“‘Imagine a white day with falling silver flowers.’” Damien inhaled. Conjurations required refined concentration techniques when developing a new skill. He had learned [Conjure - Earth] (now [Conjure - Mountains]) and [Conjure - Fire] before, when Dad had given him textbooks and lessons on how to perform magic before his powers were taken and sealed.

It had been intense work, especially when he was only a teenager at the time.

Although his training had ended on a sour note, the lessons never left him. Not even years after a bitter farewell with his birthright. And now that he was practicing conjuration again, everything came easily to him like riding a bike.

Concentration was the oil to the machine. He described this process to Althea before, back in Ordo University. It was the act of creating mental images that transcribed the conjuration’s properties, and it’d be manifested into the environment. Every conjurist (or conjurer, whichever term you used) had their own concentration techniques for their respective skills.

While many used the same [Conjure - Fire], everyone had different images of fire.

Damien thought of fire the same way he thought of passion: bright, bold, ready to combust and burst. It was the energy that drove ambitions and converted fear into willpower. It was the all-consuming enthusiasm that turned weak-willed men into husks while carving heroes from crags. But the image was not that simple. From fire emerged the strongest of warriors and the most wicked of villains. The ones given Prometheus's gift were likely to create Heaven as much as they could bring Hell.

Fire was the line between good and evil.

Earth, meanwhile, was unmovable. Fire was the ignition of change; earth was the ground of the familiar, going as deep as traditions were willing to travel, going as far as you were willing to search within yourself. Mountains were created, and they’d remain there for thousands of years if undisturbed. You could take comfort in that: knowing nothing will change and your life will remain static. Past and future were theoretical concepts here. Only the perpetual, unremitting present mattered. But that was a dream. A wish that held no real power on its own. In reality, there’d be outside forces exerting control and influence. These were winds carving away at the mountain micrometer-by-micrometer, lightning strikes that blew chunks of rock off, a torrential downpour that led to mudslides. Forever and ever, until mountains turn into dust in a battle taking eons.

Thus, earth was the tenacious mountain against the outside world.

He recalled what the [Skill Manual (Conjure - Ice)] said. Ice was not a member of the Five Greek Elements; really, it was pretty much water but redundant conjuration skills existed. It had recommended various concentration techniques to imagine ice, to imagine its manipulations and shapes, its interactions with other elements and forms.

All Damien wanted to do was to make a small block.

He exhaled, shutting his eyes and extending his hand out. It’d be a small conjuration. No need to use his staff to supplement the mana cost or use any of the valuable Essence he had collected up to this point. It’d be a simple cube: one inch in all dimensions, cloudy like regular ice you’d have in the freezer, and cold to the touch.

The mana inside his Krait began swirling in peculiar ways. It was difficult to describe; it was something like waves. Every element had its own unique wavelength. So it became a puzzle—a dance—of how you could match your mana manipulation to the element’s tempo. Like a musician following a song for the first time.

Fire was large, high peaks and low valleys. Meanwhile, earth was tamer, less vibrant, but steady. Firm.

Ice was the sensation of winter. The cold was isolating. Slow, because the fire had disappeared within and left you stumbling as hypothermia whispered to you, a walking corpse. Unstable, because the earth beneath your feet had been covered in permafrost and you could no longer take a balanced step. The wind blasted thorns against your exposed skin. The white sun taunted you in remembrance of a scorching summer’s day. When things had been alive and vibrant.

No one will rescue you. No one will sympathize with you. No one will pity you and you deserve no mercy. So the cold is something you have to endure by yourself, for yourself. It is the phenomena that is overcome through the self.

Ice is isolation.

Damien turned his heart cold. Scientists had argued whether a positive or a negative mental framework would lead to better conjurations but that was a non-issue now. Demons had no need for the standard array of emotions that humans were typically born with. But a part of Damien was still human. Somewhere inside him detested isolation but another knew this would be his home.

He accepted this a long time ago.

The swirling mana crawled, trudging at a snail’s pace. It vibrated—no, it shivered. It shivered like a man caught outside in a winter storm. Forcing himself through the biting winds, snow piling below him and covering his tracks. He no longer had the strength to lift his legs high but he had the willpower to reach out into the white obscuration in this heartless world.

