Zarek walked with composed grace in a direction all within the estate recognized without question.
A calm, knowing smile curved his lips as he passed, and the maids and fellow butlers offered respectful greetings. After all, he was no ordinary servant, he was the personal butler of the Primarch.
Before him stood a black door. Without a word or gesture, it parted on its own, and Zarek stepped inside.
Inside, a man stood, golden eyed, golden haired, Azeron Wargrave, the Primarch of the Wargrave family.
He stood by the window engaged in an act that no one within the estate would have believed possible in their lifetime.
Azeron Wargrave, the esteemed fearsome Primarch, was smiling as he gazed out into the distance.
Anyone who witnessed the scene might have thought they had fallen into an illusion. It would have been easier to convince them that the entire history of Crymora was a fabrication than to believe that Azeron Wargrave was smiling.
He was a man whom few, if any, had ever seen smile. As a Wargrave, Azeron was known for bearing either a cold, unreadable expression or none at all.
And yet, in that quiet moment, one of the strongest men in the world wore a rare, gentle smile.
The reason? His youngest son, Asher Wargrave, the Tenth Sun.
Zarek stepping in didn’t speak or interrupt, he simply stood in place quietly.
With Azeron’s unparalleled perception, his senses extended across the entire Wargrave estate. At that moment, his attention was fixed on one person, Asher. The boy sat in a lotus position, eyes closed in deep focus. Azeron had been observing him from the very moment he stepped into the First Training Ground.
He had watched him move through each challenge as though it were second nature, effortless, precise, composed. The Astra Sphere, which had once taken Azeron himself five minutes to form, was completed by Asher in less. Perfecting it had taken Azeron twenty minutes; Asher matched that feat with striking ease. The wall climb, once an hour long ordeal for Azeron, was scaled in mere moments by his son.
Even the movement and balance training, which had taken Azeron four days to conquer on the lowest difficulty setting, had been approached by Asher with a grace and instinct that bordered on the unnatural.
And now, watching his son not only match, but surpass, every benchmark he had once set as a so-called once in a millennium genius, Azeron couldn’t help but smile.
At last, Azeron spoke, his gaze still fixed on the horizon beyond the window.
"What did they bring, Zarek?"
"It was an invitation, Primarch," Zarek replied without hesitation.
Azeron’s expression darkened. "Do these useless nobles have nothing better to do? The Emovirae are stirring unrest, enemy Empires are slipping spies into our borders one after the other and yet they waste their time sending me invitations to meaningless gatherings."
As he spoke, the faint smile that had graced his face vanished without a trace.
"But you haven’t asked what the invitation is for, Primarch," Zarek said with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
He had known Azeron since the moment of his birth. He understood the man in ways few ever could, his temperaments, his rare moments of amusement, his silence that spoke more than words. He knew what Azeron despised: meetings, banquets, ceremonies.
Unless it involved war councils, strategies to crush rival empires, or decisive strikes against the Emovirae, such invitations were better left undelivered.
If not for Asher’s awakening, Azeron wouldn’t have bothered returning at all.
And yet, he had come, quietly, a week before the event, choosing to observe everything from the shadows.
"What is the meeting about, then?" Azeron asked, his tone flat, his expression cold. He had already decided to decline, as he always did.
Zarek answered with measured calm. "The Royal Twins’ seventeenth birthday is a week from today. The Emperor has extended a personal invitation."
At those words, the icy edge in Azeron’s gaze faded, replaced by a neutral stillness. His features grew unreadable, neither tense nor relaxed, merely still.
"The Prince and Princess," he murmured. "I suppose that is understandable."
"Are you planning to attend, Primarch?" Zarek asked softly.
"You already know the answer to that, Zarek. You’ve always known me better than my own blood," Azeron replied, his gaze never shifting from the window.
Zarek offered no response. He hadn’t expected one. Azeron never attended such events; he would, as always, send a representative in his place.
"Who will be going this time?" Zarek asked, already sorting through the names of trusted advisors in his mind, those who had become seasoned delegates at such affairs.
"We’ll decide that later," Azeron said curtly. "There’s still a few days left to decide."
His golden eyes remained fixed on the distance, not on the Empire’s politics or its Emperor, but on one boy alone.
Asher Wargrave.
Zarek’s eyes followed Azeron’s line of sight, settling on the First Training Ground below. Noting where the Primarch’s attention lay, he spoke quietly.
"You didn’t need to frame it as a reward," he said. "With your authority, you could have placed him there outright."
To anyone else, such words might have seemed bold, insolent, even. But between them, it was different. Zarek hadn’t overstepped. Their bond ran deeper than rank or titles; it was a trust forged over decades.
When Azeron had first summoned Asher to his study, his intention had been clear, he would use his authority to personally reinstate him into the First Training Ground.
He couldn’t bear the thought of his own son wasting away in the Third, surrounded by mediocrity, especially after multiple failed awakenings. At that rate, who could say how long it would have taken for Asher to make any meaningful progress?
But then he saw Asher, and noticed his Life rank. In that moment, he chose a different path. Instead of invoking raw authority, Azeron used Asher’s Life Rank as justification, framing the transfer as a reward. It was a cleaner move, far more palatable to others, and, in truth, a better strategy than what he had originally planned.