Cleaver Of Sin

Chapter 26: Lily Of The Abyss

”I know,” Azeron replied simply, the familiar smile returning to his face. ”But with this, he has earned it on his own.”

”How is the Youngest Master faring, Primarch?” Zarek inquired. Unlike Azeron, he couldn’t afford the luxury of spending his days observing Asher’s training.

His responsibilities were many, duties that rightfully belonged to the Primarch, but which Azeron routinely neglected out of sheer indifference. Unless it involved a blade or concerned his family, it rarely made its way onto Azeron’s to-do list.

”What can I say? He is a Wargrave, after all,” Azeron said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. ”And he’s inherited his mother’s innate gift with the rapier. If only she were here to witness it, to see her long-held wish finally fulfilled: a child of hers wielding her weapon with pride.”

There was a subtle shift in his voice, something softer, more wistful. Beneath his composed exterior, a deep sense of longing lingered.

Lily, Azeron’s late wife, had been a master of the rapier. Countless foes, men, monsters, even the dreaded Emovirae, had fallen to the precision of her blade. As the Primarch’s consort, she had been formidable in her own right, an indomitable force whose strength had once commanded fear and respect in equal measure.

To become the wife of a Wargrave Primarch, a bloodline born for the art of war, one had to be extraordinary. But to stand beside Azeron, a man who existed beyond the bounds of conventional standards, she had to be something more: truly exceptional.

And Lily was exactly that.

A woman so formidable that the Empire itself had dubbed her ’Lily Of The Abyss’, a name whispered with both reverence and fear. Her strength was the stuff of legend; few dared challenge her, and fewer still lived to speak of it.

Azeron had fallen for Lily the moment he laid eyes on her. Her striking violet hair, the piercing amethyst of her gaze, the flawless porcelain of her skin, the elegant curve of her waist, even her scent, it was all seared into his memory from that first encounter.

But at the time, he had not yet ascended to the title of Primarch, and love was a luxury far removed from his path.

Lily had loved him as well. Yet she, too, understood the unbreakable traditions of the Wargrave bloodline. Bound by duty and restraint, she made no move, knowing full well that desire alone was never enough to overcome the weight of legacy.

After Azeron rose to the rank of Primarch, the distance between them began to fade. They grew close, then closer, until, at last, he proposed.

But Lily Of The Abyss, forged in battle and unbending in spirit, was not a woman to simply yield to any man, Wargrave or not.

Instead, she made a counterproposal of her own.

They would fight. If Azeron emerged victorious, she would accept his proposal and become his wife. But if he lost, then he would be her wife. He would cook, clean, and serve her as dutifully as any traditional bride. And above all, he would obey her, just as a wife was expected to obey her husband.

Azeron had been momentarily stunned by her response. The notion of cooking, or performing domestic duties, was almost absurd to a Wargrave. Members of his family were warriors, not homemakers; their days were spent in training, not in kitchens.

They had chefs, servants, entire staffs dedicated to the mundane, so they could focus solely on the art of war. There was, in truth, nothing else he had envisioned but the two of them simply being together.

But he was a Wargrave. A man forged by combat, blood, and unyielding pride. And if battle was the price for love, then he would gladly pay it. Especially when the battlefield was shared with someone as unrelenting and wild-hearted as Lily, a woman as much in love with the clash of steel as he was.

The duel was nothing short of legendary.

Trenches tore through the land. Mountains were reduced to rubble. The earth split beneath their feet, and the land itself shattered beneath the weight of their blows.

It was not just a fight, it was a courtship written in scars and fury.

For Azeron, the battle was the proposal.

And for Lily, her defeat was her answer: Yes.

Even on the night of their wedding, Azeron and Lily did not share a traditional union. Rather than consummating their marriage, the two battle hardened souls spent the night crossing blades beneath the stars, an exchange of strikes instead of vows, steel instead of silk, battlefield instead of bed.

It was the only kind of intimacy they truly understood.

And yet, for all her strength, for all the legends whispered in her name, Lily Of The Abyss met her end not on the battlefield, but in childbirth. It was a fate so cruel, so absurd, that many refused to believe it. But reality does not bend for even the strongest of warriors.

Before her passing, Lily had only one wish: that at least one of her children would awaken to the rapier, her cherished weapon, her legacy.

That wish had come true.

But she was no longer here to witness it.

To enjoy it.

To nurture it.

To pass on the art she had once danced with in war.

She had died with Asher cradled in her arms, her final breath spent entrusting their son to Azeron. It was not a request, it was her last will, the final command of a warrior who had never bowed to anything but love.

And Azeron, bound by her memory, intended to honor that vow to its fullest, no matter what it demanded of him, until the day he, too, returned to the earth.... to Lily

As for the whispers of Asher’s banishment, Azeron had never once considered such a thing. He had heard the rumors, yes, but he had not silenced them. Not out of neglect, but conviction. Asher may have been entrusted to him by Lily, but he was still a Wargrave by blood.

And Wargraves do not falter.

Azeron held no doubt: his son would awaken, if not on his first or second attempt, then surely on the third. It was not faith. It was certainty.

This was the kind of man Azeron Wargrave was, direct, battle hardened, loving, and disarmingly simple. A man who found clarity in combat, spoke with purpose, and loved with unshakable devotion.

Yet few truly knew this side of him.

Together with Lily, Azeron had raised their firstborn son, Malrik Wargrave, with immense love and care. He was their first child, their pride, and he had received the very best of them both.

Perhaps a little too much.

Unlike the typical Wargrave, known for their stoic expressions and iron restraint, Malrik could hardly maintain a straight face. He smiled often, laughed easily, and wore his emotions openly, an almost heretical trait within his lineage.

But there was a reason for it.

Malrik had grown up bathed in affection, taught to love fiercely and protect even more fiercely. And he had done just that. From a young age, he was raised to shield his siblings, to be their sword and shield, and he embraced the role with a terrifying earnestness.

There were whispers of how many lives he’d taken merely for casting the wrong glance at his sisters.

And none dared question if the rumors were true.

Malrik had never believed Asher would be exiled, it was simply impossible as he knew the real Primarch behind the mask.

Sensing the mood had shifted somewhat, Azeron shifted the conversation without missing a beat. With a familiar glint in his eye, he launched into a cascade of boasts about Asher, his talent, his rapid progress, the feats he had already achieved.

He even went so far as to brag about Asher’s ability to suppress his Life Rank aura, speaking as though Zarek hadn’t been standing right there when it happened.

But Zarek said nothing.

He simply listened, as he always did.

Azeron never shared these fatherly praises with the other Ducal families, he reserved them for Zarek alone. And while the Primarch might have believed he was being subtle, Zarek knew the truth: these moments were less about pride and more about love.