In a world ruled by magic and war, miracles were never the most dangerous thing. Ambition was. The early twentieth century witnessed the slow collapse of Eastern Europe’s magical aristocracy. Alliances were forged in whispers and shattered in blood. Kingdoms trembled beneath political schemes and forbidden spells. Among them stood one name spoken with quiet dread— Krovinsky. Azrael Krovinsky was born the pride of that house. His hair was pale blonde, almost silver beneath candlelight, like winter sunlight trapped in gold. His eyes were a cold shade of gray, distant and unreadable. He was the embodiment of noble perfection—composed, brilliant, and unnervingly controlled. There was something unnatural about him. A fascination not merely with power, but with blood itself. Its scent. Its warmth. The way life slowly drained from it. He didn't end life out of rage. He killed because it was necessary. The Krovinsky ambition reached its peak when they decided to overthrow the rightful heir of the magical empire—Azrael’s own cousin, Crown Prince Mikhail Voronsky. As long as Mikhail stood strong, the Krovinsky family would remain in the shadows of the throne. Led by Patriarch Vladimir Krovinsky and the calculating Elizaveta Krovinsky, a forbidden ritual of black magic was performed beneath the palace. Azrael’s blood—pure, powerful, and stable—became the core of the curse. The spell worked. Mikhail began to weaken. His strength deteriorated slowly, as though something invisible was devouring him from within. But black magic never comes without balance. From the ritual circle, something unexpected was born. A duplicate. A perfect reflection of Azrael Krovinsky—pale blonde hair, identical gray eyes, the same aristocratic features. At first, it was considered a mere byproduct, a mistake to be contained. The clone was locked away in the palace’s underground chambers. They believed it had no soul.They were wrong. It learned. It watched. It understood. And on a snow-covered night, while war distracted the empire’s guards, it vanished. The secret was buried. Only the Krovinsky family and a few high-ranking officials knew the truth: Azrael was no longer one. Years passed. London. The city glittered with industry, diplomacy, and hidden magical commerce. Azrael attended a grand aristocratic gala, negotiating the trade of enchanted weaponry. Crystal chandeliers illuminated silk gowns and polished uniforms. Smiles concealed daggers. Then chaos erupted. An underground organization known as The Black Ciphers stormed the hall. They were artifact hunters, mercenaries serving the highest bidder. Glass shattered. Music stopped. Blood stained marble floors. Azrael did not panic. His pale hair caught the fractured light as he moved with silent precision. A whisper of a spell. A gesture of his hand. Two attackers collapsed without a sound. He was not frantic—he was inevitable. As he prepared to eliminate the remaining intruders, something caught his eye. A little girl hiding behind a fallen marble table. Blonde. Her hair was soft gold. Her gray eyes—sharp and observant—were unmistakable. She looked like him. Not frightened. Merely confused. As if she were staring into a future reflection of herself. Before Azrael could approach, a South Asian woman stepped protectively in front of the child. Her eyes were steady despite the chaos, her posture composed. She shielded the girl without hesitation. “Anasthasia,stay close to mama.” she said softly. Her gaze met Azrael’s. There was no shock in her expression. Only recognition.In that suspended second, amid screams and shattered glass, Azrael understood. The clone had not merely survived. It had built a life. A new identity. A wife. A child. And that child carried the same blonde hair. The same blood.For the first time in his life, Azrael Krovinsky hesitated.Because he was no longer looking at an enemy. He was looking at a mirror— one that had learned how to live.And now he must decide:Would he destroy the reflection of himself. The woman left with the girl in her arms, he immediately acted to chase her.