Daemian stood in the presence of his goddess, Eni, a figure of ethereal regality. Her every word carried a weight that made his head spin, a delicate dance of power and beauty that entranced him.

"You have summoned me to an odd place," she remarked, her voice resonating with authority.

Daemian's voice trembled as he responded, "Forgive me, your grace."

He had exhausted himself in the process of inscribing the sigils, his childlike body ill-equipped to handle such blood loss and the immense consumption of Enerith.

"No matter," she waved off his concerns, her hand sweeping through the air. "It is unbecoming for a saint of mine to sit there trembling."

The shadows cast by her ethereal glow enshrouded Daemian, a sensation all too familiar. He’d always despised healing via shadow essence, an essence known for it’s vindictive nature. He felt as if thousands of pins pricked at his flesh, the shadow healing coursing through him, revitalizing his weary being.

Emerging from the shadows, Daemian's gaze fell upon his grace Eni, and he couldn't help but marvel at her timeless beauty. Her long, silky black hair flowed like a liquid veil, while her red eyes, resembling smoldering coals, pierced through his very soul. She was his goddess, the epitome of beauty and power.

Once again, Daemian bowed before her, his right hand placed over his heart, and uttered with gratitude, "Thank you, your grace."

"Enough," she interjected firmly. "Why have you summoned me?"

Daemian fell silent, the weight of a thousand questions pressing upon him. He knew time was fleeting, and he had to choose his words carefully.

"You don't seem surprised by my altered form, your grace," he cautiously probed.

Her narrowed eyes bore into him, their intensity enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He swallowed hard, waiting for her response.

The air grew frigid as Eni finally spoke, her voice cutting through the silence like ice. "What happened to you was indeed unfortunate, my dear saint."

"Huh?" Daemian blurted out, his disbelief evident in his widened eyes. He mustered the courage to meet her gaze.

"You... you knew?" he stammered, his voice trembling. Her cold gaze remained unyielding, fixed upon him.

"Why..." he managed to utter, his voice choked with sorrow. “Why didn't you intervene?"

Tears streamed down his cheeks, his anguish pouring forth. "I called out to you... I lost everyone, Tera, Mils, Gaez... they're all gone!" His voice cracked with pain. "Night after night, they tormented me, relishing in my suffering. I prayed for you... and you did nothing!"

Overwhelmed by grief, Daemian clasped his head with both hands, struggling to contain his tears. At that moment, she embraced him, her arms encircling his broken frame. "My pitiful saint," she whispered, her voice tinged with sadness. Daemian could feel her tears dampening his shirt.

Confusion swirled within him, his emotions in disarray. Before he could utter a word, she released him from the embrace, her gaze fixed upon him once more.

"It pained me deeply to witness your torment," she admitted, "But it was your fate. To interfere would have defied the very fabric of fate. Yet, your existence, as you are now, serves as proof that I have not forsaken you."

Daemian found himself in a state of profound confusion, his mind grappling with overwhelming emotions. Tears cascaded down his face, transforming him into a pitiful figure, consumed by the anguish that now coursed through his very being. It was in this vulnerable state that he allowed his thoughts to drift back to sunnier days, to moments that seemed like distant dreams.

In his mind's eye, he revisited the nights of arduous sparring with his companion Gaez. The clash of their swords reverberated in his ears, mingling with the metallic scent of sparks that filled the air. Memories surfaced of the countless occasions when mils, their wise mentor, had attempted to coerce them into studying scripture—a task they had deftly sidestepped time and time again. But amidst these recollections, one figure stood out, shining brighter than the rest: Tera, his beloved. Despite being younger than him, she possessed a maturity that was awe-inspiring. Tera possessed a remarkable ability to mend their conflicts and ensure the well-being of all those around her.

"Why?" Daemian's anguished voice broke the silence, as he addressed his grace, seeking answers that seemed elusive. "Why did you spare me? Why didn't you allow me to perish alongside them?" His words trembled with despair, intertwining with his tears. His grace, still overwhelmed by her own grief, rose to her feet, rivulets of tears continuing to stream down her face. "I lack the authority to provide you with the answers you seek, my saint," she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. "All I can do is implore you to find forgiveness within your heart."

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Moments stretched into eternity as Daemian's sobs gradually subsided. His grace extended a trembling hand, her movements growing fainter by the minute as if she were ethereal. Her gaze settled upon Daemian, who now wept in silence, his sorrow transformed into a silent resolve. "We haven’t much time," she said softly, her words carrying a weight of urgency. "Though it may hold little significance in this moment, I want you to know that I care deeply for you, my dear saint. However, I am aware that such sentiments hold little solace for you now. Therefore, I beseech you, Killian-rather-Daemian Lunaeris, what is it that you desire?"

To request the return of his loved ones would have been the expected wish. Yet, deep within his heart, Daemian knew that such hopes were nothing more than impossible dreams. His days of idyllic adventuring were forever extinguished. No, what he sought now transcended revenge.

Once more, his grace intoned, her voice filled with solemnity, "I ask you for the final time, Daemian Lunaeris, what is your wish?"