Something clicked inside Damien’s head, and the white world faded away to reveal clear crystals spinning like diamonds

His hand was cold. He stopped his concentration and opened his eyes, finding the ice cube he envisioned moments prior.

[You have learned a new skill! [Incomplete Conjure - Ice] has been developed!]

“That wasn’t so difficult,” he said to himself. He framed the cube between his fingers. Small, cloudy, and cold. Everything he wanted. While it was technically edible, it was infused with mana. Mana poisoning was dangerous. Although his [Demon Constitution] had a natural resistance against the malediction, it still would be a terrible idea to consume his mana-infused ice cube. Because it’d taste awful and provide little satiation.

Damien lightly tossed the cube up and down like a random pebble he found lying around on a sidewalk. About three tosses later, it melted and reverted into a cold, murky blue water that dripped past his fingers and onto the grass below.

He wiped his wet hand against his pants.

“You're impressed, aren't you?” he asked to no one in particular. Except for the High Dominion member hiding behind a tree in the theatre’s back courtyard, a perfect place where no disturbances could bother Damien.

Other than that one.

From the moderate tree behind him popped out a head of peach hair and eyes poisoned with suspicion. Votary, the most junior member of the team. “How did you spot me?”

Damien’s annoyance quickly morphed into pity, his gaze falling to her chest where a medallion necklace laid. “...I can literally sense your holy magick from where I’m standing.”

A light shade of pink rushed across her cheeks, defensively putting a hand over her necklace as if that’d block the holiness naturally emanating from it. She said nothing and refused to make eye contact out of humiliation.

“Since you’re here…” Damien sat down on a stone-cold concrete bench with a Greek aesthetic, lounging an elbow, which supported his head, on an Ionic-inspired arm, pretending he was a god, “...it wouldn’t hurt you to entertain a conversation with me. After all, we’ll be working together.”

Votary did not accept his presumptuous offer right away out of her innate prejudices against his half-blood. No matter how friendly he was or how cooperative he posed, it was good advice to be wary against a demon. That was true, evident earlier where he toyed with the Ordoians’ reactions.

But now that Votary was caught—from the very beginning pretty much—she could either turn tail and embarrass herself further or provide additional intel for her allies. And as a quiet moment passed, finally she decided to see him eye-to-eye and asked, “What were you doing earlier?”

She sounded like a police interrogator.

“Developing [Conjure - Ice].”

“Why?”

“Because you can never have one too many skills.”

“But you’re a demon.”

“Half-demon, and your implication falls flat when you remember that we naturally seek out power.” So do humans.

She changed the subject: “What happened to your arm?”

“Operation Scorcher. A large hunk of metal severed it clean off. A small setback.”

“...Small?”

“I’ll regenerate my arm once I’m powerful enough to do so.”

“When will that be?”

“I want my attorney.”

“No."

“I asked for a conversation between humans, not defendant and prosecutor.” Damien sighed and crossed his legs. “Let me ask a question this time. It’ll be a normal, innocent question, I promise. What’s your name?”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Her eyes narrowed. “Votary.”

“...Real name?”

She didn’t answer. If she could look at him any more untrustworthy…

Right, some demons had the ability to turn information into weapons. Like for example, utilizing someone’s real name to inflict a curse or remotely harm them through some means. That wasn’t just limited to demons either. With the right books and materials, anyone could do it.

But in spite of that logic, trust could not be so easily gained. Not from Votary. Maybe it was an impossible endeavor and was a waste to try. That was what logic dictated. But this problem wasn’t a logical problem. It was breathing. It was filled with more emotions than he knew like colors beyond human vision.

Damien observed Votary intently and found himself gravitating towards the same necklace he had looked at earlier. The medallion. Although his vision wasn’t the best, there was a prominent figure as its centerpiece: Alm, a famous Slayer during the beginning. Almost everyone in Ordo knew Alm; he was a historical hero like George Washington to America. Though probably not that prominent.

Of his accomplishments, he was known for establishing an orphanage: Giants Protection, the name inspired when Gigantomachia had used his body to shield a group of children.

It was the same orphanage that Kosmos had grown up in, and where he had first met Seraph.

“Do you remember your parents?” Damien asked as gently as he could, to not mock her.

