Azel - Snowy Background

[Scorchys]

The Zethussalns’ estate on Arkania was as cold as its masters—both in architecture and temperament. Ashlin never quite cared for the sterile grandeur of Arkanian nobility, but he endured it for Azel’s sake. The moment he stepped into the great hall, its vaulted ceiling and crystalline fixtures casting a silver glow, he was met with the piercing gaze of Azel’s father, Erasmis.

Ashlin, ever the picture of refined grace, inclined his head slightly, his long white Echani hair pulled back in a neat tail. “Ah, mother, father,” he greeted smoothly, savoring the way Erasmis’s eye twitched at the audacity.

“Do not call me that, Echani,” the elder Arkanian sneered, his voice crisp like breaking ice. “I have not acknowledged such an arrangement.”

Aurora, far more reserved but no less cold, sighed delicately. “Ashlin. What exactly brings you here? Azel hasn’t—”

“—done anything scandalous? No, no, mother. Nothing quite so dramatic, I assure you.” Ashlin smiled disarmingly. “Rather, I am here on a matter of finance. You see, since you were ever so kind as to sever Azel from her family accounts, I have taken the liberty of ensuring she does not accidentally bankrupt us.”

Erasmis’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

“Oh, delighted to,” Ashlin said, stepping forward and clasping his hands behind his back. “I may have, let’s say, ‘creatively accessed’ your banking systems to oversee her expenditures. Naturally, I would never withdraw a single credit from your precious vaults.” He flashed a knowing grin. “That would be criminal.”

“You sliced into my accounts?” Erasmis’s voice rose. “You—”

“Tut, tut,” Ashlin chided. “Monetary concerns aside, I merely wished to ensure Azel doesn’t, shall we say, indulge too recklessly. You raised her to be formidable, father, but finance was never her strongest blade. I consider it my duty, as her devoted husband, to protect her—including from herself.”

“Husband,” Erasmis scoffed, arms folding. “You assume much, Echani. She should have married one of her own.”

Ashlin let out a soft chuckle, tilting his head. “Oh, believe me, no Arkanian could handle her fire.”

Aurora sighed again. “What exactly has she done to make you so concerned?”

Ashlin hesitated for the briefest moment, then smiled. “Oh, you know, the usual—occasional reckless spending, mild brushes with the Dark Side, daring skirmishes that nearly cost her her life—”

“WHAT?!” Erasmis’s booming voice echoed through the hall. “Dark Side?!”

Ashlin tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Did I not mention that before? Well, she nearly did, but I, being the ever-dutiful husband, kept her from taking that rather unfortunate plunge. Can’t have my wife becoming a Sith now, can we? Bad for the family reputation.”

Aurora looked pale, but composed. “She never told us.”

“Because she didn’t want you to worry,” Ashlin said, his voice taking on a rare gentleness. “You may find me insufferable, father, but understand this—I love Azel. I protect her, in ways you cannot. So, yes, I sliced into your accounts, but only to ensure she is safe, comfortable, and not wandering too close to darkness.”

Erasmis’s eyes burned with reluctant acknowledgment, but he would never admit defeat. “You still overstep.”

Ashlin smirked. “Would you prefer I let her run amok with a crimson lightsaber?”

Silence. Finally, Aurora spoke. “What exactly do you intend to do?”

Ashlin clasped his hands behind his back. “Continue keeping her safe, naturally. And, if necessary, slice into your accounts again.”

Erasmis’s scowl deepened, but Ashlin only bowed slightly, ever the noble rogue. “Pleasure as always, father. Do send my regards to the bank.”

[Scorchys]

Years before…

Azel Zethussaln was born into privilege, the scion of one of Arkania’s noble families, where intellect was both a birthright and an expectation. The Zethussaln lineage stretched back centuries, known for their medical expertise, their mastery of the Force’s healing arts, and their staunch independence from the corporate influence of Adascorp. From the moment Azel could speak, her world was shaped by knowledge, research, and discipline.

Her childhood was a procession of academic triumphs. Learning was effortless, a mere formality to confirm what was already expected of her. By six, she was solving genetic sequencing problems that baffled lesser minds. By ten, she was delving into the intricacies of bioengineering and Force healing. Tutors praised her, her parents nodded in approval, and her peers envied her—though it was a quiet, unspoken envy, for in Arkanian society, intellectual superiority was not just a trait but a fundamental aspect of existence.

