In the world that followed after we left, everything was morbid, sad, and grim.
Lunafreya was pregnant and struggling, and all I could think about was my mother. It felt like everywhere we went, Nefarious guards or loyalists were watching—always near. Always lurking in alleyways, behind trees, inside shadows. It was haunting.
It's hard to start a new life when your old one is still breathing down your neck—when it still knows your name, your habits, your fears.
Lunafreya didn't speak often in those days. She didn't need to. Silence clung to her like a second skin. But I could see the tremble in her fingers when she thought no one was watching. I could hear the quiet sighs at night when sleep wouldn't come. She was trying to hold on, using every last ounce of strength she had left. And I kept asking myself, over and over:
What kind of life am I giving her?
What is all of this running even worth?
But every time I voiced it—every time guilt leaked through my resolve—she would take my face in her hands, look me dead in the eyes, and whisper:
"At least we're together. At least we're free."
And somehow… I always understood.
That was enough—for a while.
We still saw them. In the beginning, they never approached. Never drew their weapons. But they were always there. And a part of me, a part I didn't want to admit existed, started to wonder:
Was my mother… watching over us?
Maybe she missed me.
Maybe this was her way of checking in.
Or maybe that was just the lie I told myself so I could sleep.
Time passed. Seasons blurred. Lunafreya's stomach grew, and with it, so did my fear and awe. I don't know if it was love or madness, but I swear—she looked even more beautiful.
And coming from me, that means something. Because she had already redefined what beauty was.
At this point in telling his story, the Imp shed a tear. His voice cracked, but he powered through.
"We were perfect," he said. "Or as close as people like us could ever hope to be. She was my greatest accomplishment. I've conquered kingdoms, broken kings, burned entire cities down to ash… but nothing—not a throne, not a war—ever gave me more purpose than making her happy."
He smiled bitterly, as if reliving a memory too fragile to hold.
"She was the woman of dreams. Maybe it was the way she parted her hair to the side without thinking. Or the way she moved—like gravity worked differently around her. Or maybe… maybe it was because she could silence the chaos in my chest just by walking into the room."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"I'm not painting you a fairy tale. We fought. Often. About everything. We were so different it hurt. But even when we clashed, there was always one thought in the back of my mind: how magnificent she was… and how I didn't deserve her."
And then, came Aurora.
Born beneath a quiet moon, wrapped in the hush of nightfall—our daughter came into the world like a whispered miracle. A beauty in the darkness. A beginning.
Our new reason for peace.
I thought I couldn't love Lunafreya any more—but now she wasn't just the love of my life. She was the mother of my child. And we had created something radiant. Aurora had Lunafreya's eyes—those massive green eyes that looked like they belonged to a different world. Eyes that didn't just see… they spoke. Every blink carried a story.
We spent hours—days, really—just watching her. Imagining the future. Hoping it would last. Hoping she'd grow up in a world that didn't echo with the screams of the past.
And for a time, it did last. For the first time in my life, I knew what peace felt like.
We watched her grow. From first tooth to first crawl to first steps—each milestone like a small universe opening before us. It all happened so fast, and yet I remember every second. Every laugh. Every stumble. Every time she reached out with those little fingers and wrapped them around mine.
It's strange now, how clearly I remember those nights when she'd cry endlessly and we'd both be too exhausted to function. Back then, all we wanted was for her to grow up.
Now? I'd give anything to hold those nights again.
Even just a fragment. A breath of that warmth.
Something to remind me that once, for a while, we had everything.
I miss those early days—when she'd run up to me and tug at my cloak, demanding play, and I'd think she was exhausting.
How blind I was.
You never know what you have until it's gone.
And when it's gone, there's a hole no empire can fill.
When she grew, she was fire—pure and untamed. She had my silence, her mother's calm, and—somehow—my mother's ferocity. A storm wrapped in a smile. And gods, did she light up every room she walked into.
Eventually, we found a quiet planet. One untouched by war. A small, green world tucked in the folds of the galaxy. We laid roots there. Built a home with our hands. Not a palace—just walls, warmth, and love.
We settled into peace.
Or… at least, we thought we did.
We were peaceful… until we ran into the Quintels.
It was like God himself looked down and said, "Your joy was enough." And just like that, He sent a reminder that peace is never permanent—not for people like us.
They arrived without warning, no fanfare, no mercy. Just brutality in its rawest form. It started small—subtle shifts in the air. A few armed patrols. A coldness in the way they looked at us, like we were insects crawling too close to something sacred.
At first, I tried to stay low. Invisible. But then came the day I couldn't stay silent.
We were at the village square, and I watched one of the Quintels shove an old man to the ground—just because he asked a question. Something in me snapped.
I confronted them. I shouldn't have.
Maybe if I'd just kept my mouth shut, things would've stayed quiet. Maybe they would've left us alone.
Instead, they decided I needed to be taught a lesson—singled out for "special attention." Not the good kind.
They started showing up at our home. Watching. Searching. Intimidating the villagers. And somehow, they made sure everyone knew we were the reason for it.
Lunafreya, as always, stood by me. She never complained, never wavered. She would've followed me into fire—and, in a way, she did. But no matter how heavy the silence got, I stayed defiant. I couldn't let them win.
Then came the day everything broke.
Aurora and I had gone out—just a walk through the fields near the cliffs. We were laughing. She picked flowers and tried to braid them into her hair. It was one of those moments that didn't feel important at the time, but now… I'd give anything to relive it.
And then we saw the smoke.
A thick, black column rising into the sky. It didn't drift—it clawed upward, like it was angry.
We ran.
Faster than I'd ever run in my life. My heart was in my throat. I kept telling myself it wasn't what I thought. That it was just a fire in the woods, maybe a lightning strike—
But I knew.
I knew before we got there.
It was our home. Our little sanctuary. Our memories. Our peace.
Burning.
And Lunafreya—
Lunafreya was in their hands—bloody, broken, beaten to a pulp. And as they held the blade to her throat, I saw her look at me… and mouth the words, "I love you."
Then they slit her throat.
In that moment, I felt everything—every scream caught in my chest, every bone in my body begging to move, to fight, to save her. But I was too slow. My body, my mind… it was like trying to run at the speed of sound with legs made of lead.
She saved me in every way a person could be saved.
And I watched her die.
I watched her die in front of her daughter.
I watched her die in front of our burning home.
I watched her die in front of me—the man who claimed to love her—and she saw how helpless I was.
How useless I was.
And then she was gone.
I saw them. The Quintels. Standing at the edge of the blaze, laughing. Laughing.
And that was the first time in a long, long time… that I truly lost control again.
"And in that moment, something in me died too."