The night breathed slowly. Black clouds crawled across the sky, intermittently revealing the round, milky‑pale moon. Wind swept over the hill, buffeting the precipitous plain where a man knelt alone. His breathing faltered; his mouth filled with a coppery bitterness. In his chest was a through‑and‑through wound—flesh charred, muscles torn, a pale lunar shadow visible through the hole.
He lifted his head with difficulty. Before him, a little way off, stood four. Those he once knew. Those he once trusted.
Those who came to kill him.
— …Why…? — the voice, more a strangled rasp than speech, slipped from his lips.
He was not broken. No. Even now, with his rib cage shattered and blood pouring into the earth like into a bowl—he still looked like a warrior. Like one who does not lose, even while dying.
First to speak was Samvyl III. The Emperor. His best friend. Former friend.
— Forgive me, Demian, — he whispered. The sword trembled in his hand. Fresh blood caked the blade. — You… you understand yourself. You have become too powerful. Almost… almost a god.
— So you stabbed me in the back… because you were afraid? — Demian tried to smirk, but his lips refused. — You, Samvyl… you, who swore you'd stand with me till the end…
The Emperor averted his gaze. His golden hair brushed his face; the shadow of the crown fell over his eyes.
— I cannot allow you to live, — he said more evenly now. — You have surpassed everyone. Even me. I… I did not know when you would decide that being a hero was not enough. That you would want the throne.
— I saved your country. The war for the North? Victory in the Valley of Plague? Have you forgotten who led the way?
Silence.
Behind Samvyl, another stepped forward—cloaked in a heavy mantle, a mage whose long gray beard swayed in the wind. He leaned on his staff, and behind him fiery spheres slowly rotated, drawing a blazing halo.
— Your body is unique, — he spoke in a hollow tone. — Energy structure… your cells do not age. Even now, despite the wound, you live. It is impossible. A miracle. But miracles must be dissected.
— Ha… — Demian rasped a laugh. — You've always been a scavenger, Erten. And now you don't even hide it.
— I don't hide it, because you are already in chains. — The mage did not need to move. The air around thickened. He felt a binding spell—a viscous, slippery, nearly imperceptible. Even if you were whole, you could not break free. Now—especially not.
A step.
The thin click of spear on stone. A woman in dark battle armor approached. Her movements were honed like a predator's. She looked down at him—literally and figuratively.
— A weak end for a bastard, — she tossed. — Too bad I didn't finish you myself.
Demian lifted his eyes. Her features were unchanged—beautiful, well‑formed, as though carved. But her gaze was empty, like a doll's.
— Eliana… — he whispered. — Even now you…
— You are not my brother, — she cut in sharply. — You crawled out of filth, Demian. You are father's mistake. We all knew. All waited for you to vanish on your own. But you grew. You became stronger than us all. Too strong.
— And you are afraid.
— I despise. Fear is for those who consider you human.
Last came an elf. Tall, slender, in a green cloak. His hair the color of molten gold flowed over his shoulders. He held a bow—the string no longer quivered, but tension still hung in the air.
— You turned your back on nature, — he said coldly. — Seized a power that was not yours. Filth—this is where you originated. And you must return to it.
— So this is all of you… gathered to behead the beast you raised yourselves. — Demian closed his eyes momentarily. — But… did you think I would not feel?
— You felt. But too late, — Samvyl said softly. — Forgive… me.
— You want me to forgive? — Demian's voice grew softer. — After you… all of you.
They turned away. The binding spell flared in a perimeter—the dense web of invisible threads which even he could not tear. Too much magic. Too much betrayal.
They departed, slowly, in silence.
— …If not for this… I would have destroyed you, — he whispered.
He collapsed onto his arms. The stone beneath his palms was warm with his own blood. Inside, everything burned. Not from pain—but from rage. From helplessness.
— So this is how… — his breath failed. — This is how it ends…
But he did not allow himself to fall completely. Deep somewhere inside—in the very core of his soul—remained a spark. His own energy. Everything he had hidden, amassed, preserved for the final strike. He gathered it. Tore through internal restraints. Every cell of his body ignited. Flesh boiled, muscles began to tear. He felt himself unraveling.
But he chose this.
— It seems… — he whispered. — This is my end…
Pause. The wind stilled. The moon looked down from the heavens, indifferent.
— But if I had one more chance…
He clenched his fist. Energy flashed, engulfing his body from within. The binding spell cracked, but it was too late—his body exploded, dissolving in a white‑red flash.
— …I would make you endure torments worse than mine.
And everything vanished.
Until the next dawn.
Until the second chance.