Votary was startled by his question and looked down at her necklace once more, realizing why he asked that and once again covered it with her hand, defensive. “Why do you want to know that?”

“Because I’m curious.” He straightened himself on the bench, hunched over slightly, thinking. “I don’t have a good relationship with the rest of my family. My little sister is in her teenager phase and experienced more family drama than a soap opera. Latham—you know him as Dawnfire—we have a wall between us. My father, Duskfire, is a story in itself. And my mother is caught in the middle.

”And I’m the oddest one of the bunch. My siblings aren’t like me. Because of what lies in our heritage, my father’s enslaved by the Guards and I’ll probably share the same fate as him. It’s pessimistic to say but my future might be coming to a close but it seems yours is just beginning.”

It was clear that she didn’t expect this confession to come out. And what came afterwards were, well, her expression was unreadable. Most likely torn between mistrust—whether or not his vulnerability was a ploy—and sympathy, if his word was to be taken for it was. What happened next would tell him most about her character…

She softened.

She was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“Only a little bit,” Votary answered genuinely. “I remember my parents a little bit. But I wouldn’t say my future is ‘just beginning’. I wouldn’t say the same thing for you either. W-Well, not that it’s not beginning but it’s not ending so soon.”

So this is a glimpse into your true personality. Oddly cute. “I disagree because you don’t know my situation as well as I do.”

“If that’s the case, then why did you accept Monarch’s plan?” she asked, taking a monumental step forward towards the half-demon.

“What do you mean?” he shot back.

“I don’t understand your reasoning. I genuinely don’t, and maybe that's because you're a demon. You’re cooperating with Monarch, you’re cooperating with Seraph, you’re a key member of the Dawn Baptists. You’re fighting for humanity. For the same people who…” She paused, “...’enslaved’ your father. Any normal person would hold a grudge.”

“Oh believe me, I have more than a few things to say about the Guards but being vengeful and spiteful wouldn’t do anyone any good. Especially me. My father taught me to be better than that. He also taught me so many other things too, lessons that I maintain to this day.”

Before Votary responded, Damien gestured to the space behind him. Benches were made for more than one person to sit on.

She hesitated but gave him another chance, taking the space to his right. Although the holy energy disturbed Damien’s core, and surely his demonic energy disturbed hers, they were tolerating the other’s presence.

“Like for example,” Damien began, looking down at his left hand, his only hand, “I was taught conjuration magick, beginning when I was five.”

“Is that even possible? You couldn’t develop a Krait that young.”

“I’m a half-demon.”

“Oh, right…” Votary’s cheeks went pink again. “Still! I thought it was impossible for someone to use magic at that age.”

“It is if you’re born with the right biological framework. Like Silverhonor. Or Elysian Fourteen being the only one who can use her HERO.”

“But that would mean…” Then, the answer came to her. “Oh, I see.”

He hummed and nodded. “My [Demon Constitution] allowed me to use magic like any regular Slayer, but that also meant I didn’t have the System. Unlike the average Slayer, who relied on the System to aid with skill activations, I had to do them independently. Well, you really can’t call them ‘skills’ at that point either. They’re straight magic through and through.

“My dad taught me the conjuration system because it’d be the most beneficial for the innate powers we have as demons, which is why and how he’s the world’s greatest flamemancer. Naturally, I did dabble in other systems but conjuration was the most important. The only reason why I’m starting from scratch was, well, he took my powers and sealed them.”

Votary awkwardly squirmed, unsure what to say next. After an uneasy moment filled with conflicting energies, she responded, “Can I ask why again?”

“...It’s a long story, one that I won’t get into now. But to keep it short and brief: I wanted to help my father in his work.”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to be an Otherguard, not to serve those megalomaniacs but to carry some of our family’s burdens. I wanted to be Dawnfire.” Damien paused there to better force his thoughts out. “But he disagreed. And rendering me human was the last act he did as Ignatius Fayer. I had been human for about five years now."

Now, Latham was doing his best as Dawnfire, trying to do what Damien could not. Trying to reverse their family’s fortune.

Knowing that Votary couldn’t come up with a fitting response, Damien shifted topics, “I won’t betray humanity. I’ll contract the Void Demon explicitly to aid us in subjugating the Sungrazers and nothing else. No wishes for power, no wishes to destroy the Guards.”

