chama's painting canvas

Haven't you heard?

The Prince's demeanor has changed, as if something now holds it in place. He no longer lashes out at chaos abruptly; his strikes are more precise and deadlier than ever.

Haven't you seen?

The shadows around him no longer behave as they should. They move with intent, they guard him - even from a single speck of dust. And when his temper rises… they calm him down as no one ever could.

You might think: shadows are still shadows, after all. They move only when they are commanded, and they obey without restraint. But not this one…

The most curious of all, the Prince does not seem to notice. That it is no longer simply bound to him. It is learning its cage.

...or is it?

There are moments when his hand rises, catching the shadow where it dares to reach him. Not in rejection - but in a quiet reminder of who still holds the key to the cage.

"Everyone, eyes on her," he said in a loud, clear voice, his hand extended to her, "The lady of the night. The one who made all of this possible. Applaud her."

That sounded like a command rather than a request.

But all of the guests obeyed. Aside from clapping, some cheered for her, and some were also screaming compliments to her.

Chama descended the stairs. With each step she took, the lamps around the pillars flickered brighter; her shadows fluttered, excited like little pets. She took Dyrroth's hand as she reached the last step.

"Thank you all for coming," she said, putting her hand on her chest. "I hope you all enjoy this as much as we both do."

Dyrroth leaned in closer to her, "You look breathtaking, princess."

...

Dyrroth gripped her hands. "This was supposed to be our event, Chama." His eyes softened. "But, every time I reached for you, you shrugged me off. Every time I asked what you needed, you shut me out. You stopped sleeping beside me. Do you know how that felt?”

Chama’s fingers trembled in his hold.

“It felt like you didn’t want me near you,” he admitted. “And I thought we were past… hiding things from each other.”

"Dy…" She looked at him. Her heart tightened at the look he was giving her.

"Forgive me, please. I really didn't mean to push you away like that. I just don't want to bother you—"

"You will never be a bother to me since the first time I claimed you as mine."

The once sleepy Chama had now turned to be a wide-awakened Chama with a face red as a tomato.

"D-Dy!" She stuttered. "You can't say things like that so casually!"

"Of course I can, I'm the prince. Your prince."

"Oh—Alright, alright!" Chama pleaded in defeat. "I'm sorry for pushing you away like that."

Home is where the heart is. At least, that’s what they said.

Ever since I was born here, Ever since they crowned me as their prince, The whispers in my heart don’t cease to exist. 

Do I really belong here? Am I truly their prince? Am I really the one who will bring salvation and peace?

The whispers grow louder whenever I look at this painting. When the sun hit just right, casting a sharp shadow, hiding most of the faces, but one.

One that feels off. One that feels out of place. One that feels… as if it doesn’t belong here.

The more I look at it, the heavier my head is. My insides churn, my breath grows heavy, my heart aches.

Until I touched the shadow, covering my own face.

The shadows crawl towards my finger. Cold silk, like a heartbeat in the dark.

The whispers disappeared. The shadows are still holding my hand. And that’s when I understand.

The shadows are inviting, soothing, and cradling me in silence.

It feels like…

Dyrroth had undergone two births before, both beyond his control.

First, as the Child of Hope, the Moniyan Empire’s beacon of justice.
Then, as the Son of Darkness, the Abyss’s harbinger of ruin.

His flesh and blood could never sever their ties to light or to darkness. But he carried no regret for the light, nor would he ever be a puppet of the dark.

This was his third birth.
One he chose himself.

Through pain, through blood, through death and rebirth… he was reborn.

Dyrroth rose from the crimson pool.

His silhouette was sharper now, armor jagged with new spikes. His wrist blades gleamed brighter, hungrier. Even the crystal in his chest pulsed with power, no longer a wound but a weapon.

Above him, the blood orb throbbed in rhythm with his heart, as if the Abyss itself rejoiced at his return.

Before the dawn could break, Dyrroth opened his eyes and turned toward the Moniyan Empire. Soon, the world would witness the true power of the Prince of the Abyss.

No longer hesitant, he would sever the blood ties that shackled him with his own hands, with blood as tribute to complete this grand reunion.

At the highest point of the Sanguine Lair stood a sacred chamber.

An enormous blood orb hung suspended above, beating like a heart. A thin vein of abyssal magic fed it drop by drop, until the crimson gathered below, forming a pool—where Alice nurtured her Blood Demons.

It was here Dyrroth had once been reborn. And years later, here he returned.

Blood Demons only needed this place once. But Dyrroth was no demon. He was hunger, he was defiance, and he craved more.

He cast his wrist blades into the pool and stepped into its center. A droplet struck his face, and then the pool surged. Crimson waves rose, pulling him down into its depths.

There, in the dark blood, he saw himself.

A broken body. A hollow face. The memory of his first, bitter defeat.

How pitiful. How weak. Is this truly the Prince of the Abyss?

The whispers circled him.

Snarling, Dyrroth lunged. His claws tore into the figure, ripping the crystal from its chest. He hurled it aside.

 “No… I refuse this. I will not accept weakness.” His voice shook with rage. “I want more power!”

Then prove you are worthy.

Before him, his wrist blades reformed, sharper, heavier with new power. One slipped, clattering at his feet. He picked it up.

And without hesitation, Dyrroth drove the blade into his own chest.

Agony ripped through him. Light and darkness collided, tearing his flesh, clawing at his soul, fighting to consume each other. His roar echoed through the blood as the clash became one, inseparable. The boundary between life and death dissolved.

His clone sank pale into the pool.

And from its drowning silence, the new Dyrroth rose.

“Brother!”

That one word. No blade, no magic, had ever cut deeper than that damn word.

As if woven by a spell, Dyrroth hesitated.

But Silvanna did not. Her holy spear pierced straight through the crystal on his chest.

A flood of memories surged. Laughter in a golden palace. A crown. A name he no longer recognized.

Whose memories are these? Mine…?

He tried to grasp them, but another voice rose louder. Alice, always by his side. Thamuz, hammering strength into his bones. The Abyss, calling him its Son.

…That past life meant nothing.

Snarling, Dyrroth wrapped his hand around the spear, blood burning against steel. With a cry that shook the night, he tore it from his chest. His body collapsed, plunging back into the shadows below.

The sun beamed through the clouds, and the summer breeze hit just right. 
A group of demons (plus an elf and an orc) strolled in a loose line along the sidewalk. Most passersby weren’t brave enough to even look at them.

“Remind me why I’m here again?” Balmond groaned.

Dyrroth, walking ahead with a cracked soda can in hand, replied, “We needed someone to carry our luggage.”

Balmond grunted, adjusting the heavy bags in his grip. is shoulder started to ache as Helcurt clung lazily to him, snoring faintly.

Dyrroth’s gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead.

“I think I’ve been here before!” Selena suddenly cheered, squeezing Chama’s hand.

“Oh, really?” Chama walked beside her, tote bag swinging on her right arm.

“Mhm!” Selena’s eyes sparkled. “There was this amazing shave ice. It was soooo good~ We should go there now!”

Chama nodded. She glanced back to see her prince closing his eyes, his tail swaying uneasy and… 

Was that a little pout on his face? 

She chuckled under her breath.

Moskov walked quietly beside Dyrroth, hardly noticing the others. His attention was fixed on the scenery rolling by. “Mmm… This is nice,” he hummed to himself.

At the very front of the group, Thamuz and Alice were locked in a bickering match worthy of an old married couple.

“I’ve told you numerous times,” Alice snapped, “no skydiving. We do not have the time for it!”

“Well— make time!” Thamuz roared.