeron, the true deterrent was his eldest son, Malrik Wargrave, the First Sun.

If Azeron was at least marginally reasonable, Malrik was anything but. His ruthlessness was legend, his cruelty notorious. To cross him would be to condemn not only oneself but entire bloodlines to extinction.

Though these noble families wielded considerable power in their own right, none were so reckless as to risk centuries of heritage and painstakingly built legacies for the chance to control one boy, no matter how extraordinary.

Cindralis, observing quietly, allowed a small, knowing smile to grace her lips. While the nobles masked their inner panic behind carefully composed facades, she could sense the storm brewing within their minds. Their hearts raced with fear, envy, and desperate curiosity.

But unlike them, Cindralis cared little for the intricate games of nobility. She preferred seclusion, spending her years in her Separate Dimension, far from the constant power struggles of the Empire.

And yet, even she felt the pull of temptation at the sight of Asher Wargrave. The boy's affinity for space intrigued her. Others had awakened the same affinity in the past, but none had ever reached her impossibly high standards. For the first time, someone did.

Her thoughts drifted further, to tradition.

Whenever the Star Academy's entrance examinations approached, she would extend invitations to the parents of children destined to shine, granting them the chance to witness their offspring soar into greatness.

But more often than not, those invitations were ignored. The Dukes, with their lofty pride, rarely attended, and Emperor Zolthemir himself had only ever deigned to appear twice. Even then, his presence had been a thin veil, an excuse to scrutinize her Separate Dimension rather than to observe the children.

But now, now they had all gathered. And it was not the examinations that summoned them, but one singular boy who had drawn them all to this very hall.

At the edge of the assembly, Marquis Darian could only sigh inwardly. He knew his place. He was no fool to believe he could meddle in the affairs of giants without being crushed beneath their feet. Best to remain quiet, best to keep his distance.

'Better to be the shadow in the corner than the corpse in their game,' he thought grimly, exhaling another silent sigh.