Before, Luna had been purple and silver—a storm of vibrant hues and gentle light that moved through her existence like a dream half-remembered. Those colors were not painted upon her but woven into the very fabric of her being, the strands shimmering and undulating as though alive, resonating with the rhythms of an otherworldly song. They coursed through her like rivers of liquid light, splitting and merging, forming intricate patterns that seemed both chaotic and deliberate.
Within those luminous currents, there were filaments—long, delicate strands that hummed as if plucked by invisible hands. They vibrated softly, creating harmonies that rippled through the undulating fabric of her soul, setting it alive with waves of motion and sound. These filaments stretched endlessly, weaving themselves into impossible shapes, tracing paths that could not be followed yet were undeniably meaningful. They were as much a part of her as the thoughts she carried or the breath she no longer needed. They strummed across the vast expanse of her essence, each note a secret, each vibration a question answered only by itself.
Beneath the surface of her soul, great forms moved—serpentine and vast, undulating through the boundless sea that was herself. They swam like the sea serpents of ancient myth, their movements graceful yet primal, evoking a sense of wonder and unease. They shimmered as they moved, their translucent bodies trailing streams of purple and silver light, their scales rippling with runes that seemed alive. Each rune was an intricate story, a fragment of something deeper than words, more ancient than memory. They glowed faintly, their patterns spiraling inward and outward, creating an endless tapestry of encoded secrets.
Chains lay coiled within those serpents, not as bindings but as integral parts of their forms. They spiraled through their translucent bodies, gleaming faintly with a metallic sheen. Upon each link were runes etched so finely they seemed to shift with every motion, their shapes impossible to hold in the mind. These runes were not mere symbols—they were the embodiment of meaning itself, speaking of truths too vast for language, of life and death intertwined, of creation and destruction locked in eternal embrace.
Here, within her, there was hell. There was the moon. Both coexisted in those spiraling codes, in those hieroglyphs carved into the soul’s deepest corners. The moon was serenity, its light soft and unyielding. Hell was fire, its fury woven into the tapestry, not as an opposing force but as a necessary counterpart. Together, they spoke of balance, of forces locked in an eternal dance, shaping and reshaping existence. They existed in those codes and those chains. The little she understood of them at the very least.
Luna tilted her head upwards—or, rather, what she imagined to be her head. Perhaps it wasn’t a head at all, just the shadow of an idea she clung to for the sake of identity, a rough representation of what she might once have been. She existed here as a thoughtform, an idealized version of herself crafted from memory and need. In this place, where everything was her and she was everything, form was a choice, a convenience to create a sense of self amidst the expanse of her being.
Above her, high over the endless sea that was her soul, there hung the moon. Not a code or secret but a real physical moon. As real as anything could be in such a space.
It was a crescent, sharp and gleaming, its light cutting through the endless swirl of her inner world. It was no ordinary moon but a force unto itself—a wedge dividing the sea of her soul from the boundless sky above. The sea churned endlessly, vast and deep, its waves shimmering with every hue of her essence. Each crest was a thought, each trough a memory, flowing together in an endless tide. The sky, however, was still—a vast expanse of darkness studded with pinpricks of light that blinked in and out of existence, as though they, too, were uncertain of their place.
The crescent moon was the balance between them, the divider and the unifier. Its light spilled down in faint, silvery beams that danced upon the waves, casting ever-shifting shadows that seemed to hold secrets of their own. The serpents of her soul swam beneath it, their translucent forms glowing faintly in its light, their movements a reflection of the tides it dictated.
Luna gazed at the moon—or perhaps it gazed at her. It hung motionless, unyielding, its edges sharp enough to cut through the very fabric of her existence. It wasn’t just an object in her soul; it was a part of her, as integral as the sea below and the sky above. It whispered to her in a language she didn’t know but somehow understood, its light carrying truths that seeped into her without need for translation.
Its crescent seemed to lord over all that flowed within her. It cast its light across the undulating sea of her essence, subtle and yet undeniably sovereign, commanding the tides with an authority so profound it felt like a heartbeat echoing through the chambers of her soul. The pull of the moon was gentle, a whispered command rather than an overt decree, yet it bent the very fabric of her existence, aligning the erratic flows of energy within her. The currents and filaments, once wild and chaotic, now danced in synchrony under its influence, forging themselves into something new, something unrecognizable yet familiar.
