The door creaked open with soft precision — no hurried movements, no clumsy sound. Just the whisper of discipline.
Ash did not turn away from the mirror. He had already felt her approach.
The maid entered quietly, closing the door behind her. Her presence, though muted, was never unseen. She moved with the same silence as a falling feather, her posture straight, her eyes calm — yet beneath that calm, Ash sensed something new. A purpose had taken root.
She had just returned from speaking with his mother.
Ash finally turned.
The darklight glinted against the polished marble floor as the maid stepped forward and knelt gracefully, lowering her head in a gesture of formal respect — not just to a child, but to something deeper.
"Master Ash," she said gently, her voice steady and clear. "My name is Nyssa Vel'Arin."
Her crimson eyes rose, meeting his abyss-black gaze without flinching.
"I am assigned to you by Her Majesty," she continued. "From this year onward, I will not only care for your needs… but also guide you in your early studies. You will learn the words of the Abyss Empire — to read, to write, and to understand the foundation of knowledge."
Ash blinked once. He said nothing, but his eyes held her words. Measured them.
"I will teach you language first," Nyssa went on, "so that you may speak with clarity. Then letters. Then the inked tongue — the script used by nobility. And later… the higher writings, once your hand is steady."
She rose slowly to her feet, hands folded behind her back, eyes lowered now in deference.
Ash studied her.
Nyssa.
A maid, yes — but no mere servant. She had the bearing of someone trained, perhaps once noble, fallen to service through pact or purpose. There was pride in her silence. Precision in her movements.
He stepped forward.
"You were chosen," he said quietly — his voice still young, but laced with awareness. "Why?"
Nyssa looked up at him again. A flicker of something passed through her gaze — not surprise, but respect.
"Because I do not fear what stirs in you," she answered, without hesitation. "And because Her Majesty believes you will need more than comfort. You will need… clarity."
Ash nodded once.
"Then begin," he said simply.
And in that moment, something shifted.
Not the walls. Not the light.
But the air — as if the chamber itself recognized that a new path had opened.
The path of understanding.
Nyssa bowed slightly at Ash's command, then gestured with a subtle motion.
"This way, Master Ash."
He followed her across the chamber — not hesitating like a child, but walking with quiet steps, eyes scanning every detail. His personal room, though modest by palace standards, had been furnished with purpose. At one end stood a blackwood table, its surface smooth as glass, accompanied by a high-backed chair shaped to support even the smallest frame. Behind it, a towering bookshelf reached toward the ceiling, lined with tomes marked in silver-etched script.
Nyssa stopped before the shelf and ran her fingers across the spines, choosing with care. Finally, she withdrew a slender volume bound in ash-grey leather.
"This will do for now," she said softly.
She opened the book to its first page and laid it on the table. Ash climbed into the chair with measured grace, already focused. The language before him was nothing like the speech of his former world — it curved like crescent moons and folded like shadows, each mark flowing into the next.
Nyssa pointed to a single symbol.
"This is aihra. It means 'soul.' Speak it."
Ash stared at the symbol for a moment, then parted his lips.
"Aihra."
It was not perfect — his young voice caught slightly on the last syllable — but the weight behind it was correct. The intent.
Nyssa's expression didn't change, but Ash felt her approval.
They continued.
Morning turned to evening. One word became five. Then ten. Then sentences — slow at first, broken, then fluid. The book of language was followed by a second, then a third. Nyssa's methods were relentless but never harsh. She drilled pronunciation, recitation, comprehension. By the time his second moon passed, Ash could speak with startling clarity — not only mimicking the sounds but understanding the structure behind them.
Soon, new tools were introduced.
Ink.
Quill.
Black parchment lined with faint silver grooves.
Nyssa brought out a second book — this one filled with traced glyphs and practice markings.
"Now we begin to write," she said.
Ash gripped the quill, strange and heavy at first. His hands were small, but steady. His first letters were crude, uneven. But Nyssa corrected him — gently, firmly — until he could carve a line without pause.
Days blurred.
Ink stained his fingers.
Words filled pages.
Each character drawn was a seed planted, and in Ash's mind, they bloomed into thoughts sharper than blades.
He didn't complain.
He didn't tire.
He wanted this.
He needed to master the language of the Abyss — not only to speak it, but to command it. For in this world of endless night, words held power — and he could feel it already, coiling at the edge of every phrase.
And so, within the stone walls of his quiet chamber, Ashteron Vael'Abyss began to shape his voice — one syllable, one stroke at a time.