Daemon stepped out of the dungeon, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The cold night air hit his face like a sharp slap, but he welcomed it. His lungs pulled in deep, unfiltered breath — fresh, real, and alive.
He glanced around, and sure enough, Caldrin stood nearby, the dark stallion alert but unharmed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Looks like I wasn't gone long," Daemon muttered, brushing his hand along the horse's neck. "Lucky."
He pulled himself onto the saddle, muscles still adjusting to his new strength, then cast a side glance at the figure floating beside him.
The girl — or rather, the sword in human form — drifted effortlessly alongside, her white hair catching the moonlight like silk, her crimson eyes locked onto him with quiet reverence.
And then she spoke. Soft, but clear.
"Father... Seraphiel. Do you still remember?"