It was a transformation she could feel in every part of herself—not just in the tangible edges of her being but in the depths where thought became instinct, where the boundaries between soul and self blurred. The moon’s light nfused her, seeping into the deepest recesses of her essence and leaving trails of silver where it touched. With every pulse of that light, she felt the changes carving themselves into her, remaking her into something else. Something greater.
And she knew, instinctively, what the moon was. It wasn’t merely a construct within her soul, nor a random manifestation of her inner self. No, it was far more than that. It was something ancient and intimate, something that had been with her for as long as she could remember. A memory woven into the very fabric of her existence, its presence as natural as breath. It was a gift, she realized—a final, precious gift from her father. The knowledge settled within her like a whisper carried on the wind, unspoken but undeniable.
Why had he sent it to her? Why had it come here, to this place that was her soul? She did not know. The answers eluded her, slipping through her grasp like water through cupped hands. Yet the purpose seemed irrelevant compared to the reality of it, the undeniable truth that this moon, with all its quiet power and unwavering authority, had become a part of her. It was changing her along with something else. Into more into greater.
Her body, her mind, and the profundity of her being reacted to the change with an almost primal urgency. It was a process beyond thought, beyond choice—something instinctual, ancient, and unstoppable. The comparison came unbidden to her mind: a butterfly undergoing metamorphosis, its fragile body dissolving into chaos before reemerging, reborn in beauty. Or perhaps a nymph transforming into a dragonfly, its new form emerging fully formed, breaking free of its watery origin to take flight.
The changes surged through her like a wave, reshaping her, remaking her. It wasn’t painful, but it was intense, overwhelming in its magnitude. Every strand of energy within her, every filament of light, seemed to twist and coil, weaving themselves into something stronger, something purer. The chains within the serpents of her soul gleamed brighter, their runes pulsing with newfound life as if responding to the moon’s call. The sea of her essence churned, its once-gentle waves now a roiling storm of power and potential.
For a fleeting moment, she tried to think of when she had last been in reality—when her feet had last touched solid ground, when her senses had last been tethered to something beyond this ethereal expanse. But the memories did not come. They teased the edges of her mind, faint and fleeting, like the whisper of a breeze that vanishes before it can be felt. She could sense them, feel their presence on the periphery of her thoughts, but they slipped away the moment she reached for them.
It was as if her memories were grains of sand, trickling through her fingers no matter how tightly she tried to hold them. The sensation was maddening, the faintest hint of familiarity lingering just out of reach, a word poised on the tip of her tongue that refused to be spoken. She knew she should remember—knew there was something vital she had forgotten—but the harder she tried to grasp it, the more elusive it became.
Yet, despite the frustration of lost memories, she felt no fear, no desperation. The overwhelming sense that enveloped her now was one of bliss—pure, unadulterated bliss. It was not the fleeting happiness of the moment but something deeper, something more profound. It was the kind of bliss that came from understanding, from knowing that she was becoming more than she had ever been. She was evolving. Yes, that was the word. Evolution.
Befitting of one such as her, a transformation such as this. The thought struck Luna unbidden, and with it came a surge of pride so fierce it threatened to consume her. It swelled within her like a wave, warm and potent, a declaration of her own worth that rose from the depths of her being. But Luna was not one to give in to such things, not even now, not even in this. With a deliberate effort of will, she squashed the feeling, pushing it down and away as though it were a spark that might ignite something uncontrollable. Pride was dangerous—it clouded the mind, it invited weakness. Her– someone had always told her that. Someone important.
Her thoughtform—this idealized projection of herself that floated above the undulating sea of her soul—shook its head, the motion smooth and deliberate. The swells of pride had become a recurring nuisance, each wave more insistent than the last, as though the transformation occurring within her sought to unearth emotions that could only ruin her. Troublesome, she thought. Troublesome and unlike her. But then, what about this process was like anything she had ever known?
The moon above her seemed to agree. Its crescent form, luminous and commanding, began to grow. Slowly at first, then faster, until its enormity consumed the sky. The once-distant wedge now loomed so large that it was no longer a thing of mere light but a celestial force unto itself. Its pale brilliance set the atmosphere of her soul sea aflame with radiant blue, a spectral fire that danced across the waves and illuminated the serpents coiling within her depths. The light reached everywhere, leaving no corner of her being untouched.
