They were children of House Drazhal.

Their mother, Queen‑Matriarch Maelthra Drazhal, ruled the Infernal courts with iron law and older fire. Their aunt, Veythra Drazhal, taught the royal methods and burned failure out of the slow. Their father, Prince‑Consort Kaedor, spoke little and watched much.

Azrakel was firstborn. Iskara came two years later.

And from the day her veins lit, every eye followed the younger one.

* * *

Azrakel Drazhal, at age ten, rose every day before dawn. When the palace torches still guttered and the servants slept, he was already in the yard, warhammer in hand, slamming its dull edge against slabs of stone.

His palms blistered. His shoulders ached. He used this as an exercise to make casting Skills harder. The recoil from the warhammer tried to break his concentration, but he kept going while he circulated Mana into his own Constitution Skill.

No one had ever seen a talent like his—not before his sister.

His breaths rasped in the cold air. He counted every strike, every crack, every repetition, because no one else would.

The servants whispered he had his father's iron. His tutors whispered he had his mother's pride. Azrakel heard none of it. He only heard the rhythm of blows on stone and the pulse in his veins, begging them to become stronger, to evolve, to just be… more.

If I work harder than anyone, if I sweat enough, if I bleed enough, the veins will answer.

The quality of one's veins, given the nature of the harsh Mana Infernals were required to tame, could make or break a talent. Up to a few years ago, when Iskara Drazhal, his sister, got tested for the first time, he had been slated to be the designated heir, to inherit all the best Skill Crystals that his family had hoarded for their future ruler.

Yet, his sister's test changed everything.

No one had ever seen a talent like hers. Her Mana was simply out of this world, more akin to a Devil's than an actual Infernal.

She was celebrated like a divinity and, yet, she was so…

She's nothing. She doesn't deserve it.

Sometimes, many hours since Azrakel started, Iskara watched from the balcony. She yawned, sprawled in the sun, skipped drills to nap in the garden or steal honey cakes from the kitchens. When pressed, she flicked her wrist and sparks danced in her palm. The tutors gasped and applauded her incredible talent, leaving her more and more wiggle room to just laze around. Azrakel grit his teeth and swung harder.

And yet, in these early years, he was stronger. His grip on the practice blade was steady. His stance never faltered. He ran longer, lifted heavier, fought harder. In sparring bouts, he bested Iskara again and again, leaving her scowling in the dirt while he himself stood upright, unfazed.

"See?" he told himself after every match. "Hard work wins."

At night, while Iskara snored on silk cushions, Azrakel soaked his hands in salted water until the sting made his teeth clench. He lay awake staring at the ceiling beams, whispering the names of Skills he swore he would master, promising himself he would outpace the miracle child who didn't even care.

For a while, he believed it. For a while, he was ahead.

* * *

"Again," Lady Thrazkal, a Mithril‑Ranked Knight and their Tutor, said.

Azrakel braced the crystal with both hands in the room of the tower where they went for lessons. He breathed. He drew. Nothing flowed. The crystal fractured in dull light and spat grit into his palms. His veins ached like split glass.

What they were doing was an exercise not unlike the ones that Veythra, their Aunt, would teach years later at the Academy.

Iskara stepped up without a word. She touched the next crystal once. Light rushed into the glass and made it change color several times before it started gently levitating and humming.

"Hold the flow. Do not push," Lady Thrazkal sighed at Azrakel, who seemed unable to learn the Mana pathways she'd been trying to impart to the siblings.

Iskara held. The light steadied.

"It hurts," Azrakel trembled, feeling his entire body in pain. He had overdrawn his Mana one too many times and his veins were starting to bleed.

Queen‑Matriarch Maelthra turned her gaze on Azrakel.

"You will not speak of pain, Prince Azrakel. You will bring me a Skill worthy of Drazhal blood. Your mother was very clear. You either show us some talent or you may not come to table tonight. You'll eat with the servants once again."

He bowed his head and tasted copper.

That night he once again ate with the servants, isolated even among those plebeians.

* * *

Banners hung over the black stone. The great hearth burned high with Infernal flame, and goblets clinked in celebration.

"To the jewel of our line," Maelthra Drazhal declared from her high seat. "To Princess Iskara, who bears Lucifer's Veins."

The nobles roared the name. Servants poured finer wine, brought richer cuts of meat, showered her in praise.

Azrakel sat lower down the table, his right arm bound in fresh black wraps. His attempt at forcing a lesser Skill that morning ended the same as every other—pain, fracture, blood. The wraps hid the swelling, but not the tremor in his fingers.

He lifted his goblet, but his throat would not swallow.

Kaedor, silent as always, passed behind him. He did not slow. He did not touch. His words dropped like cold iron:

"Do not bleed on the marble."

