"Commander Garran, this is the child," Rhosyn said quietly, her voice laced with unease. "There's something... off about him."
The High Commander stood tall before Cael's unconscious form. Broad-shouldered with tan skin and short, steel-gray hair, he carried the air of a veteran who had stared death down more times than he could count. His trimmed beard and gleaming white-and-gold coat—bearing the crest of the Night Watchers—gave him the appearance of nobility, though none dared mistake him for a mere figurehead.
"How long has he been like this?" Garran asked, his gaze sharp.
"Three days," Rhosyn replied.
"Hm." Garran narrowed his eyes. "Your healing is supposed to bring someone back within thirty minutes. What went wrong?"
"Nothing," she said, calm but firm. "I've never failed a healing in my life."
The commander remained silent, staring at the boy. Then Cael's brow twitched. His head shifted slightly, a pained grimace forming. Like a nightmare was clawing at him from within.
"Call Ezren—now," Rhosyn snapped, rushing to Cael's side. Her briar grimoire fluttered open, pages turning of their own accord. "Soulweave," she whispered, weaving threads of calming essence to soothe his mind. Whatever that black aura was... they couldn't risk it flaring to life while he was unstable.
Moments later, Ezren arrived, bowing quickly to the commander before hurrying over.
"Let me," he said. Rhosyn nodded, stepping aside.
Ezren placed a hand gently on Cael's forehead and closed his eyes. "Echo Sight."
Light flickered around his fingers as he pushed his consciousness inward, slipping into the boy's mind.
Darkness.
Utter, stifling silence.
Ezren turned in place, searching for any trace of Cael—any presence at all. But there was nothing. Just a vast, endless void.
Where are you...?
Then—something behind him.
He turned.
And there Cael stood.
Silent.
Motionless.
Eyes empty.
Expression unreadable.
Ezren's breath caught. There was no emotion in the boy's face. No fear. No confusion. Just stillness—as if Cael had already accepted something... or been hollowed out entirely.
"Why are you here? Who are you?" Cael's voice echoed through the darkness.
Ezren froze.
"...Aren't you afraid of me?" Cael asked again, his voice low, distant.
Ezren opened his mouth to respond, but the moment shattered.
"Aren't you afraid of me?" The words repeated—but this time, the voice glitched, like a broken recording, jagged and distorted. Cael's body began to flicker, static distorting his form like a corrupted image.
Ezren stumbled back, hand clutching his chest. He couldn't look away.
The boy's wavy hair shifted, falling aside to reveal eyes—pitch black, soulless voids. An unnatural smile crawled across Cael's face, too wide, too still. It wasn't human. It wasn't right.
From outside, Ezren faintly heard Rhosyn's voice.
"Ezren? What's happening?!"
He could feel their panic. He could feel the pull to return. But something rooted him here. Curiosity? Fear? No—need.
He had to know. Who was this child?
Then, the smile vanished.
Cael's head dropped, shoulders trembling. Static faded. And then... tears.
"I... I don't want this," Cael's voice quivered, vulnerable and small.
Ezren's breath caught.
"Help... me," Cael whispered, barely audible.
The boy slowly raised his head. His black eyes now shimmered—not with power, but pain. "Help me."
Then, a scream.
"Help me!" he cried—and lunged forward.
Ezren tore his hand away from Cael's forehead and gasped awake. Sweat streamed down his face, and his heart thundered in his chest. He clutched at it, wide-eyed, breath sharp and shallow.
Rhosyn rushed to him, placing a steady hand on his back. "Ezren! What happened?"
Ezren didn't answer.
His gaze had locked on Cael once more.
That boy...Who are you, really?
"You okay?" Commander Garran asked, placing a firm hand on Ezren's shoulder.
Ezren looked up, meeting the commander's eyes. "Yes, sir," he said softly, voice still shaken.
Rhosyn approached, her expression a blend of concern and curiosity. She handed him a glass of water. "What did you see?"
Ezren accepted it with a nod, his fingers trembling slightly. He stared at the rippling surface of the water, as if hoping it would reflect the answer.