The moon grew impossibly vast, filling her vision and her senses, eclipsing everything else in sight. The fabric of her soul seemed to shudder under its immense weight, yet Luna remained unshaken. She stood—no, she existed—in the face of its descent, calm and unafraid. It wasn’t that she was brave beyond words but simply that she knew this was something that muct happen.
And then, as the moon drew closer, she heard them: voices.
One voice was new to her ears, yet it carried a familiarity that felt like it had always been there, just beneath the surface, waiting to be heard. It was rich, layered, and resonant, like the deep hum of the sea. The other voice was entirely unfamiliar, but it brought no sense of alienation. If anything, it was calming, its cadence gentle yet assured, like the whisper of wind through ancient trees.
“The moon is the lord of everything that flows,” the first voice intoned, its words heavy with authority and laden with meaning.
“It is from sin and squalor that sovereigns' blood flows,” the second voice added, its tone softer but no less profound. “And sin and squalor where that same blood will return when slain. If slain at all. Sin shan’t stop Scelus.”
The voices overlapped, their words weaving together into a tapestry of sound that filled her soul with a tingling sensation. It wasn’t pain, nor was it pleasure. It was something deeper, a resonance that seemed to vibrate through her very essence, shaking loose fragments of understanding she didn’t know she possessed.
The moon descended further, and Luna braced herself, though not out of fear. No, fear was the furthest thing from her mind. There was only resolve. Resolve and a strange, growing anticipation as she felt the inevitability of what was to come. The moon was not merely descending; it was claiming her, and she welcomed it.
When it crashed into the sea of her soul, the impact was cataclysmic. The waves erupted, gentle undulations breaking into towering walls. The serpents thrashed, their forms illuminated in blinding light. The sea, the sky, the moon—it all seemed to collapsed inward, swallowing itself whole.
The moon's descent displaced more than water; it displaced existence itself. No, not existence—it displaced her existence. The fabric of her being unraveled and reformed, torn apart and re-woven in a process as beautiful as it was terrifying. The light of the collision wasn’t simply radiant; it was alive. Royal purple and ethereal silver burst forth in a conflagration that consumed her soul sea, enveloping everything in its path.
The serpents were engulfed, their forms dissolving into streams of pure energy that flowed into the ever-expanding brilliance. The chains within them broke apart, their runes scattering like fragments of stars, each symbol burning briefly before being drawn into the radiant core where the moon had once been. The light pulsed and surged, each wave carrying with it a sensation of power so immense it defied comprehension.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the chaos ceased. The sea stilled, the light dimmed, and all that remained was her. Luna. She stood—or floated, or simply was—in the aftermath, her form aglow with the residual energy of the transformation. The crescent moon, no longer separate from her, now resided within the core of her being. She could feel it, a steady presence that pulsed in time with her own essence, its light suffusing every corner of her soul.
The voices were gone, their words lingering like an echo in the deepest recesses of her mind. She didn’t know their origins or their purpose, but their impact was undeniable. They had spoken to something primal within her, something she hadn’t known existed until this moment.
And then there was the day.
________
Luna’s eyes snapped open, the action sharp and instinctive as though pulled from the depths of an unyielding dream. Layers of rich, swirling purple clouded her vision, a haze of color that clung to her like a second skin. She could feel it, tangible and warm, suffusing her body in a tingling, almost electric sensation. The warmth radiated through her, pressing against her very essence, and it was unbearable. It wasn’t discomfort—it was desire. She craved that warmth, hungered for it with an intensity that drowned out all else.
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Her claws flexed instinctively, the dark talons glinting faintly as she reached forward into the layers of obfuscation that held her. With a guttural growl that resonated deep in her chest, she tore at the barrier before her. Her movements were wild, frantic, driven by a primal rage she could neither suppress nor fully understand. It was the unbridled fury of something new and powerful, trapped and desperate to be free. Like a newborn predator clawing its way out of the egg, she ripped through the layers with a ferocity that left jagged rifts in the fabric of her confinement.
The resistance crumbled before her, shredded into fragments that dissolved into nothingness as she surged upward. Her body erupted from the cocoon-like prison, her wings and horns cresting the ceiling with such force that the impact resounded through the space like a thunderclap. The sheer power of her emergence sent her crashing back down, her feet striking the ground with a resounding thud. Dust and debris billowed around her, but she felt no pain. She didn’t even register the fall—her focus was singular and unrelenting.
