Chapter 1

People often struggle to recall events from their early years, but Azriel Esthera's childhood memories remained remarkably vivid. She could easily recollect her mother's words when she was just learning to crawl.

"Twins! How ominous! If only Benhiram had been born alone… Why was this child born?"

The memory of her mother's disdainful gaze, laden with disgust for the infant clinging to her son, remained etched in her mind, vivid enough for her to sketch.

She could also distinctly remember the pained expression her father wore when he would strike her.

"This child needs to perish quickly. You are a parasite, sapping away your brother's luck."

Azriel possessed an exceptionally sharp memory. In the village nestled in the northern, less significant territories where she came into this world, twins were regarded as malevolent beings who shared each other's fortune.

Born after her twin brother, she was perceived as nothing more than a curse destined to bring him misfortune. Consequently, her parents had been reluctant even to give her a name.

"I refuse to believe in such superstitions."

Benhiram, her twin, was the sole source of kindness in her life.

"You are no curse," her brother would assert, his golden eyes and ebony hair mirroring her own. "You are my sister—the sister I must protect. Therefore, I shall bestow upon you a name."

Then, war descended upon them. Their village was razed to the ground, and their parents perished. Only the twins survived, and they fled. Though everyone else had perished, Azriel remained unscathed because she was with Benhiram. Her brother was her sole remaining family.

However, not long after, he too passed away. The name he had gifted her perished with him. At just seven years old, Azriel found herself utterly alone, wandering the streets as a nameless orphan.

She grew accustomed to sleeping in a corner of a back alley when, one fateful day, she awoke in a vast, plush bed.

"You are ten years old now, Miss. The individual who assigned your name has appointed us as your guardians."

A couple with warm smiles introduced themselves as her new guardians.

"I am ten… years old? And there is someone who… named me?" Azriel inquired.

"Oh, my dear, don't you remember?"

She could not recall a single thing. Her memories from the ages of seven to ten had vanished, as if shrouded in darkness.

"Do you not even know your own name?" the couple queried.

"My name…"

Only one thing remained etched in her memory: a man's soothing, melodic voice ringing in her ears like a melody.

"Azriel Esthera," the voice sang, as a radiant and tranquil light enveloped her, "Let this be your name."

Her new guardians were ignorant of the events that had unfolded during those lost three years of her life. No matter how many times she asked, they offered no answers. Nonetheless, they treated her with immense kindness. In their mansion, Azriel enjoyed a life of opulence unlike anything she had ever known, but it was short-lived.

"This child must have been abandoned, surely."

The couple coveted Azriel's substantial wealth. At just eleven years old, she was defenseless against the greed-blinded guardians who quickly seized her assets and sold her into slavery.

As a slave, Azriel was bought and sold like chattel. Her skin bore the mark of a branding iron on the top of her foot. She attempted to escape several times, only to be recaptured and subjected to floggings. Eventually, she resigned herself to her fate.

Then, a merchant acquired her. Recognizing her striking appearance, he cleaned her up, dressed her elegantly, and imparted basic etiquette. Subsequently, he sold her to the Colte family in the Kingdom of Aucandor to serve as a whipping child when she was twelve.

In cases where a child of high rank misbehaved or neglected their studies, a whipping child endured the lashes in their stead. Royalty typically selected whipping children from the aristocracy, while ordinary noble families employed commoners or slaves.

Count Colte had a daughter around Azriel's age for whom he had purchased her. Deborah Colte, his daughter, possessed beauty with her golden hair and blue eyes, but she was dim-witted and haughty.

She would doze through her lessons, neglect her duties, and ridicule and insult her tutors. Sometimes, she would even hurl her inkwell at them. No tutor endured more than six months with the Colte family.

The count's beloved daughter took her whipping child for granted, although she felt ashamed whenever the girl was displayed to others. The scars on Azriel's body were a testament to Deborah's foolishness and indolence, prompting her to put in slightly more effort and decree that her whipping child not be beaten on her face, arms, or legs—any visible areas.

Nevertheless, not a day passed without Azriel's back, hidden beneath her shirt, being covered in crimson welts and bruises. She had to endure the pain in silence, as revealing her suffering would only result in her being denied sustenance, causing further embarrassment to Deborah.

When pain enveloped her, Azriel sought refuge in her thoughts.

"The one who named me will come to my rescue someday," she believed. "He must be a strong and compassionate person. Perhaps he lamented my memory loss and left for a while. He didn't abandon me. He must be deeply concerned about my well-being, and he might even be actively searching for me right now. He will find me and free me from this place."

Those were trying times. Each time Deborah had a class, Azriel endured a flogging. At other times, she was tasked with errands and chores. She had transformed from an orphan with slave origins into a whipping child with perpetually rough hands and a back scarred by years of abuse.

Four years passed in this manner, and the once unwavering belief that she would be rescued by the light gradually waned. No savior came to her aid.

In the spring of the Iskam Calendar year 996, the girl celebrated her sixteenth birthday. By then, she had long abandoned her faith, but the hope she had relinquished materialized in a manner she could never have imagined.