But if childhood was a smooth ascent, adolescence was a sharp, unexpected turn. The world of structured learning, of disciplined study, began to bore her. The academy lessons, once intriguing, now felt like dull repetitions of knowledge she had already absorbed. Teachers droned on about scientific principles she had grasped years ago, and Force mentors lectured her on the responsibilities of a healer, a role she had no interest in embracing fully.

She still excelled, of course, but she no longer cared. She sat through lectures with half-lidded eyes, answering questions with perfect precision yet devoid of enthusiasm. When her Force mentors sought to instill the importance of patience and compassion in healing, she simply smirked and demonstrated techniques beyond her peers without any true effort. She had the knowledge, the skill—what else was there to learn?

Her behavior did not go unnoticed. The Zethussalns were not a family of radicals, and Azel’s growing indifference was unsettling. Her mother, Aurora, voiced her concerns in private conversations with her husband.

“She lacks discipline,” she murmured, watching Azel from a distance as their daughter ignored yet another instructor’s warnings.

Erasmis Zethussaln, a man of stern composure, did not agree. “She lacks purpose,” he said. “And that is far more dangerous.”

The matter came to a head one evening during a formal family feast. The grand dining hall of the Zethussaln estate was a place of tradition, where meals were more than sustenance—they were occasions for discussing lineage, ambition, and the future. Azel sat at the long table, half-listening as her father spoke with his usual measured tone.

“You are of the Zethussaln bloodline,” Erasmis stated. “And with that comes duty. You will marry within our nobility, strengthening our house. An Arkanian of proper standing, one who does not sully their hands with Adascorp’s machinations.”

Azel set down her fork and tilted her head slightly. “You want me to marry someone you approve of? Someone with the right family name?”

“You say it as though it is unreasonable,” Erasmis replied, sipping his wine. “It is what is expected. Our lineage does not mix with those who see science as a tool for corporate greed.”

“I hardly see how marriage would uphold our family’s reputation,” Azel said, her tone sharp but calm. “Surely my own work—my own achievements—should be what defines me, not some arranged political match.”

Aurora let out a quiet sigh, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “Azel, our family is built on generations of carefully cultivated knowledge, alliances, and integrity. You cannot simply turn your back on that.”

“I’m not turning my back on anything,” Azel countered. “I just refuse to let my path be dictated for me.”

Her father’s expression darkened slightly. “You speak as if you have a choice.”

That caught her off guard. For a moment, there was silence, the tension at the table stretching uncomfortably.

Azel leaned forward, her eyes locked onto her father’s. “And what if I refuse?”

Erasmis set his glass down with a deliberate motion, his gaze cold and unwavering. “Then you will be a disappointment.”

There was no argument to be had. No shouting, no protests—only a quiet, suffocating understanding between them. He had drawn the line, and Azel knew she would never walk it.

That night, she stood in the great halls of the estate, looking upon the portraits of her ancestors—men and women who had dedicated their lives to medicine, to science, to preserving the purity of their lineage. Their cold, unfeeling gazes watched her as she made her decision.

She packed what she needed—datapads filled with research, enough credits to last, and the quiet certainty that she would never return. Arkania had nothing left to offer her. If knowledge was her gift, then she would wield it on her own terms, not shackled by the expectations of a family that saw her as nothing more than a continuation of their legacy.

As she reached the spaceport, she took one last look at the icy skyline of Arkania. For the first time in her life, she was stepping beyond the boundaries set for her.

[Scorchys]

The Path of a Healer

Azel Zethussaln left Arkania with the weight of her family’s expectations pressing against her shoulders, but the fire of defiance burning in her heart. She wanted to see the galaxy—not through the rigid lens of Arkanian superiority, but through her own unfiltered experiences. Her journey was long, arduous, and at times disheartening, yet with each world she visited, her understanding of existence expanded beyond the crystalline spires of her home.

She spent years traveling, immersing herself in cultures she had once dismissed. Among Ithorian healers, she learned the art of holistic medicine and the power of natural remedies. With the Mirialans, she explored spiritual healing, discovering how the Force wove itself into body and soul. In Arkanian research outposts and Taris’ renowned medical facilities, she sharpened her knowledge of biotechnology, working alongside scientists who saw genetic manipulation not as a debate but as an evolutionary instrument. Each experience tempered her once-rigid mindset.