She paid no attention to her surroundings. The world beyond her was inconsequential. What mattered now, what consumed her entirely, was herself. Slowly, deliberately, Luna raised her hands before her, her sharp eyes tracing every detail of her form.
Her body was bare, her skin pale as moonlight and unnervingly smooth, yet etched with intricate patterns. Purple lines, vibrant and alive, snaked across her flesh like veins of liquid light. They twisted and coiled, their paths deliberate yet chaotic, as though they carried the essence of her transformation within them. The lines shimmered faintly with traces of silver, the metallic sheen catching the dim light and casting fleeting reflections across her form.
Her chest bore a mark—a symbol etched into her very being. The crescent moon stood out in stark relief against her pale skin, its shape simple yet profound, radiating an unspoken authority. She reached up to touch it, her clawed fingers grazing the symbol’s surface. It was warm, almost alive, a tangible reminder of what she had become. It pulsed faintly under her touch, sending ripples of energy through her body, and she couldn’t help but shiver at the sensation.
Her hands drew her attention next. They were different, stronger, more refined. Her nails—no, her claws—were pitch black, sharp and deadly, each one a weapon in its own right. She flexed them experimentally, marveling at the ease with which they moved, the strength she could feel within them. Her fingers felt precise, more dexterous than before, yet they carried a weight that spoke of raw, unyielding power.
Her exploration moved upward. Her hands grazed her head, finding the familiar texture of her wolf ears. They were still there, still a part of her, but heavier now. The weight of them was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, a quiet shift that spoke of something deeper. Her fingers brushed further up, and there they found the new additions—two horns, curling upward from the edges of her forehead.
The horns were sleek and smooth, their texture cool to the touch. They curved with a natural elegance, like the spiraling branches of some ancient tree. Yet there was nothing fragile about them. They radiated strength, their very presence a declaration of her newfound power. Her claws traced the horns’ lengths, feeling the faint energy that seemed to hum within them.
And then there was her tail. She turned, the motion instinctive, as the much longer limb swayed behind her. It was heavier, thicker than before, but far more agile, moving with a precision that surprised even her. Black spikes erupted along its furry length, their pointed tips glinting with a deep purple hue. They shimmered faintly, as if imbued with the same energy that coursed through the rest of her. The fur itself was streaked with silver patterns, the markings forming what looked like the crescent of a white moon, stark and beautiful against the dark backdrop.
Luna swung the tail experimentally, marveling at the ease with which it moved. It wasn’t as long as Tarak’s, but it was undeniably more viable now—a weapon as much as a part of her. The spikes along its length flexed slightly, almost as though responding to her thoughts, and she could feel their sharpness as clearly as she felt her own claws.
“Hahh… hahh!” Luna’s breaths came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she struggled to contain the surge of strength that roared through her body. It was like trying to hold back a tempest with her bare hands—a storm that had no intention of being restrained. Her limbs trembled with raw energy, her newly transformed body feeling both alien and achingly familiar all at once. Every nerve was alive, thrumming with a power she didn’t understand but couldn’t deny. She felt the urge to scream rising from deep within her, a pressure building in her chest that begged for release.
She didn’t know whether the scream would be one of exhilaration or terror—maybe both. But she had to let it out. The sensation clawed at her, a primal need that refused to be ignored. Just as her lips parted, the memories came crashing in like a tidal wave, slamming into her with the force of years of repressed emotion.
Hati. Her mother. Surya. Sol. Fragments of her life flickered through her mind, each one more vivid than the last. And then… him. That night. That man. The memory was sharp, cutting through the haze with brutal clarity.
He had touched her.
The thought repeated in her mind, a poisonous mantra.
He had touched her. He had touched her. He had touched her!
“AHHHH!”
The scream erupted from her lips, tearing through the air with a force that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the world. It wasn’t just a scream—it was a release, a purging of everything that had been buried within her for so long. Her voice was unrecognizable, a sound both alien and beautiful, ringing out like the pure, crystalline song of a lark. It was haunting in its sweetness, resonating with an almost otherworldly quality that seemed to transcend mere sound.
But beneath the beauty was a terrifying power. The air itself seemed to vibrate around her, trembling under the weight of her voice. The small room she was in groaned in protest, its walls shuddering as though trying to hold themselves together. Cracks spiderwebbed across the surface, fragments of stone and plaster beginning to chip away and fall. Yet it wasn’t violent destruction—not exactly. It was as if the room itself had become enchanted by her, surrendering willingly to her voice’s call. Every piece of debris that fell did so as if in reverence, as though it had chosen to unravel for her.
