Dragon of Endless Evil

Luci’El jumped. Her mother was standing in the doorway.

The woman turned around slowly.

"Agath," she said calmly. "Keep your cool, no need to shout, I am not deaf," retorted Persephone.

Agath advanced toward her, her fingers crackling with golden Chi. "Keep my cool? You killed a dozen witches to get here."

Persephone walked calmly, without haste, her cane striking the floor at regular intervals.

"I asked them to direct me to Little Star, but they refused. I am rather impatient, you know?" she said with a slight tilt of her head.

Agath clenched her fists, her voice rising. "You are really crazy!"

Persephone did not slow down. She passed next to Agath, her long robes brushing the stone floor. "I am only passing through... I am leaving."

But Agath grabbed her arm: "You think this is your father’s garden? You can come and go as you please?"

Persephone stopped.

Luci’El observed the scene through her perception of Chi. She saw her mother, Agath, with a dark red shade dancing around her. It was hatred, a deep and visceral hatred. And for the other woman, Persephone... well, still that dull gray... synonymous with indifference.

"Why does my mother hate this woman?" murmured Luci’El to herself, her voice barely audible.

Persephone calmly freed her arm. "Is this my father’s garden? I am inside a tower. There is no garden here."

’She does not even understand the meaning of my sentence?’

Agath sighed, trying to calm down.

Persephone took a few steps toward the door, but she stopped before crossing the threshold. Her hand rested on the wooden frame, and she turned her head slightly. "The next time we see each other, one of us will not survive."

She opened the door and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.

Agath remained motionless for a long moment. She closed her eyes, and when she reopened them, all the anger had disappeared from her face. She turned toward her daughter and approached with long strides.

"What did she do to you? Did she hurt you? Are you in pain somewhere?" she asked, her hands running over Luci’El’s shoulders and arms in search of injuries.

"No," replied Luci’El, her voice still confused. "She just told me that I could become the friend of her son."

Agath sneered. "Friend of her son?"

She crouched in front of her daughter, her hands firmly placed on her small shoulders. "Listen to me carefully, Luci’El. This woman is the worst thing that can exist. And she gave birth to the being who will cause the end of the world... The bearer of the mark of the beast. Destiny has chosen you to end his days. How could you be his friend?"

Luci’El shook her head: "But the lady said "

"That lady is the Cursed Chosen," cut Agath. "She should not even exist..."

She raised her hand and removed the blindfold covering her daughter’s eyes. Luci’El jumped, her hands instinctively rising to protect her painful eyes. The Chi flowed again.

"Mother! Without this blindfold, my eyes hurt!" she cried, the pain tearing at her skull.

Agath ignored her protests. She clenched the blindfold in her hand, her gaze pitiless. "It is a necessary evil, my daughter. Train. You can put it back on afterward to rest."

Luci’El curled up, her small hands pressed against her eyes, the bloody tears flowing again between her fingers. She did not understand. She did not understand why her mother was hurting her. She did not understand why this woman, Persephone, who had been so gentle with her, was considered the worst enemy.

And why she too should kill a person she had never met in her life.

...

At the same moment, in the Winter domain, a seven-year-old boy was sitting in his room.

Daemon was curled up on his bed, knees pulled up against his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. His expression was empty, his eyes fixed, and a glimmer of fear floated in his gaze.

He had barely eaten for several days.

The door opened softly. Lancelot entered the room.

He was still wearing his armor, his black hair disheveled, and dark circles hollowed his eyes. He approached the bed and sat down next to his son.

"Daemon... What are you still doing in your room?" he asked in a gentle voice.

Daemon did not raise his eyes. He stared at the wall. "Father..."

Lancelot sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it with awkward tenderness. "I know you blame yourself for Ermin’s death. But you should still eat."

Daemon shook his head. "I am not hungry."

It had been a week since Ermin’s death. A week since Daemon had seen his friend fall into the frozen lake. A week since Kristian had accepted the punishment in his place. Daemon had barely swallowed anything.

He felt the worst feeling: self-shame.

Lancelot looked at him for a long moment. Then he took Daemon’s hand. He guided his fingers to form a circle with the thumb and index finger, then he covered his son’s eye with his own hand.

"You know, when many things make us unhappy," he said slowly, "it is enough to focus on what we love and forget the rest."

Daemon blinked, bewildered. "What are you doing, father?"

Lancelot smiled, a tired but sincere smile. "Look out the window. And tell me what you see."

Daemon turned his head toward the window. Snow was falling in thick flakes, covering the trees.

"I see... the snowy landscape," he said.

"And then?"

Daemon narrowed his eyes. He searched, trying to see further. "And a black butterfly and another golden one..."

Lancelot nodded. He removed his hand from Daemon’s eye, and the boy closed his own finger in a circle, continuing to look out the window.

"They are beautiful, aren’t they?" said Lancelot. "They do not care about the snow, nor the wind. They are just there focusing on the possibility that there may be a flower blooming..."

Daemon remained silent. His eyes followed the two butterflies, their wings beating in rhythm, their colors contrasting with the whiteness of the landscape.

"Papa," he asked suddenly, "do you think that one day I could be like you?"

Lancelot looked at him. He placed his hand on his son’s head, brushing his hair:

"I do not think I am the right example..."

"But father, you are my role model, you are strong and then you are respected, courageous and..."

Lancelot ruffled his son’s hair with a slight smile.

"I am mostly tired... So you must become your own role model... otherwise, I risk disappointing you when you grow up..."

Daemon did not answer after all, he was much too young to understand the meaning of his father’s words. He continued to watch the butterflies, while the snow fell harder and harder covering the domain...