At twenty-four, her path led her to a war-ravaged world where morality had blurred beyond recognition. The conflict had consumed entire cities, leaving the land broken and the people desperate. She arrived not as a soldier but as a medic, her skills in both conventional and Force-assisted healing making her an invaluable asset. She spent her days treating the wounded, her nights listening to the cries of the dying. The war took indiscriminately, devouring all in its path.

One evening, as a blizzard howled through the ruined landscape, she ventured into the forest in search of antiseptic herbs. There, half-buried in the snow, she found him—an Echani mercenary, his silver hair tangled with ice, his armor shattered. He was barely conscious, breath escaping in weak wisps of vapor. For a fleeting moment, she hesitated. Was he an enemy? A killer? A man whose hands had been stained with the blood of those she fought to save?

But she was not a judge, nor an executioner. She was a healer.

Hoisting his nearly lifeless form onto her shoulders, she trudged through knee-deep snow, the storm and exhaustion threatening to claim them both. By the time she reached the medical tent, she was trembling with fatigue, but she did not stop. Through the night, she worked—stabilizing him, warming his frozen limbs, ensuring death would not take him.

He woke days later, silver eyes scanning the tent before settling on the woman who had saved him. Azel met his gaze, unreadable. He did not thank her—Echani did not give gratitude easily—but he watched her, observed the way she moved, the way she gave herself to her work. A silent understanding began to take root between them. He was a warrior, she a healer—opposites, yet bound by the same battlefield.

Ashlin Vex awoke to the scent of antiseptics and the muted sounds of the war camp. He tested his healing wounds, feeling strength return. Across from him, Azel sat at a table, grinding dried herbs into fine powder with practiced precision.

“You’re awake,” she noted without turning.

His silver eyes studied her before he exhaled. “Yeah.”

Azel glanced at him, assessing his condition with clinical detachment. “You should be dead. I found you half-frozen, bleeding out.”

Ashlin rubbed a hand over his face. He had been close—too close. The mission had gone wrong, leaving him stranded with no backup, no exit strategy. He should have died. But this Arkanian woman had dragged him back from the abyss.

“You don’t talk much,” she observed.

He smirked faintly. “Echani don’t waste words.”

She scoffed. “You’re recovering well enough to be smug.”

Pain still radiated through his body, but it was manageable. After a moment, he spoke again. “Ashlin Vex. Mercenary.”

She raised a brow. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s why I was here,” he said. “I wasn’t fighting in this war—not directly. I was gathering information.”

“For who?”

He hesitated, then answered. “Myself. For a potential employer.”

“So you were spying.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Call it what you want.”

She studied him, searching for threat. But he was just surviving. A man without loyalty, drifting from one conflict to another. She had spent years breaking free of rigid perceptions—perhaps this was another lesson.

“You don’t seem like the type to get caught in a storm and left for dead,” she said.

He smirked. “Even the best fighters have bad days.”

She tossed him a container of supplements. “Eat.”

For the next few days, he recovered under her care. Their conversations remained brief but revealing. He spoke more than most Echani, sharing fragments of his past—his training, his drift from tradition, his life as a mercenary.

Azel listened, intrigued. She had sought knowledge her entire life, and he was an enigma—a warrior shaped by war yet indifferent to it.

The conflict that had ravaged the planet waned. With its end came the close of Azel’s time there. Her mother’s messages had grown persistent.

Come back to us, Azel. It’s time.

For the first time in years, she longed for home.

As she secured passage on a shuttle, Ashlin approached.

“You’re leaving.” Not a question.

“I am,” she confirmed. “My work here is done.”

A pause. Then—“I’m coming with you.”

Azel blinked. “What?”

“You saved my life,” he said simply. “And I have nowhere else to be.”

She narrowed her eyes, searching for deception, but found none. “You realize I’m going back to Arkania? They don’t welcome outsiders.”

“I don’t mind.”

“My father will.”

Ashlin shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

She exhaled slowly. “You’re serious?”

He nodded.

Heat crept into her cheeks. He hadn’t asked—he had decided. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.

“…Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He smirked, falling into step beside her.

As the ship lifted off, leaving the war behind, Azel gazed out the viewport. She had changed. Would home still feel like home? And what of Ashlin? He was a wild card, stepping into a world that would reject him.

Her father would hate him.

Azel sighed, closing her eyes.