Her hands clenched into trembling fists, her claws digging into her palms hard enough to draw thin lines of blood that shimmered faintly with silver. She could feel her emotions boiling over, spilling out into the world around her. Her transformation had changed her in ways she was only beginning to comprehend, but her rage, her grief, her pride—they were all hers. And they were overwhelming.
Her voice rose again, trembling with raw emotion as her head tilted back, her silvery hair cascading behind her like a waterfall caught in a storm. “AAGGGHHHH!!!”
The sound was louder this time, more potent, shaking the very foundation of the room. Dust rained from the ceiling, swirling in the air around her like ash carried on an invisible wind. The vibrations from her voice coursed through the walls, the floor, the very air, dislodging pieces of wood and stone. Yet the destruction didn’t feel chaotic. There was a strange grace to it, as though the world itself was peeling apart in response to her presence—not from force, but from sheer awe.
Her every motion seemed imbued with an undeniable gravitas, a weight that drew the world to her. She took a staggering step forward, and the floor beneath her feet cracked, not from the weight of her body but from the weight of her being. It was as if her very existence demanded acknowledgment, as if the universe itself couldn’t help but yield to her.
She could feel it—how much she had changed. The strength in her limbs, the weight of her power, the mark of the crescent moon that now pulsed faintly on her chest. Her transformation wasn’t just physical. It was deeper than that, something that reached into the very essence of her soul.
Her breath hitched as the realization settled over her. Her mother was gone. She was alone. And he was still out there.
The thought burned in her mind, a searing rage that sent her voice soaring once more. Her scream echoed with a resonance that felt like it could shatter the heavens themselves. The walls of the room began to collapse inward, each piece falling away as though drawn to her, compelled by the raw power of her voice.
It wasn’t destruction—not entirely. It was devotion. The world seemed to destroy itself for her, each piece falling apart as if it had deemed her existence worth its sacrifice.
But then, a wave of purple numen surged into the room like an unrelenting tide, slamming against the walls with a force that made them shudder. The soundwave she had created, born of her instinctive anguish, dispersed instantly, the power behind it unraveling as though cowed by the presence of something far greater. The shimmering remnants of her voice dissipated into the air, leaving behind a stunned, unnatural silence.
Luna’s bleary, tear-filled eyes turned slowly, drawn toward the source of the numen. Standing in the doorway, framed by the pale, dawning light of the seven suns, was a figure wreathed in shadow and majesty. He seemed almost unreal, his form outlined by an aura of flickering purple light that danced across his pitch-black skin like living fire. Four imposing horns jutted upward from his head, curling slightly as though to pierce the very heavens. His eyes burned crimson, and his six clawed hands hung at his sides, relaxed yet exuding a quiet menace. His lower body, goat-like and powerful, gave him the silhouette of a demon lord—a dark satyr whose presence seemed to command the space, bending it to his will.
For a moment, Luna could only stare, her breath catching in her throat as her mind struggled to process the sight. There was something about him—something that transcended mere recognition. She knew him, not through memories or words but through a primal, instinctive understanding that resonated in the deepest parts of her being. She felt his presence like a gravitational pull, an unyielding force that called to her, tugging at the very fabric of her existence. Her body responded without thought, like water rushing downward to meet the sea. It was an ache, a longing that she couldn’t explain, rooted in something far older than she could comprehend.
But Luna didn’t want him. Not now. Not anyone.
Her chest heaved as she fought the feeling, her nails digging into her palms in an effort to ground herself. She didn’t want the comfort of his presence, the familiarity of the bond she felt with him. All she wanted was to be alone—to wallow in her grief, to let it consume her until there was nothing left. She wanted to shrink away, to hide so deeply within herself that the world outside could no longer touch her. She wanted the pain, the anger, the overwhelming torrent of emotions to fade into nothingness, to dissipate alongside her as she wasted away into oblivion.
But that was the cruel irony of it all, wasn’t it? There was always something out there. Something that wouldn’t leave, something that wouldn’t let her retreat into nothingness. The world would keep turning. The pain would keep finding her. There was no true escape.
Her breathing quickened, and she felt the scream clawing its way back up from the depths of her chest. She inhaled sharply, ready to let it loose, ready to shatter the world again with her voice. But before the sound could escape her lips, the satyr was gone in a rush of speed so sudden it stole the air from the room.