"I'm afraid..." he began, voice trembling.
Then he looked up—first at Rhosyn, then at Garran. His expression was resolute now, eyes dark with truth.
"...It's a devil."
The words landed like stone.
Rhosyn gasped, instinctively stepping back, her grip tightening on her grimoire. And then her expression hardened, eyes like steel.
"Kill it. I'll curse it myself if I must. We cannot put our people at risk for a mere child."
Two weeks later...
Cael walked through the Dominion military base, healthy and whole—but something was off. His steps were uneven, his eyes restless. He looked over his shoulder too often, his expression tense, awkward—as if he could feel eyes boring into his back.
It had been a week since he began his training as a Dominar—a path for those born without power, focusing on martial skill and tactical prowess. A place where effort was supposed to matter more than bloodline.
He entered the cafeteria, picked up a tray, and joined the line. His thoughts lingered on a question that never left his mind:
What happened while I was unconscious?
Finally, with his tray full, he scanned the room and chose an empty table. He sat. And then—just like always—he felt them.
The stares.
Distant. Cold.
Not curious. Not respectful.
Disgusted.
Despising.
He exhaled sharply, trying not to care—but his jaw clenched. His fingers curled.
Eighteen years of this. And nothing's changed.
Then someone sat in front of him.
He didn't need to look up.
He already knew who it was.
"For the love of—what now? Why are you here?" Cael snapped, glaring across the table.
No answer.
The man just took a spoonful of food, chewing calmly.
Cael's frustration bubbled. "Ugh! Why do you keep following me?! Who sent you?"
Again—silence.
Cael stood abruptly, slamming the table with both hands. Eyes turned toward him.
"Stop following me! Why?! You pity me? You feel bad? I don't need it!"
The man finally looked up. Calm. Unreadable.
"Sit down and eat," he said simply.
Cael scoffed, half-laughing in disbelief, but sat anyway, teeth clenched. He stared at his food, appetite gone.
"You should've let me die that night," he muttered.
The man paused, set his spoon down, and slowly pulled up the navy-blue scarf around his mouth.
"...Got it," he replied.
Cael stared. "Got it? That's it? Aren't you supposed to protect people? Save them?"
"If you want to die, I won't stop you," the man said flatly. "Next time, I'll save my strength for someone who actually wants to live."
"Wow. Seriously?"
"Eat. Your food's getting cold."
Cael scowled but stayed silent, seething.
The man across from him was Lucen Ravyn—the one who had dragged Cael back from the edge that night. The man who had no powers, just like him, yet had saved dozens. Feared by enemies, revered by his peers.
Lucen was a symbol to the powerless. Proof that even without gifts, a person could rise, survive, and become someone worth respecting.
But right now, all Cael could see was someone who didn't care whether he lived or died.
"Did you do something?" Lucen asked, breaking the silence.
Cael's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Then it hit him.
He glanced around the cafeteria.
The tables near them were empty—completely untouched. Meanwhile, the other soldiers sat crammed into the far end, shoulder to shoulder, packed tight like sardines just to avoid being near him.
Cael's hand curled into a fist. He looked down at his tray, appetite gone.
"That's why I'm asking," he said, voice low, jaw clenched. "Why are you here?"
He raised his head and met Lucen's gaze—but the man's face was unreadable. Blank. As always.
That only made the anger worse.
"Most of my life," Cael said, his voice trembling under the weight of something long-buried, "everyone's avoided me. I don't even know why anymore. And now you—you keep following me. Everywhere I go."
His eyes burned with something fierce—anger, confusion, pain. "Why? Why now? When I've already gotten used to being alone..."
He stood abruptly, breath catching in his throat.
"Stop pitying me. Don't feel sorry for me. That's what I hate most."
Without waiting for a response, he stormed off.
Lucen remained seated, still chewing calmly. After a pause, he murmured under his breath:
"...It was an order from the higher-ups."
Then he had another bite. Didn't mind the upset teenager.