Daemian lifted his head, his eyes ablaze with unwavering determination.

"Jihad,"

He declared, his voice resounding through the room, carrying the weight of purpose.

His grace paused, her eyes closing as she absorbed the weight of his words. "Very well," she finally responded, her tone heavy with resignation.

Extending her hand toward him, she whispered, "Then receive my stigmata once more."

Daemian reached out, his hand finding solace within hers. In that instant, the chamber was engulfed by a tempest of unrestrained Enerith, its power surging through every fiber of his being. The force carved a mark upon his chest, snaking its way down to his right arm.

As the final remnants of the Enerith dispersed, Daemian could discern his grace's disembodied voice, haunting yet tinged with a hint of regret. "May the day never come when you rue your decision, my dear saint."

Daemian had come too far for regrets. Now was the time for action.

Softly, almost as if it were a secret meant for his ears alone, the whispered word "shadow" escaped Daemian's lips. In that instant, a swirling, ebony mass materialized, wrapping itself tightly around him until he was completely shrouded within its darkness. And just as swiftly as the transformation had occurred, he found himself standing before a weathered edifice. This was the student quarters of the academy, where his classmates resided.

Silent and stealthy as the very essence he embodied, Daemian ventured into the building's aging corridors. Time had taken its toll on this place, reducing it to a semblance of abandonment rather than a dwelling of the young and eager. Yet, despite his nimble footsteps that barely whispered against the floor, the ancient timbers groaned in protest, their creaks a chorus accompanying his clandestine progress.

As he drew nearer, a distant voice pierced through the night's stillness, carrying a note of desperation. "Come out, dammit!" it bellowed, growing louder with each step. "Fire! Fire!" The exclamation rang out ceaselessly, tormenting the air. Guided by the source, Daemian made his way to the courtyard, where he discovered a familiar face. Beads of sweat adorned the figure from head to toe, and his eyes were bloodshot, drenched in tears. Curled up in a ball, he sobbed without respite. Daemian swiftly pieced together the reason behind this scene—their path selection loomed near. Although the boy lacked any affinity towards fire, he appeared desperate to tread its path.

"Fire," Daemian murmured, his voice weaving through the tense atmosphere, summoning forth a swirling, spiraling vortex of ethereal blue flames, igniting the target the boy had been practicing on. A mixture of awe and disbelief danced across the boy's features, as he struggled to ascertain who’s doing it was. Before long, he arrived at the correct conclusion.

"Daemian, is that you?" the boy quivered, his voice carrying the remnants of a shattered spirit.

"Good evening, Fien," Daemian responded, his tone marked by nonchalance.

Silence enveloped them, Fien's face adorned with a cascade of sweat droplets. Finally, he mustered the courage to pose a question. "Are... Are you here to kill me?"

Daemian released a weary sigh. "I've already told you, haven't I? I harbor no such intention."

"So what, then? Did you come here to flaunt your superiority?" Fien's voice cracked with a mix of anguish and resentment. He turned to face Daemian, his eyes aflame with wounded pride. "Have you graced this place solely to showcase how you surpass me, my lord, Lunaeris?"

A mischievous grin crept upon Daemian's lips, soon followed by a light chuckle. "Me? Why would I require such indulgence?"

Fien's fist clenched tightly, yet no words escaped his lips.

"Listen to me, Fien," Daemian commanded, circling around him as if orchestrating a solemn dance. "Picture, if you will, the vast expanse of nature—a breathtaking tapestry of life itself. Within this intricate weave, creatures of various forms coexist harmoniously. And amidst their diverse presence, an ant scurries across the ground, its minuscule frame brimming with purpose and unwavering determination. In comparison, we, as humans, stand tall, endowed with immeasurable strength, intellect, and boundless potential. Yet, do you, as a human ever feel compelled to prove your worth to the humble ant? Would you grant its opinion any weight or significance? Of course not."

"Am I the ant, then?" Fien's voice trembled, teetering on the edge of vulnerability.

Daemian halted, standing directly in front of Fien, his piercing gaze locking onto him. "Do not be absurd. As far as I'm concerned, you are less than an ant," he uttered with an icy tone, sending shivers down Fien's spine.

"One might mistake you for strength, for daring to stand up against a Lunaeris, as you so eloquently put it. But no, you have become something far worse than the weak—a coward."

Fien's anger, long suppressed, surged within him like molten lava nearing eruption. "What the hell would you know, huh?!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the night. "You, who grew up in a prestigious family, having everything you ever wanted?! How could you possibly know how we feel? How I feel?!"

"Excuses," Daemian interjected, his voice laced with stern authority. "You know better than anyone that I am Lunaeris in name only. I was nothing more than an object onto which you vented your frustrations and grievances. No more, no less."

"Then why are you here?" Fien muttered, his voice quivering with a mixture of confusion and defiance. "If you are not here to end me, why did you come to this den of insignificant ants?"

A triumphant smile crept upon Daemian's face, and he stretched both arms wide, as if embracing the entire world. "I have come to make you strong," he declared, his voice carrying a touch of fervor.