The command was so casual, so final, that Azrakel felt smaller than the servants clearing trays at the hall's edge.

When the nobles dispersed, he remained in his seat until the fires guttered low. He waited because standing too soon would have shown how badly his legs shook.

* * *

Later that night, the palace slept. Azrakel climbed to the roof beams, palms raw, veins throbbing from the day's failures. He held one of the practice crystals, now cracked and dull, the edges biting into his fingers. He rolled it between his hands like a stone he could not put down.

Iskara appeared barefoot, hair loose, carrying two cups of water and a strip of cloth. She didn't bother hiding the yawn that stretched her face as she padded across the tiles. She sat beside him, the glow of her Lucifer's Veins faint even in rest.

Azrakel had heard that even his sister struggled to fully integrate the power of her Skill, which made him wonder if he could ever have learned something like that.

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"You'll hurt yourself if you keep doing it like that," she said, setting the cloth in his lap. Inside were wraps and salve, the kind the healers kept for soldiers.

Azrakel didn't look at her. "Better to hurt myself than stop."

"You work too hard." She leaned back, folding her arms behind her head, staring at the Infernal moon. "You'll catch up. You always do."

Her words were soft, meant to comfort. To Azrakel, they burned hotter than the blisters in his palms. He watched her veins flicker in rhythm, perfect and obedient, and felt the ache inside his chest deepen.

"You don't even care," he said quietly.

Iskara tilted her head toward him, blinking. "What?"

"You don't care. You don't need to. The veins bow to you without effort." He tightened his grip on the broken crystal until shards dug into his skin. "I bleed for the smallest progress, sister, and you call it catching up."

Iskara looked away, lips pressed thin. The silence stretched between them until the wind picked up, carrying the smell of ash from the city furnaces.

When she finally went, she forgot the bundle of cloth. Azrakel sat with it in his lap, staring at the shards in his hand, refusing to use it.

* * *

The next day, Aunt Veythra stood before them with a slate board, her chalk scratching sharp white lines.

"Mana pathways are rivers. Force is nothing. Control is all." She traced loops across the board: Rising Sun, Median Heart, Outer Containment.

Iskara closed her eyes and breathed. Her veins glowed faintly, and the chalk dust stirred on the board as though drawn to her.

Azrakel copied the loop. The Mana caught, flared, and seared his shoulder. His breath hitched. He bit the inside of his cheek until blood filled his mouth, but he didn't stop.

"Stop," Veythra commanded without looking at him. "You will scar the branch."

He obeyed, his hand trembling. He pressed it against his thigh to keep the tremor hidden.

Veythra wiped the slate clean. "Some Skills are meant only for those born to them," she said, tone neutral but final.

Azrakel stared at the empty board. He saw nothing but closed doors.

* * *

The palace was silent, torches guttering low. Azrakel stood alone in the courtyard, hands raw from the warhammer, veins burning from overdrawn Mana. His breath steamed in the cold air.

He slammed his fist against the stone again and again until blood slicked the cracks. No light answered. No power came.

Above, a balcony door opened. Iskara, still in her silks, peered out with sleepy eyes. "Brother? Still training?" she called down. Her voice was warm, but careless, as if the words cost her nothing.

Azrakel looked up at her, his chest heaving. She smiled faintly, gave him a lazy wave, and slipped back inside. The door shut.

He lowered his head, tasting copper where he'd bitten his lip raw.

Hard work wins, he told himself. But the words felt hollow now.

When he turned to leave, he noticed a man standing just beyond the gates. Cloaked, still, watching.

* * *

The salt wind cut sharp. Lanterns swayed over the Infernal harbor where black‑keeled ships unloaded cargo under the watch of guards and diplomats. Azrakel stood among them, his arm still bound, the title of "honorary overseer" pressed on him by his mother to "make him useful."

He barely listened to the droning of the diplomats. Their words were names of treaties and tariffs he'd forget before morning. His eyes wandered across the sailors and merchants scurrying on the planks.

And then he noticed one man.

Among the bustle, the man was still. Cloaked, hood low, face hidden. He wasn't part of the delegation, and yet no guard moved him along. His gaze didn't leave Azrakel. Not once.

Azrakel felt it burn through the noise of crates and waves, a pull like recognition.

He scowled, but the man only tilted his head. As if measuring him. As if waiting. Then the man started limping away.

Then a diplomat tugged Azrakel's sleeve, dragging him toward some meaningless inspection. When Azrakel looked back, the cloaked figure was gone.

He tried to shake it off. But the weight of those eyes followed him back to the palace.

* * *

Azrakel heard the door to the tower where he was used to training—facing the dark sea below the capital—open.