Pretty blue eyes met his. “Despite being a half-demon?”

“Because I’m half-human too.” Damien didn’t realize he formed a smile. “Votary, do you ever think about abusing your power?”

“Never! I wouldn’t harm a rat,” she fought, indignant that he’d even suggest that. "Unless it carries disease, but I wouldn't otherwise!"

“Of course you wouldn’t. Slayers, like yourself, are taught responsibility when you emerged, swearing to never raise a hand against the innocent.” He recalled Dad’s words. “I was taught the same lesson when I emerged from my mother’s womb.”

With those words, it caused the greatest shift in Votary’s demeanor.

“...Kezia.”

Damien lifted his head, and he didn’t know he had lowered it.

“My name is Kezia Astaril,” she told him.

Damien laughed at himself. “You know mine already: Damien Fayer. Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Votary?”

~~~

“...It looks like you’ve won this wager, Problem.”

Morgan scoffed. He had known he would win since the very beginning. While he’d take a victory lap and gloat, this wasn’t the right time for it. Even if the loser happened to be an old man taking himself too casually.

“I was wrong too,” Morgan began as glanced at the pair from afar, “myself, the rest of my former team, even Archknell. There’s less than a one-percent chance that Damien will betray us. He’s irritating, he does things for his own amusement, he plays with your emotion and will probably manipulate you if there’s a greater goal in mind—”

“You aren’t making a good case for him,” White Herald chimed.

“Quiet. As I was saying: despite his morally dubious actions, he genuinely wants to protect humanity, not harm it. He’d shown me that throughout the week we spent together. He handed out rations, clean clothes and medicine, surprisingly virtuous acts. None of it was asked of him.”

“But there will always be an underlying danger,” argued the old man for the fun of it. “He is innately a threat to our world’s safety.”

“It’s the same reason why the Global Guards put Duskfire in chains, no? And you misremember one thing about Damien and his family heritage. Of innate traits, they innately do not follow the same fundamental principles that guide the demons you exorcize.”

“Being half-human?“

Morgan shook his head. “Being a new race, technically. The Guards made the same misunderstanding with Duskfire—perhaps intentionally to justify their tyrannical actions—but I advise that you don’t make the same mistake.”

White Herald smiled warmly at him, like how an ragged uncle looked at a child—condescending prick—and admired his junior speaking with the Scion in question.

“You make a good argument, Problem. You’ve already won so I’ll concede,” he said, “I’ll pass the message to the others. Everyday, though, the multiverse astounds me. It brings new discoveries to our world and forces us to adapt, to change the way we think, to consider new possibilities. It’s exhilarating, isn’t it?”

“It can be.” Master Alzahrani had always been both curious and afraid of the stars’ treasures.

“But it also makes me ashamed,” White Herald admitted. “I have my prejudices against Duskfire and his son. Some can be argued as reasonable concerns, some not so much. But I can’t ignore the injustice that the Global Guards have done to their family.”

“It’s a pity that we’re politically powerless,” responded Morgan. I might've had some clout if I joined the Society, but simply: they can go to hell too.

“Which is why I feel shame in the first place. Even as high-rankers, we are powerless against the Guards. The Fayers might not want it but I’ll pray for them.”

“If that’s your prerogative.”

Morgan was never a politically-minded man but even he knew the Global Guards was too powerful for its own good. First an international government to coordinate worldly defensive efforts and now an all-encompassing institution, possessing no limitations on governmental power and immune to most besides a direct rebellion.

Duskfire, although his circumstances weren’t known to the public, was one example of such abuse. And if the rumors that Morgan heard about were true, then Duskfire was the lucky one.

At least he had raised his son well. Better than most fathers, and they were fully human. Perhaps too human in that case.

If it wasn’t for his guidance, then White Herald wouldn’t be convinced that his son wasn’t a constant danger to Ordo. And White Herald would continue to make preparations to subjugate Damien.

Morgan ultimately didn’t blame the high-ranker for considering such contingencies. That was his job after all, and it was necessary to persuade him that this was an exception and not the rule. And fortunately for all parties involved, White Herald was not an unreasonable man unlike the stubborn warriors from the Vatican.

Even absent, Duskfire might’ve possibly saved his son’s life once again.