***

The day had been dreadful from the very morning. Neglecting her homework and insulting her tutor were common occurrences for Deborah, but today, the tutor's anger had reached an excessive level. Azriel bore over 30 lashings that day, her back now marred with crimson streaks. Even after enduring such brutal punishment, the tutor departed in a fit of rage.

"Don't feign pain," Deborah scoffed, delivering a sharp slap to Azriel's face as she stumbled. "Are you planning to disgrace me?"

"Yes, my lady," Azriel replied with a resigned tone.

"…You're nothing but a disgrace."

Deborah glared at Azriel in dissatisfaction before exiting the room.

Azriel meticulously organized Deborah's books and writing supplies before retreating to her own dismal quarters, a tiny space tucked away in a corner of a cellar partitioned from the rest of the basement by a wooden plank.

It was perpetually shrouded in darkness, dampness, coldness, and filth. For Azriel, already weakened from relentless beatings, starvation, and abuse, it was an incredibly inhospitable environment.

As she coughed incessantly, Azriel uncorked a rusty bottle, releasing the pungent odor of cheap ointment into the cramped space. Despite its rudimentary nature, the ointment provided some relief to her wounds, which were otherwise unbearable.

Azriel unbuttoned her shirt, applying the ointment to her back, an area that had grown accustomed to her deft, solitary ministrations.

While tending to her wounds, Azriel strained her ears, listening to the sounds emanating from the ceiling above. Her room was situated beneath the corridor connecting the kitchen and pantry.

"Hurry, pick up the pace! Do you comprehend who's arriving tomorrow? If he doesn't favor you, you might all find yourselves transformed into toads!"

The head maid's thunderous voice resonated clearly. The other maids giggled as they busied themselves with their tasks. Azriel had heard rumors about the guest slated to visit the castle tomorrow—an esteemed wizard from the capital.

In ancient legends and historical tales, wizards were depicted as conjuring lightning, rending the earth asunder, altering the tides of war, and even battling dragons. Such stories had since become mere folklore.

Today's wizards mostly resembled healers or craftsmen, though they were held in high esteem.

Even the most ordinary of wizards possessed the unique ability to "communicate". They could send and receive messages to and from their peers, regardless of the distance between them. This communication system was so integral to the kingdom that it was under direct royal oversight.

The wizard expected at the castle tomorrow was rumored to belong to an entirely different echelon of magical prowess, akin to the legendary wizards of old. It was rare for someone of his caliber to visit rural estates, suggesting his purpose lay in investigating the recently discovered ruins on the Colte estate.

"What?" the head maid bellowed. "Have we run out of butter? What were you all doing instead of checking such basic supplies?! Maylie, quickly fetch some butter!"

"Head Maid, you assigned Maylie to organize the parlor due to staffing shortages."

"Oh, right. Then, who's available?"

"We're all short-handed, even with extra hands. Isn't Lady Deborah's lesson over? I saw Tutor Carter's carriage departing!"

Glancing at the time, the head maid exclaimed in irritation, "It must have ended quite some time ago. Where's that darned girl Azriel idling about?"

Startled, Azriel leaped from her bed. She wiped the remaining ointment off her fingers onto her apron and sprinted toward the stairs. The head maid's footsteps echoed loudly above her.

"Head Maid," she called out breathlessly, "Were you searching for me?"

"You!" the robust head maid scowled at the frail girl at the foot of the stairs. "You were dawdling again!"

Azriel hastily bowed.

"The count took in a girl like you, fed you, raised you, and even granted you commoner status, yet you can't muster gratitude, can you? All you seem capable of is finding ways to loaf around!"

"No, I was merely applying some ointment to my back…"

"What sort of excuse is that?" The head maid forcefully tapped Azriel's head with her knuckles. "Don't whine about a few lashings, you lazy girl!"

Azriel conceded and fell silent. Regardless of her explanation, the head maid's anger would only intensify. Azriel was no longer officially a slave, thanks not to the Count's compassion, but rather to the King of Aucandor's efforts to abolish slavery.

In response, Count Colte had reluctantly discarded Azriel's slave certificate, subsequently increasing her ransom before sealing an indentured servitude contract.

"You should be working to repay the money I spent to buy you, don't you think? The excess is interest."

Azriel's debt amounted to a million pels. Given her meager commoner's salary of 500 pels per month, it would take her 167 years to clear the debt. In essence, it was an insurmountable burden.

Count Colte had no intention of releasing her or offering fair wages; he even threatened to deduct her earnings. Such practices had become the norm in Aucandor following the abolition of slavery.

However, the brand on Azriel's foot served as a constant reminder of her past. While she was technically a commoner on paper, the mark remained inescapable, both in reality and public perception.

The staff employed by the Colte estate comprised nobles and village commoners. Azriel, by contrast, was a former slave who spent her days dressed in finery, standing in the young lady's room during lessons while others toiled tirelessly. Consequently, she was universally despised.

With Deborah's strict prohibition against revealing her wounds to others, few were aware of the extent of Azriel's beatings. Without visible injuries, she remained an object of scorn.

The head maid, in particular, harbored a profound aversion toward Azriel.

"Go purchase three blocks of butter right away, and don't even consider pilfering a single coin, or you'll face merciless consequences!"