No one who had ever entered the Silver Mist returned. Now, Azael and Noir could only surrender to its mysterious power, and whatever unknown place awaited them beyond.
In a heartbeat, Azael found himself suspended in the sky, just beside a jagged hillside. There was no sensation of time passing. One moment he was within the mist, the next, he had been flung across space as if by arcane magic. That, he realized, was the Silver Mist's true essence. Teleportation driven by the consumption of aura.
Even beset by danger in the mist's grasp, Azael's thoughts never strayed from Noir's safety. She had risked everything to save him, and his gratitude toward her knew no limits. It was this unwavering loyalty, even in the face of the unknown, that filled his heart as he hovered in the empty sky, acutely aware of both peril and hope.
Azael, like his sister, once enjoyed the loyal service of a personal steward. But as time passed and Azael failed to show any gift with the sword, the clan's disappointment gradually turned to resentment. Until eventually, even his steward became a target. By the time realization struck, the poor attendant had already been cast out, bearing the blame for Azael's shortcomings.
With no allies left, the steward quietly slipped away from the region, vanishing without a word. Throughout his childhood, Azael had felt deeply indebted to this steadfast companion, and ever since their separation, he had harbored only one wish-that his former steward might someday find the peace and happiness that had eluded them both.
Azael breathed in the crisp air high above, wishing he could remain suspended in that fleeting moment, but reality refused him. He muttered a curse against gravity just as it seized him, pulling him downward. Desperate, he reached for the edge of the ledge, yet his fingers found only empty space.
He tumbled down the slope of the hill, rolling uncontrollably as every impact deepened his wounds. When he finally hit the ground, the pain was overwhelming; darkness closed in as Azael lost consciousness.
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A sharp pain ran through the forehead of Azael. The pain in his gut was lesser than earlier. He grieved in agony.
He slightly opened his eyes only to see a girl with white hair shorter than her shoulder. Her long ears were poking out of her hair. They were sharp and pointy. She stared at him as if she was watching some newly discovered species.
"Who…who are you?" questioned Azael, biting his lips.
The girl's eyes widened and she quickly ran away out of the room.
Azael jolted awake, driven by an urgent need to chase after her. Yet pain exploded in his gut, doubling him over instantly. He pressed both hands to his abdomen, curling inward like a wounded animal, and waited for the agony to ebb. When he finally managed to uncurl, he took his first proper look at the room around him.
It wasn't comfort that greeted him. The walls, floor, and ceiling were built from plain, unfinished wood, and the space had the sparse look of a prison cell. Beside his rough bed, almost hidden in the gloom below it, squatted a narrow bottle of water and a strange red bow-its arc skewed and broken, with no hint of symmetry. Arrows were not found in the room either.
How could they use the bow without arrows? Azael thought for a second and ignored it.
Light was scarce, and he realized with a small start that not even a window graced these walls. Air came only from the open doorway.
Moving slowly, like a creature unfamiliar with freedom, Azael shuffled across the creaking floor and stepped outside. Instantly, a fresh breeze tousled his hair, carrying with it an almost unnatural sweetness. He paused, letting the subtle aroma fill his lungs-a scent oddly unfamiliar, nearly artificial, yet distinctly pleasant. His ears tuned in to the gentle rustle of leaves, mixed with the faint, joyful shouts of children somewhere nearby. It was a chorus of life, impossibly far from the deathly quiet he'd known at home.
He looked up, expecting to see the hard sky and gnarled branches that once marked his days. Instead, he was greeted by vibrant green. Lush, living, and almost overwhelming in its intensity. Emerald leaves shimmered in the sunlight, so thick and vivid that Azael could almost believe the sky itself had taken on a leafy hue. It was a world apart from the twisted, brittle trees that haunted his memories.
For a long moment, he simply stood in awe. The pain he'd been feeling only seconds earlier seemed almost to dissolve in the gentle warmth of his surroundings. It was as if the living world itself reached out to him, wrapping him in a soft, invisible embrace and insisting that he not only survive, but live.
His spirit, so long weighed down by pain and emptiness, began to stir. In the company of nature's beauty and the innocent song of nearby children, Azael found something new—a sense of belonging, of hope. As the breeze played in his hair and the forest's green greeted him, he felt a flicker of genuine life inside. Nature welcomed him home, and for the first time in ages, his soul responded.
But reality intruded without warning. Despite nature's gentle embrace, Azael felt the familiar weight of duty pressing down on him. He couldn't afford to linger in warmth and wonder.
There were responsibilities waiting, and people he needed to find. A sharp pang of guilt gripped his heart as the memory of Noir washed over him. She, too, had been swallowed by the Silver Mist, losing herself to its mysterious power.
The pain of this recollection was sharpened by the knowledge that her fate was tied to his own decisions. If he had acted differently, maybe she would have been safe. Now, regret hung over him like a shadow. He owed her more than gratitude. He owed her a chance at survival. Realizing how much depended on his choices, Azael steeled himself, determined not to let remorse paralyze him as he confronted the challenges ahead.
Azael studied the villagers around him, wary despite his rescue. He couldn't tell if they were allies or potential enemies.
Each person he looked at quickly averted their gaze, refusing to meet his eyes. Their movements became hesitant, and many stopped walking whenever they drew near the house where he stood.
Azael noticed more than suspicion. Some locals even shut their doors abruptly whenever his gaze flickered in their direction. The atmosphere was thick with unease, feeding his uncertainty about his place here. Making him wonder what kind of secret or threat he had unwittingly brought to their village.
Azael sighed, resigned to his outsider status. "I'm an outer after all," he muttered, feeling the weight of his responsibilities on his shoulders.
His gaze drifted across the wary villagers, and a puzzled frown creased his brow. "But why do all their ears look so big and pointy?" he wondered aloud, noticing what he hadn't at first-the distinct, delicate shapes protruding from beneath their hair. The realization unsettled him. These weren't ordinary villagers. Doubt and curiosity mingled as he tried to make sense of where he truly was, and whether he was in the presence of friends or something far stranger.