High above Asher’s location, nestled within the drifting white clouds and the vast expanse of blue sky, a figure stood silently atop a colossal bird. The figure bore striking golden eyes and hair that shimmered like sunlight. Yet, the creature beneath him was no mere monster, it was an Emovira.
Emovirae are enigmatic creatures, divided into two distinct types: positive Emovirae and negative Emovirae.
Negative Emovirae are born from emotions such as fear, sorrow, and despair. They are aggressive by nature, attacking anything they perceive on sight. In contrast, positive Emovirae emerge from emotions like love, hope, and joy.
Unlike their darker counterparts, they do not attack unless provoked. Though cautious, they are inherently docile, capable of forming bonds with humans. However, taming one is no simple feat; it requires besting them in battle first.
As for the negative Emovirae, they cannot be tamed. It is a brutal exchange: either you die, or they do. There is no middle ground.
A crimson cape cascaded down the man’s back, billowing gently in the wind. Vambraces adorned his forearms, while leather gloves encased his hands. His legs were protected by polished greaves, and his torso was clad in a radiant golden breastplate that gleamed beneath the sunlight.
This was Azeron Wargrave.
Behind him stood Zarek, unchanged in appearance, his attire as pristine as ever. He remained dressed in his classic black butler suit, complete with immaculate white gloves, a silent shadow at Azeron’s side.
At that moment, a broad smile played on Azeron’s lips as he gazed down upon the battlefield below. When Asher had departed from the Wargrave estate, Azeron had followed, silently, from the skies above.
He had initially intended to abstain from attending the event altogether. But then came a personal message from the Emperor himself, urging his presence.
With such a summons, refusal was no longer an option.
And so, Azeron moved. Yet before heading directly to the venue, he chose to shadow his son’s journey, curious to see what would unfold.
As he looked down now, pride flickered in his golden eyes.
His last son had not disappointed him.
"Ehh? Azeron, are you sure that little monster is truly your son? Even you weren’t this much of a genius, despite being hailed as a prodigy reminiscent of the ancient days," Zarek remarked, his gaze fixed on Asher below.
His tone was casual, far removed from the respectful demeanor he always displayed within the Wargrave estate, especially in the presence of the Primarch.
But this was the nature of their bond.
Despite the vast difference in their status, one a butler, the other the Primarch of House Wargrave and one of the most formidable men in the Empire, their relationship transcended titles.
In public, Zarek addressed Azeron with the reverence expected of any servant toward their master. But in private, all formality fell away. He spoke as an equal, as a trusted companion, one who remembered the man behind the title.
"You’re just jealous he’s not your kid," Azeron said with a teasing smile, his eyes still fixed on the scene below.
"Why would I be jealous of that?" Zarek replied matter-of-factly. "Even if I did have a child, I doubt they could compare to a Wargrave."
In House Wargrave, the rules were clear, maids and butlers were permitted to have families. The ’no birth’ decree applied only to those of the bloodline, not the retainers who served them.
"I’ve told you before, go have a child already, so I can be an uncle. I’d even guide him a little. You know, everyone dreams of being mentored by me," Azeron added, his grin widening.
"You already have ten children, Azeron. Not everyone has your stamina," Zarek said calmly. "Besides, would I even have time for my own child if I’m always stuck at your side?"
Azeron chuckled at that, but said no more. He didn’t press Zarek about fatherhood again.
"So, what do you think?" Azeron asked, his voice light, yet laced with curiosity.
"Think about what?" Zarek replied without turning his gaze.
"Now that you’ve seen his talent, are you considering resignation? Ready to start serving him instead?" Azeron said with a smirk.
Zarek let out a thoughtful hum. "What he has is talent and potential, not power, not yet. Certainly not like yours. Besides, why would I give up the privilege of serving the Primarch? Do you realize how much authority and access to resources I’d be forfeiting?"
"Oh?" Azeron’s golden eyes shifted toward Zarek, a playful gleam within them. "So you’ve been using me to amass influence and power, is that it?"
Zarek chuckled, unfazed. "It’s only fair. After all, I handle half the responsibilities that should be yours."
Azeron gave a small, amused shake of his head. His gaze drifted downward once more, catching sight of Asher’s rapier as it floated beside his son, humming softly.
"Don’t they remind you of us after our first real battle, Ender?" Azeron said softly, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia.
As he spoke, a long spear materialized beside him, its shaft black as night, its edges streaked with crimson. It hovered silently at his side, humming with a low, resonant tone, as though acknowledging his words. Its unseen gaze, too, was locked on the battlefield below.
This was Azeron’s weapon — his spear.
He had named it Ender, a name chosen with intent. Azeron had vowed that he and his weapon would bring an end to anything, and anyone, who dared to stand in their path.
The spear hummed again, deep and resonant, as if speaking in its own ancient tongue. A moment later, Azeron’s voice followed.
"Indeed, it’s a remarkable ability. Drawing strength by drinking the blood of the fallen to heal his wounds... I wonder if that rapier has any other abilities."
Ender drifted around Azeron, its soft hum intensifying briefly.
"True," Azeron said with a nod and a smile. "With talent like his, there’s no way that blade only has a single ability."
Then, as if moved by curiosity or amusement, Ender turned toward Zarek. It floated toward him and began to circle, humming softly as it did so.
"It’s nice to see you too, Ender," Zarek replied with a light chuckle. Though he responded, he understood none of what the spear conveyed. Only the bonded master could comprehend its voice, its language was not made for others.
Ender hummed again, its sound low and insistent. This time, Zarek didn’t respond. He couldn’t understand the weapon’s language, so he simply turned his gaze toward Azeron, waiting for interpretation.
"He’s telling you to convince me to return and hunt down the Sins," Azeron said dryly, sensing Zarek’s stare on his back. "Apparently, he’s had enough of us sitting around for over a week."
Zarek wasn’t the least bit surprised. Ender had always been battle-hungry. Whenever they weren’t fighting, the spear would constantly badger Azeron, urging him to spar with the Dukes or find a new enemy worth its edge.
Azeron didn’t respond to the spear’s complaints. He simply continued watching his son below, allowing Ender to pester Zarek in his place.
Though pride filled his heart as he observed Asher, Azeron had sighed more than thirty times that afternoon alone. He had no interest in attending yet another empty celebration.
Of course, his wife Lily occasionally dragged him to such events, but that was different. That was her. This, however, was just another gathering of bloated egos and idle chatter, where men flapped their tongues instead of swinging their weapons.