And then he was on her.
His massive frame enveloped her entirely, his arms—powerful and warm—wrapped around her trembling body with a strength that spoke not of dominance but of unyielding protection. His pitch-black skin pressed against hers, cool and smooth, and though every instinct told her she should recoil, should resist, she found herself unable to. There was no fear, no hatred, no anger. Only the quiet thrum of his heartbeat against her wolfish ears, steady and rhythmic, like the beat of a drum anchoring her to reality.
Her breathing slowed, the wild storm in her chest calming ever so slightly as she was held in his embrace. She could feel his presence wrapping around her like a cocoon, and she hated that it worked. She hated that the calm began to bubble up from within her, weaving its way through the agony, the horror, the trauma, like threads of light piercing the darkness. The warmth of it seeped into her being, soothing even as it collided with her inner turmoil. It wasn’t overpowering. It didn’t wash the pain away. But it dulled the edges, softened the sharpness of her despair.
She opened her mouth to speak, to scream, to say anything, but no words came. She didn’t even know what she wanted to say. The emotions swirling within her were too vast, too chaotic to condense into something as simple as language. So she stayed silent, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her soul.
And he said nothing. He didn’t try to offer words of comfort or platitudes that would fall hollow. He just held her, his body a shield against the world, his heartbeat a quiet metronome in the silence. They stayed like that, frozen in a moment that stretched endlessly, a split second that felt like an eternity.
And for that brief, eternal instant, the chaos in her heart stirred silently beginning to calm.
“A Nahemoth, huh? Truly one of a kind,” the figure murmured, his voice low, a baritone laced with the weight of something unspoken. He stood there, his towering presence both imposing and oddly gentle as the dim light of the seven suns painted his features in stark relief. His words carried a tinge of sorrow, a faint tremor that wove itself into the syllables, betraying emotions he seemed unwilling or unable to fully express. “Well, more importantly…” he paused, his four crimson eyes meeting hers with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the layers of her being, “…Happy birthday, my daughter. And… I’m sorry.”
The last words were barely more than a whisper, spoken not to her but to the air, as if the weight of them was too much to bear. They hung between them like a fragile thread, quivering in the stillness. For Luna, they felt alien, unfamiliar, yet they struck something deep within her, something primal and aching.
She didn’t know much about him—this towering, dark satyr with his six-clawed hands and his horns that seemed to scrape the heavens. She barely knew anything at all. His face was a blur in her memories, a distant silhouette that carried no context, no stories. A stranger to the village, she knew him only for Surya and Tarak. This moment, here and now, was one of the few times she had ever seen him in person. And yet, it was enough to shatter something within her.
The tears came before she could stop them, surging forth like a storm breaking against a fragile dam. They spilled down her cheeks in a torrent, hot and endless, each drop an echo of the tumult within her. Her sobs were like thunderclaps, shaking the fragile air around them, the force of her cries making her chest heave and her breath hitch. It felt as though the winds of her lungs were caught in a tempest, straining against the storm of emotions that raged inside her.
She didn’t understand why he had said what he said—why he had murmured that quiet, mournful apology, or why it sounded so final. But in that moment, she cared little for understanding. The questions could wait, the answers could linger in the shadows of her mind. Right now, she didn’t need reasons. She needed something.
She needed a parent. Or at least the illusion of one. Something to cling to, someone to anchor her in the maelstrom of her grief and confusion. Her claws dug into his back, the sharp tips pressing into the obsidian-like flesh of his form, but he did not flinch. He simply held her tighter, his arms encircling her with a kind of quiet strength, a silent reassurance that she wasn’t alone in that moment.
Her sobs deepened, raw and unrestrained, as she buried her face into the crook of his shoulder. The newborn demon cried her first cries into the arms of her parent.
And as her tears soaked into his skin, he remained still, unyielding, his presence a wall against the chaos that threatened to consume her. His heartbeat was steady, a rhythmic pulse she could feel through her trembling frame. It was a sound she clung to, as vital and grounding as the air she struggled to breathe. His silence spoke volumes, each unspoken word a balm for the wounds she couldn’t yet articulate.
The world around them seemed to fade, the room shrinking until it was just the two of them, locked in that fragile, timeless embrace. The walls, the light, the numen—all of it melted away, leaving only the rawness of their connection.
As it should be with newborns.