"Iskara, I told you not to disturb me when—"

"I'm not Iskara."

A deep voice made him turn and grab his sword from the side.

"Who are you?!" Azrakel asked nervously. He knew that since he was a prince he was a target. This could easily be an assassin.

The man had a slight limp as he approached.

The hooded figure stopped just short of the moonlight and tilted his head. "I watched you at the docks. You stood among nobles but wore chains heavier than theirs. You looked like a prince who was not allowed to be a person."

"Answer me. Who are you? Who sent you? Which house?"

"Names are chains. Houses are cages. Oaths are leashes." His mouth curled beneath the shadow of the hood. "I broke mine. The one to mortals, at least."

Azrakel's grip tightened. "If you're here to kill me, then do it."

The man chuckled once. "If I wanted you dead, the guards would already be screaming. I'm here to offer you breath."

"I already breathe."

"No," the man said, stepping forward. "You pant in a collar. They call it training. They call it pride. They call it love. But it's a leash. Look at your arms—burned from drills that were never meant for your veins. You bleed alone. I'm here to offer you a new place, a new family. One that doesn't wish you were dead to replace you with your sister."

Azrakel froze. The words cut too close. "You know nothing of House Drazhal."

"I know your sister carries Lucifer's Veins and the court bows before her. I know you split yourself against exercises your blood would never sustain. I know your mother forbids you to speak of pain. Your aunt tells you to stop before you ruin yourself. Your father counts stains on the floor and nothing more. I know you think hard work wins. And I know you are starting to doubt it."

"Get out," Azrakel growled.

"You want out," the man corrected. "You want a world where power isn't decided by Crystals hoarded by your betters. You want to break the wheel that grinds you under your sister's glow."

Azrakel didn't answer.

"You have two paths," the man continued, raising two fingers. "Keep bleeding in the marble halls until you die as their spare. Or burn the rules they worship."

"Spare me riddles," Azrakel spat.

"Fine." The man's tone hardened. "We do not kneel to Skill Crystals. We do not kneel to bloodlines. We do not kneel to academies that brand children with titles and call it destiny. We serve the God who breaks systems that pretend to be gods. We serve Asmodeus."

The name hit him like a slap.

"Asmodeus?" Azrakel's voice cracked with disbelief. His sword rose an inch higher. "You dare step into House Drazhal's tower and spit that name at me?"

The cloaked man did not flinch. Shadows writhed faintly at his fingertips, calm and steady. "Yes. We speak his name. We serve him freely."

"You're filth," Azrakel snapped. Rage burned through his veins sharper than the pain of any failed drill. "Parasites that worm through the cracks of our courts. I should cut you down where you stand."

"Then do it," the man said, spreading his arms. "Strike me down. Show me how strong your training has made you. Show me the glory of your bloodline."

Azrakel's jaw clenched. His arms shook with fury, but his blade stayed poised.

The man's smile was thin. "You cannot, because you know I speak truth. Your house starves you and feeds your sister. They praise her flame and call you failure. You think they will ever see you as heir?"

"Shut your mouth."

"They already believe you half‑dead. Let them believe you gone. Step into the sea, and walk with us instead. You hate us now, but soon you will hate the System more."

"I will never serve Asmodeus," Azrakel snarled.

The man's head tilted, eyes glinting under the hood. "You already serve him, boy. Every time you bleed for a system that mocks you, every time you break yourself trying to catch a sister you will never surpass, you prove his point: that the System is tyranny. You may hate us, but you hate them more."

Azrakel staggered back a step, his breathing ragged. The words struck too close, twisting the knife in wounds he had tried to hide.

"What do you want from me?"

"Nothing you do not already crave. Freedom. A chance to fight without playing their rigged game."

"If I walk out with you, my family will hunt me," Azrakel said. "They'll drag me back."

"They will not hunt a corpse."

Azrakel stiffened. "What?"

* * *

That night, Iskara climbed the stairs with a small bundle of medicaments in her hands. She knew her brother would not ask for them, but she'd seen the burns, the tremors, the way he hid the pain.

The wind howled through the open chamber when she entered. Azrakel stood at the window ledge, his back to her, the sea vast and dark below.

"Brother?" she called softly. "I brought—"

He didn't turn. His hands tightened on the stone sill. For a moment, she thought he'd answer. Instead, he leaned forward, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the night.

"Azrakel!" she cried, rushing forward.

But he was already gone.

The scream echoed against the cliffs, swallowed by waves that showed no trace of him.

House Drazhal believed their firstborn was dead.

But in truth, the boy who bled for every inch walked a darker path. The man at the docks had been waiting. And Azrakel walked now into his shadow.

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